Jack, as played by Pex, really thought he blended.
"The soul of a poet on my desk - it's where the jar is."
Somewhere, Sylvia Plath died.
"That's it, bub. Uh, Bob's your uncle," the charitable gentleman said, in what would become the opening salvo in an epic battle.
Pex was sure he was going mad. Their voices filled his brain.
"Um, now may I have something to eat?"
The director looked at him momentarily. He blinked - reblinked - swept poetry from his head. He said, "Here's some vouchers, wot? Golden Arches down the street. The lot here closes at nine - remember not to drink."
Pex looked down into his hand. His hand said, "Your name's Jack. You don't need this chit. This marker. This voucher."
He ignored it. Prail said, "Jason, please stop now. I'm sorry."
He was all about the burgers. There was a rumbly in his tumbly as he passed Stadium Wembley and Shining Time Station.
Johnnie: "Fucking British!"
O.D., sent by High-C, bumped off some more "poets". Information society. Needed. Was hiding.
Jack walked into the lobby, a wobblie from the sticks. A bubba (Oh, shit.). He placed several of the gift certificates, ten pounds sterling each (yearling, Rod Serling), onto the counter.
"Welcome to McDonald's. May I take your order?"
He spoke standardized American.
"Uh, yeah. Gimme two number ones. Fuck the Yes Men."
He greenlit the sequel.
"And one fish sandwich - for here or to go?"
"I'll stay," he said.
He ignored the fact that the restaurant was haunted. It's what they wanted.
"Bing," said Eve and Gwen Stefani.
Sherman's wife came to help. He was working.
They screamed, "Her fucking name is Johnnie!"
Pex wrote it down. He probably wouldn't forget it. She was right, he thought. Fucking British.
But the girl who took his order tried to look...familiar. Hmmm. Their Turing Tester was busted - they wanted him to fix it. He and Prail played Pong for hours, and both texted Johnnie back: "Tell him to write one for you."
Ignored her. And smiled.
"Look at all those extras littering your set."
I wonder what I should do now, he wondered. Consulted the script. Improvised munitions. Bit, chewed, swallowed. Smiled. Sighed.
"I guess I need a job."
It occurred to him that all of his knowledge was theoretical. Andy Kaufman walked off the set of Fridays.
"Oh, Mr. Grant!" cried Mary Tyler Moore.
Back at her new office, Janique and Prail assayed the date Pex relayed.
"Fuck!" they yelled.
One-time pad. His patented encryption. (Write her a poem!)
Janique blinked. "Praline, do you see what I see?"
"Afraid so. Shit."
The cheeky bastard had scrambled decades of data and arranged it out of sequence to spell "Political Schemer".
Johnnie had a frank discussion - greenlit The Feederz. It was a codeword for endgame, but from Jason to her.
"Alyssa Milano will pay for this!" Janique swore.
"And Tiffany, too," Suzanne added.
Prail said, "Did you hear that?"
"Yeah, but they heard it yesterday," Janique answered.
"So now what?"
"Pull him out."
Pex was on the run. He thought it was a game.
"USL," he said. "Remember this?"
He looked down, creased his brow.
"Payback is a bitch."
And drank. Filed the information away for later. Conveyed it to his homeboy.
He thought he heard the goddesses.
They screamed at once, "You did!"
Who was fucking with who, Prail wondered. At that point, she thought she'd test his mettle. Her brother was such a method actor. Man. Well, fine, she thought. If he wants to pretend to be an Earthling so bad, I'll teach him about resistance.
"Om," Pex said to the counter girl.