"I can bring you back to the fake city, too. You into Harry Potter? There's a museum by the lunch place and you can get sorted. I was Hufflepuff." Cue eyes rolling a perfect loop. "Huffle-fucking-puff, the gay hairdresser house."
Wait a minute, that's right, he was bringing him on the lot. Of course, this meant he'd have to get him a pass ASAP. Our writer has had the experience on more than one occasion of being a non-tourista feature of the Burbank lot, knows the drill, and so our character Mr. Producer Vince has just awakened this remembrance in kind. Legitness. "I need your name, full, as it appears on your I.D. You got your I.D. on you, right?" he retreated the phone from both their sight and brought it up before himself.
"I have to call in a pass for you." Said he, flicking down his contacts and finally pressing onto one. The phone was brought up to his ear, and he impatiently tapped his knee as it raaaaaang. Raaaaaaaang.