Waste of Space
Page 19
Bacardi: [brandishing her Slom bottle] We need to find Clayton and break this over his head and then stab him with the shards!
Titania: Off to a good start.
Source: Camera #3—Lünar Lounge
[Everyone follows Bacardi as she barges into the Lünar Lounge, where Clayton is sitting on the puffy chair, plucking his eyebrows]
Bacardi: You there! I hereby accuse you of kidnapping all our food and jettisoning it off to Jupiter! You have the right to—ohmygod, how do you get your arches so perfect?
Clayton: [demonstrating with the tweezers] Little flick of the wrist. Just like that.
Bacardi: I can never get mine straight like that. You’re, like, an eyebrow wizard.
Clayton: Thank you.
Bacardi: [to Nico] Where was I?
Nico: Jupiter.
Bacardi: Oh yeah! What’d you do with all the food?
Clayton: I flushed it down the toilet.
[Everyone gawks at him]
Louise: You what?
Bacardi: I! TOLD! YOU! SO!
Nico: Why? Why would you do that?
Clayton: [calmly resuming his plucking] Because you deserved it.
Louise: Oh no, he lost his mind. He’s got the space madness. Is it airborne yet? [grabbing Nico and shaking him] Maybe we all have it!
Clayton: I do not have the space madness because that is not a thing, you festering idiot. And even if it was, we aren’t in space. But hey—you want to keep happily prancing around in the land of make-believe? Be my guest. We’ll just let starvation prove one of us right. If the show is fake—and it is—DV8 will rescue us well before we’re in any danger of dying. But if we’re really in space, then by golly, I lose and you win! We all hurtle off into the deepest depths of the universe and suffer a slow, famished demise!
[Dismay settles through the room.]
Clayton: [yawns and stretches dramatically] Phew! All this sabotage has really tuckered me out. Think I’ll go take a relaxing dip in what’s left of the hot tub.
[They watch him go. Seconds later, Clayton reappears in the hot-tub window, utilizing the bullet hole for something highly inappropriate.]
Bacardi: [advancing on him with the bottle] I’ll cut it off, I swear to God.
Titania: [heading her off] Guys, shhh. Do you hear that?
[Everyone falls quiet and listens. A faint pounding noise is heard.]
Item: Transcript of video recording
Source: Dashboard camera, DV8 Company Van
Time: 8:35 a.m.
[IMAGE: The large steel wall of the soundstage. Matt is pounding on its door. Kaoru is standing next to him, arms crossed.]
Matt: Let us in! We’ve been driving for hours and I really have to pee!
Kaoru: {I beg you to stop. These are the people who have been holding us against our will. They will not help us.}
Matt: [pounding harder] Hello! Is anyone in there?
[The door finally opens.]
NASAW Scientist: Oh hell. It’s you.
Matt: Huh?
NASAW: I mean—hey, tough break, kiddo, getting eliminated and all. That must have been a real bummer.
Matt: Not really. I wanted to leave.
NASAW: Still, a mid-space rescue from an airlock—that must have been pretty cool, huh, sport?
Matt: Yeah, I guess. It was weird, though, because—I remember getting grabbed by the Enormous Robotic Arm and pulled into the airlock, but once the doors shut, there was a guy in there with a stun gun! Kinda like the one . . . in your hand . . .
NASAW: Don’t move.
Matt: Oh God.
[The NASAW scientist lunges at Matt. Matt ducks out of the way, causing the man to lose his balance. Kaoru, sensing an opportunity, grabs the scientist’s arm and twists it around, causing him to stun himself. He falls in a heap to the ground. Matt and Kaoru look at each other.]
Matt: Now what?
Kaoru: {Once again, I suggest we leave.}
Matt: No way, I’m not taking my chances with these psychopaths. We’re outta here.
[He stomps off toward the windowless van. Kaoru shakes her head and starts to follow him, but her attention is arrested by the exterior wall of the soundstage. She puts a hand to it, then backs up and looks at it from a distance. Her brow furrows as she walks out of the frame, no doubt wondering what could cause a massive, solid steel wall to bow inward to such a concave degree.]
Item: Transcript of video recording—RAW, UNAIRED FOOTAGE
Source: Camera #3—Lünar Lounge
Time: 8:37 a.m.
[The kids are still listening for more of the thumping noise.]
Titania: It stopped.
Nico: What do you think it was?
Louise: Winnovian space barnacles, obviously. Can we get back to the matter at hand?
Snout: Yeah. What are we going to do about Clayton?
Louise: Isn’t it obvious? We have to punish him.
Clayton: How are you going to do that? [He has settled into the remaining foot of hot-tub water and is now listening to and conversing with and laughing at them through the bullet hole in the glass.] Bore me to death?
Louise: There needs to be justice! We can’t let him get away with this!
Titania: We can, because we have to. Stupid little fights will turn into big fights if we let them, and we need to keep our heads screwed on straight if we’re going to get through this.
Clayton: Couldn’t have said it better myself.
[Snout gathers the others into a huddle and speaks low so that Clayton can’t hear them.]
Snout: But what if he tries something else? Something worse? We have to stop him before he gets a chance.
Nico: I agree. He’s too unpredictable. He brought a gun, he doesn’t care about our safety.
Louise: Or our food.
Bacardi: And he’s a douchekazoo!
Nico: Exactly. Who knows what he’ll try to pull next?
Titania: Guys, I get it. But what are we supposed to do? We’re all literally in the same boat here. There’s nothing we can . . .
[She trails off, a devious smile pushing its way across her lips, and darts out of the room before anyone can stop her.]
Source: Camera #5—Spa
[Clayton is lying spread-eagle in the water, eyes closed, in a state so relaxed that when the spa door slams shut, his whole body jerks to attention.]
Source: Camera #3—Lünar Lounge
[A harsh sound rebounds from somewhere in the ship—a grating, unpleasant noise, like a chair being dragged across a floor.]
Nico: What was that?
[Clayton splashes across the hot tub and gets out to investigate. A second later, there is a series of pounds, followed by a series of curses.]
Clayton: Hey! [He comes back to the hot-tub window and bangs on it.] The spa door is stuck!
Titania: [returning to the lounge] Oh, is it?
Clayton: You know it is. Let me out!
Titania: The thing is, I can’t. With the high humidity in there, the wooden door got all warped and expanded. If it’s wedged shut, there’s not much we can do about it until we vent some of the moister air in here . . . which, I guess, since we’re not in control of the ship, means we can’t do anything about it at all until we get rescued.
[With a look of horror, Clayton begins pounding on the glass.]
Clayton: You slack-jawed Neanderthals! You oxygen-hogging compost heaps! Let me out!
[Desperate, he head-butts the window, neatly knocking himself unconscious. He crumples into the shallow water, his head lolling about the edge of the tub.]
Snout: Sweet, merciful quiet.
Titania: He won’t be unconscious forever. We should use this time wisely. We need to figure out a plan.
Snout: But—wouldn’t the plan depend on whether we’re in space or not?
Titania: We’re not.
Louise: Yes we are!
Titania: Louise, I’m sorry. I know this is hard for you. But we’re not.
Louise: How do yo
u know?
Titania: [gesturing at the Windows Window] The stars—
Louise: Are there because we’re in space.
Titania: It’s a screen saver, Louise. That’s a computer screen.
Louise: [stung] No, it’s not.
Titania: It is. We—
[She looks at Nico, who winces]
Nico: Yeah. Tell her.
Titania: We—Nico and I—were looking out the Windows Window a while back, watching the stars go by, and we saw an error message.
Louise: An error message?
Titania: A pop-up. It said “Restart your computer to finish installing important updates.” And then we saw a cursor fly across the screen and close the box, then it went back to the stars.
Nico: I’m sorry, Louise. I saw it too.
[Louise looks at each cast member, then at the ground. Then back up at them again, close to tears, yet defiant.]
Louise: We floated yesterday. You can’t deny that. And what about those shwumpy noises? Those weren’t from Earth, and you know it.
[No one has an argument for this, each face a conflicting mess of doubt and confusion.]
Titania: [glaring at Clayton’s limp form] Clayton’s right about one thing—if we’re in space, we’re screwed no matter what. So we might as well proceed as though we’re still on Earth, since that’s the only situation in which we have a fighting chance.
Nico: So what do we do?
Titania: I’d say we should start with the one thing Chazz told us not to do.
Nico: Mess with anything?
Titania: Yeah. Let’s mess with everything.
* * *
Back in Los Angeles, DV8’s attempts to contact NASAW are bearing no fruit. And Chazz’s patience is wearing thin.
Item: Transcript of audio recording
Source: Chazz’s cell phone
Time: 8:47 a.m.
Telecomm: Thank you for calling Telecomm customer service!
Chazz: Yeah, hi—
Telecomm: I’m excited and fully prepared to help you in any way I can. What is your name?
Chazz: Huh? Chazz. I’m in a hurry here, so—
Telecomm: Certainly! I’d be happy to help you explore solutions to your challenges today, Chazz. May I ask what—
Chazz: I’m trying to reach a certain phone number, and it keeps saying the line has been disconnected.
Telecomm: Certainly! I can go ahead and look that up for you. What is the number?
Chazz: (███) ███-████
Telecomm: Thank you, Chazz. I’ll certainly be able to look that up for you. Please hold.
[“I Will Wait” by Mumford & Sons plays. Four minutes pass.]
Telecomm: It looks like this phone number has been disconnected.
Chazz: I already know that! What I want to know is how that number got permission to be disconnected, since my company is the one that purchased that phone line in the first place!
Telecomm: Certainly, I’d be happy to look into that for you, Chazz. If you’ll hold for—
Chazz: No, don’t put me on hold! You know what—forget about how it happened. Just fix it.
Telecomm: Certainly!
Chazz: Thank you.
Telecomm: I’d be happy to set up a new phone line for you—
Chazz: No, not a new phone line! I need you to restore that phone line!
Telecomm: Unfortunately, Chazz, I am unable to process that request at this time. Is there anything else I can help you with today?
Chazz: YOU CAN DRAG YOURSELF INTO A ROTTING SWAMPLAND TO DIE WHILE VULTURES PECK OFF YOUR EYELIDS SO YOU CAN WATCH THEM SLURP UP YOUR INTESTINES LIKE A BOWL OF SPAGHETTI.
Telecomm: I can certainly—
[end of call]
* * *
Back onboard the Laika, an hour has passed. The Spacetronauts (minus Clayton) have pushed every button, pulled every lever, flipped every switch, and cranked every dial on the ship.
Nothing has changed.
Item: Transcript of video recording—RAW, UNAIRED FOOTAGE
Source: Camera #4—Lünar Lounge
Time: 9:42 a.m.
[Bacardi, having been pounding on the airlock for the better part of twenty minutes, has now taken to making direct appeals to her captors.]
Bacardi: Let us out! I know you can hear us, nerds! I know you’re making breakfast! I CAN SMELL BACON!
Titania: Hope it’s not the Colonel.
Snout: Hey!
Bacardi: Could be. I haven’t heard a single squeal since he waddled on out of here. Why was the pig the only one of us smart enough to make a run for it? [She leans back against the airlock door and sinks to the floor.] I give up. Real airlock or no, it’s not opening.
Louise: [scowling, upset] I don’t understand. Why aren’t any of these instruments working?
Nico: Because this isn’t a real spaceship.
Louise: Yes, it is.
[She balls her hands into fists and stalks out of the room.]
Titania: I hate to say that Clayton is right, but he is. About NASAW or DV8 being the ones controlling what the buttons do. I bet it’s why the sprinklers didn’t work. We hit that button while that earthquake-floating-shwump-thing was happening—maybe the powers that be were so busy dealing with whatever that was that they didn’t notice us pushing the button, so they didn’t trigger the sprinklers.
Snout: So now that they’re not filming us anymore, they don’t give a horse’s patootie about what we tell the ship to do? They’re gonna ignore us?
Nico: Sure. If we’re not in space, then what’s the point?
Bacardi: Hey guys?
[They look at Bacardi. She is merely sitting with her back up against the airlock, but her hair is doing more than that—each strand is sticking straight out from her head, arching over her head like a rainbow. As though the airlock door were made up of balloons and she’d rubbed her head all over it, triggering a halo of static electricity.]
Bacardi: You sure we’re not in space?
* * *
It is at this point that the behavior of the internet must be addressed.
To say that Waste of Space captures the attention and imagination of the online world would be an understatement. It downright dominates. Rarely has a cultural phenomenon been so universally dissected and argued about and spoofed with such vim and vigor. The recipe is perfect: The cast members can’t defend themselves. DV8 can’t either; they’re savvy enough to know that every word they say will be scrutinized to death, so they remain tight-lipped, not wanting to implicate themselves in anything they won’t be smart enough to worm their way out of. The situation is mysterious enough to seize the wild imaginations of armchair detectives, who gleefully examine frame after frame, looking for clues as to what really happened. And the comedic ramifications can’t be escaped either. GIFs, memes, clips, and quotes proliferate like virtual termites, burrowing into every pixelated nook and encrypted cranny.
Of course—because it is the internet—the dark side of humanity emerges as well. Cast members’ families are tracked down; home addresses are distributed online. Innocent people are harassed, implicated, publicly shamed. Nico’s brother is stalked by paparazzi. A small shrine of sci-fi paraphernalia and inflatable aliens materializes outside Louise’s house. Crude words are spelled out in the crops of Snout’s family farm. Difficulty is encountered in tracking down Titania’s family, leading many to speculate and bellow that she applied for the show under a false name. Clayton’s former nanny gives a tell-all interview, and Bacardi, the liquor company, files a defamation lawsuit against Bacardi, the person.
Countless think pieces are written about every topic under the solar-storming sun: the immorality of DV8 to conceive of such a show, the irresponsibility of the cast members’ parents to allow them to participate in such a show, the irrelevance of think pieces at all because the show is so glaringly a scam. Just when it seems as though the online space will collapse under the weight of it all, a new outrage surfaces, and the spores of vi
triol bloom and scatter once more.
And with the release of a minute-and-a-half-long video on the Fakefinders website, the media maelstrom—and Chazz Young’s day—gets even worse.
Item: Transcript of video recording
Source: Fakefinders
Time: 9:46 a.m.
[person in Bigfoot mask facing the camera]
Bigfoot: We’re not going to bother to list Waste of Space’s egregious errors today. To continue to point out the obvious would be a waste of everyone’s time and is, verily, beneath us.
And so this morning, we have only four words for you:
We told you so.
Oh, and three more:
WE HAVE PROOF.
[CUT TO: Hibiscus, speaking into the camera]
Hibiscus: Hello, sheeple. My name is Hibiscus, and I was a cast member on the reality television program Waste of Space. I was the first one to be eliminated—thank Goddess—and once I was released from that floating death prison, they made me sign a stack of nondisclosure agreements, but you know what? Chazz Young can’t gag me anymore!
Everything about it was fake. The spacesuits were fake. The scientists were fake. The shuttle launch to the ship was fake. We felt some g-forces, true, but I think that’s because they put us in a centrifuge, something that spun us around super fast but sent us nowhere.
The ship was a joke. We weren’t allowed to touch any of the instruments, but as an experiment, I used my body to block some of the camera’s sightlines and fiddle with some of the buttons. Guess what? They didn’t do anything. We felt no atmospheric or pressure changes whatsoever. Everything on that ship was meticulously placed there for one reason: to get you to buy their products. It was one big commercial, driven by the corporate overlords who do all our thinking for us.
Wake up, America. Don’t blindly follow everything our materialistic and celebrity-obsessed culture tells you. Don’t believe Chazz Young. Don’t listen to DV8.
Listen to me. I was there. I’m telling you the truth.
[She produces her mandolin.]
Waste of Space /
is a /
marketplace /