If you'll indulge me, an imaginary conversation between the theater manager and the town's giant letter distributor.
Manager: What are you talking about, Demetri?
Demetri (in vaguely threatening accent reminscent of Teddy KGB in "Rounders"): That is business, my friend. Costs go up.
Mananger: Ns are the money letters. What am I going to do when "Transformers" and "Planet of the Apes" come out?
Demetri: That not my problem. People will understand. You pay price or make ahdjustment. It very simple, no?
Manager: It looks like a drunk dyslexic is putting up these titles. "Pa Da" sounds like an early Mira Nair film, and "Ha Gover"...What is that French, Scandinavian? No one's gonna know what's playing.
Demetri (blows cigarette smoke, knows his next move): I tell you what. You either stop crying like a lihtle guryl or pay $500 per "N" and every other Sajack letter. That is deal.
Manager (trying to control himself, but must break free): I'll see you in hell, you crazy Russian. I don't need you or your precious consonants.
(Hangs up phone. Fueled by inspiration, he rushes to the lobby and screams to the heavens.)
Manager (yelling to employee): Kyle! Get some black paint and a shitload of straws. I just solved our letter problem!