Critically acclaimed director Steven Spelling has another controversial film in the works. El Traficante is the true story of Gabriel Mendoza, Colombia's infamous drug lord — hated by many but idolized by more. Adding to Spelling's unorthodox style, it is rumored that none other than American heartthrob and rom com king Rocco Monroe is set to play the cartel kingpin himself. This can make or break Monroe's career after a series of box office flops. Monroe, known more for his abs and his latest sexcapades than his acting skills, will be ...

Anger that had been at a constant simmer for the last two weeks was now boiling over. The less than complimentary writeup in Actor's Weekly was just one of the many articles and news stories appearing on every entertainment channel and news rag since NHN Studio leaked the casting of El Traficante.

Unable to control his temper, Rocco tossed his iPad against the nearest wall. The sound of glass shattering did nothing to mask the roar that came from his lips.

"Did that make you feel better?" Paul Allen, his agent and best friend, asked.

Breath heaving in and out, Rocco stood up, walked to his kitchen, and grabbed a bottle of water. "Maybe," he mumbled petulantly. "What the hell, man? I mean, a series of box office flops? That's bullshit, Drunk Crush and Bachelor Party made over two hundred and eighty-eight million dollars! Each! How the hell is that a flop?" Rocco took a long drink.

He knew how.

His previous movies, when he had been at the peak of his career, had made more than five hundred million dollars. So sure, by his standards, the last two movies hadn't performed as well as they'd hoped, but not when compared to any other movie star. Hell, Ryan Reynolds wished for that kind of streak.

But he wasn't just any movie star, he was Rocco fucking Monroe.

If you wanted your new line of underwear to sell, you hired Rocco Monroe to model it. If you wanted your line of purple polka dot skinny jeans to become the new "in" thing, you had Rocco Monroe strut them on the red carpet on his way to a movie premiere. And if you wanted to see the star quarterback fall in love with the school nerd, you hired Rocco Monroe to play the hot older brother who made his dumb younger brother come to his senses and see the nerd as the swan she really was, because that is what sold hundreds of millions of dollars in tickets.

Paul snagged his own bottle of water and took a gulp, letting Rocco get all the anger out instead of interrupting. No one knew him better than Paul, and right now Rocco just needed time to vent.

"... And, I can be a serious actor. Some of those movies? Women cried. In Mr. Dancy when I held Eleanor's hand while she was fighting cancer, dude, that was fucking epic. I choke up just thinking about it. My movies have heart." He continued to pace, riling himself up with every step he took. "I mean, really ... who do they think they are? They don't know how many times I've read that script. I'm going to blow their fucking minds! My accent is on fucking point, man. On fucking point!"

Paul leaned back on the chair. "You finished?"

Glaring at his friend, he pulled the other chair from his kitchen table and sat down. After a very deep exhale, Rocco finally said, "Yeah, I'm finished." Of course he was finished. Bad press, shit talking, rumors, lies ... it all went with the territory and after almost two decades in the spotlight, he had thick skin. Well, thickish skin. He just needed to get that frustration out and move on. Prove the press wrong. He was still relevant and this movie would show everyone he could be a serious actor.

Paul, ever the calm, cool, and collected guy, pulled out the leather notebook he always used to take copious notes. Rocco never understood why, with so much technology and money, Paul was still writing things down with pen and paper, but he did. All the damn time.

"So, there's news. The studio's been getting a shitton of beef from hate groups. Whites who hate Hispanics. Hispanics who hate whites. Colombian nationalists, Colombian exiles, Colombian fucking socialites, Americans who like Colombian coffee ... everyone."

"We knew the film would draw attention." A movie about the man who made many rich, who was both a hero to the common man and also a ruthless murderer wanted across the globe ... yeah, it would absolutely draw attention.

"This isn't just attention, buddy." Paul swiped his phone, found something, and turned it around so that Rocco could see. "There was a riot in Bogota last night when the first news of the set location came out."

Rocco flipped through some of the photos. "Riot? Maybe a small gathering." He tried to lighten the situation but the more he looked the worse it got.

"Monroe. This is serious." When Paul put on his agent voice, Rocco listened. It didn't happen often, but when it did, it meant something had to be processed and dealt with. "Ten people were arrested. Five were injured."

Rocco took the phone out of Paul's hand and brought it right to his face. His spine stiffened. "Is that me?"

Paul sat back, comfortably. "The mannequin with the decapitated body and the brains splattered all over the Colombian flag? Yep, that's your big fat mug. Great artistic detail. The way your blood drips from your neck is a nice touch, don't you think?"

Rocco shut down the screen and handed it back to Paul. "Jesus Christ. It's just a movie."

"Not for these people. For these people, Mendoza was a god. Still is. Did you know that the most popular name in Colombia is Gabriel? "

"Thanks for the trivia, man." Rocco rolled his eyes. "Well, people are just overreacting. Once they see the movie they'll know it's not a Mendoza hate film. It's practically a documentary."

"People don't always want to hear the truth, and the truth is Mendoza wasn't such a great guy."

"It's a love story." Rocco shrugged. "No one hates love stories."

Paul held out both his index fingers and thumbs as if tracing the headline of a newspaper. "The tragic love story between Mendoza and his much younger wife Victoria, set in the jungles of Colombia where he had a palatial estate amidst his miles and miles of coca plants and the thousands of laborers he housed, fed, and kept content while the rest of Colombia's population faced poverty from the corrupt government. Yeah. Beautiful story."

"Aren't you Little Miss Debbie Downer today." He glared at his friend.

"Not a downer, realistic. Come on man, the love story is just to get a wider audience, and you know that," Paul added. "There's plenty of reason for people to be upset by this biopic. From his supporters to his victims."

"Whatever," Rocco relented, downing the rest of his water. If he wasn't about to go work out, he'd be serving himself scotch. This was a scotch-on-therocks kind of conversation. "Okay, so now I know. People are angry."

Paul leaned forward a bit. Shit, more bad news was coming. "There's more. The studio's going to have to shoot most of the film on a lot here in Miami. They can't get permission to shoot on location and even if they did, it's not safe, that's how bad it is."

Shit. He never expected this kind of reaction. He'd read the script and wanted the role, badly. It was his chance to shine, to be taken seriously. Boipics always brought extra attention, which he had expected. Truthfully, though, he hadn't known enough...