Frank Sinatra and Tom Hardy are stuck in Lost in a Space Elevator and forced to have a deep conversation.

"This whole rigamarole's a damn cage, ain't it? Just like Hollywood, trapping you in one direction," Sinatra drawled, lighting a cigarette with a snap.

Hardy grunted, staring out at the Earth, "Cage ain't nothin' compared to the beast inside, Frank. This lift's just a bloody metaphor."

"Beast? Honey, I tamed the beast a long time ago. Dressed it in a tux and sang it a ballad," Sinatra chuckled, a hint of weariness in his voice.

"Tamed? No, you just learned to dance with it. I let mine out to play. Keeps things interesting," Hardy replied, his voice a low rumble.

Sinatra took a long drag, "Interesting? I prefer controlled chaos. Keeps the dames swooning and the gin flowing."

"Chaos is truth, Frank. Control's just a pretty lie we tell ourselves to sleep at night," Hardy countered, his eyes dark and intense.

"Lies make the world go round, kid. Truth's a hard pill to swallow, especially with a hangover," Sinatra said, a touch of world-weariness creeping in.

"Then let it choke you. Better than living a gilded cage of half-truths," Hardy spat, clenching his fist.

Sinatra sighed, "Easy for you to say, kid. You're still hungry. I'm just trying to find a decent scotch in this tin can."

Hardy finally looked at Sinatra, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes, "We're all just trying to survive, aren't we? In our own bloody way."