The night is young. Within a crowded room, filled to the brim with applause and jubilant celebrations, there is a pocket of deep silence. A void of somber contemplation and a dark rage threatening to consume.

He sits there, hands moving out of reflex, slapping together a dull mockery of congratulations to the inferior human that stands on stage before him. His mouth stays taut, unmoving, uncaring. 

Until slowly, he begins to smile.

Tonight,he thinks, eyes rolling over the hundreds of lithe human bodies that fill the room, devoid of a talent truly parallel to his own,
Tonight,he thinks, looking at all the unsuspecting Hollywood elite he has invited around to his lair for the after show celebrations,
Tonight,he whispers, mind wondering to the piles of delicate paper, gold leaf and sparkling wraps that fill his garage,
Tonight,he hisses, thinking to the tubs and tubs of PVA glue, to the human sized shelving spaces he has installed on every wall and every surface of his home,

Tonight, Leo, you make your own award.
You get your Oscars.

You get them all.