by Ira Nayman
“Mellow,” Rapier-Dewall said. “You know, I really think we should ask each other that question before we turn on the room Vibe™.”
They giggled. One of them always made that suggestion and they never seemed to act on it. Decisions made when the room Vibe™ was sending out sound waves that you couldn’t hear but that affected your mood (on the mellow setting it smoothed out the alpha waves in your brain, calming you down) were notorious for not being acted upon. Except for decisions made while it was on the “psychotic” setting, but the Vibe™ came with a warning against using that setting that was several pages long.
“It must be weird to see yourself like that,” Dev stated.
“You said it,” Rapier-Dewall mellowly agreed. “I mean, I was a huge fan of Jack Ryan, Transdimensional Authority Police when I was a kid, so it’s not like I wasn’t aware that there must be other versions of me out there. Somewhere. But, I never really gave it much thought.”
Deep. Well, as deep as you get when you’re mellow.
“So, what did you think of yourself?”
Rapier-Dewall thought for a moment. “We share a lot in common – there was no way that we couldn’t like each other,” she said. “Still, there was something about the Noomi from another dimension, a hardness that I’m glad isn’t in me.”
“So, you think you made the right choice?”
Rapier-Dewall snuggled up to Dev. “Oh, yeah, babe. I made the right choice.”
They started kissing. And, kissing led to fondling. And, before they knew it, they were making passionately mellow love. And, it was waaaaaaaaaay better than Rapier-Dewall’s first time.
* * *
The Dimensional Delorean™ was zipping through the space between the universes. And, when I say zipping, I really mean the Pollackness moved around them slower than molasses. Does “speed” even mean anything between universes, anyway? Noomi preferred traveling in the vehicle than without it, but it was the difference between being hit between the eyes by a sledgehammer and being hit between the eyes by an ordinary hammer.
They never showed this on Jack Ryan, Transdimensional Authority Police!
“You okay?” Investigator Chumley quietly asked.
“A bit shaken,” Noomi admitted. “I…I skipped the lecture at the Academy on what to do if you meet yourself in another dimension. I thought, How hard can it be? Wow. Now I know. Of all the lectures I skipped out on, that’s the one I would most like to have back.”
“I remember the first time I met a version of myself from a different universe,” Investigator Chumley told her. “I couldn’t bring myself to comb my hair for three weeks.” Noomi gave him a questioning look. Investigator Chumley shrugged. “Everybody reacts differently.”
They traveled in silence for a bit.
Eventually, Investigator Chumley asked: “So, what did you think of yourself?”
Noomi considered this question for a moment. “We share a lot in common – there was no way that we couldn’t like each other,” she said. “Still, there was something about the Noomi from another universe, a softness that I’m glad isn’t in me.”
“So, you think you made the right decision?”
Noomi hugged herself. “Oh, hell, yes!”
They spent the rest of the journey in silence.
Chapter Six:
Noomi Is A Star!
Lawsuits Are the New Major Indoor Soccer League
by ELMORE TERADONOVICH, Alternate Reality News Service Film Writer
For two and a half years, Linc Brattigan played the platonic friend who lived next door to Noomi Michealovitsky, star of the hit reality Internet series Noomi’s Realife Adventures and owner of her own line of designer fast food drinking cups. You know the one: the guy who secretly pines for the star while giving her advice about what to do about all of the losers she is dating? The guy who eats his heart out watching her get hurt time and time again but doesn’t feel he should say anything because it’s not like she ever gave him any hint that she was interested in him ‘that way?’ The guy whom, after all the angst and misery, the star finds out in the final episode she has loved all along?
Well, real life doesn’t seem to be mimicking art in this case.
Brattigan was unceremoniously dumped from Noomi’s Realife Adventures four months ago. The official reason was that ‘the audience had become completely bored with the situation, with his character and with his hair.’ But, was there, perhaps, more to it than that?
“No, that pretty much sums it up,” producer Philpotts Ruggieri stated.
Oh. Well, whatever the reason for the firing, rumour has it that Brattigan is planning on suing Noomi Productions (5) for wrongful dismissal and alienation of affection. “Uhh, no, man,” Brattigan said in an exclusive interview with 20 media outlets, “I’m not going to sue Noomi. I…I love her, man.”
We asked a well known media psychologist and allergy denier for his take on the situation. “This is Doctor Darklington, host of Lovelorn with Doctor Darklington. Doctor Darklington is currently taking another call, but if you would like to ask Doctor Darklington a question on Lovelorn with Doctor Darklington, please stay on the line. Alternately, if you don’t have time to wait to ask Doctor Darklington, host of Lovelorn with Doctor Darklington, a question, press 1 and leave a detailed mess–”
Fast-forwarding through our tape, we actually got to the relevant information: “It sounds like a classic case of Audio-Erotic Transference,” Doctor Darklington, host of Lovelorn with Doctor Darklington, stated. “If you say you love somebody enough on international podcasts, sooner or later you’re going to start believing it. I mean, look what happened to Gemma Arterton and Jack Black!” We could hear the shiver on the tape.
“I don’t know about that psychology stuff,” Brattigan brashly blabbed. “I’m just an actor. But, I know how I feel. Besides, Doctor Darklington, host of Lovelorn with Doctor Darklington, isn’t even a real doctor! For all we know, his name isn’t even really Darklington!”
“I am too a real doctor!” Doctor Darklington, host of Lovelorn with Doctor Darklington, shot back. “I have a PhD from the University of Kentucky, Georgia. It…it’s in Russia. Okay, my name isn’t really Darklington, but Doctor Gregorovich didn’t get as good numbers with test audiences!”
“Aha! Aha!” Brattigan triumphantly shouted. “How can you trust the opinion of somebody who can’t even tell people what to call him without asking for an opinion poll!”
“Linc Brattigan? He’s just posturing for the cameras,” noted historian Oliver Stone commented. “But, if I were him, I would sue them for all they’re worth!”
“Who asked you?” Ruggieri shouted.
Stone pointed to the fact that Brattigan had retained the services of the law firm of Cletis Clevis Clovis Dimwiddie Barnacle soon after his firing. “No, no, no,” Brattigan argued. “That was a complete coincidence. I hired Paternity Barnacle to…look at…my personal finances. I suspect my agent of taking more than her fair share of the money I made on the show.”
“WHAT?!” screamed Mercy Amontillado, Brattigan’s agent.
“I love Noomi Michealovitsky,” Brattigan insisted.
“I believe what my client intended to say,” world famous reclusive lawyer Byron Dimwiddie smoothly interjected, “was: ‘No comment.’”
“The hell I did!” Brattigan insisted. “I don’t care about any lawsuit! I love Noomi Michealovitsky!”
“I believe what my client, in his own interests should have said,” Dimwiddie, continued, “was: ‘Noomi Michealovitsky broke my heart…and our contract. So, I now intend to break her bank!’”
Of course, broken hearts, contracts and banks (not to mention windows, batting streaks and noses) are common enough in Hollywood. Why focus on this one? Well: 1) it was a really slow news day; 2) this is the most recent Hollywood scandal, so it’s relatively fresh and/or; 3) Noomi Michealovitsky never returns our calls, and so is never available for comment.
Noomi Michealovitsky was unavailable for com
ment.
* * *
“This Burpsi Cola is flat!” shouted Noomi Michealovitsky, throwing the half-full can across the green room.
“Flat?” asked Greg Orodovitz, Michealovitsky’s personal assistant.
“Flat?” asked Misty Koriakina, Michealovitsky’s BFF (season five).
“FLAT! FLAT! FLAT!” Michealovitsky shouted. “Flatter than Saskatchewan wheat fields! Flatter than the bread of our forefathers when we didn’t have time to let it leaven because we had to hurriedly flee from Egypt! Flatter than my ratings for the next three days will be IF SOMEBODY DOESN’T GET ME A DECENT DRINK!”
“I’m on it!” Orodovitz, who was so nondescript he looked like a faded blur in all of his wedding photos, said, and frantically ran out of the room.
> nice incorporation of product placement into the story line
Michealovitsky let a small smile play over her lips, not enough for the audience to notice, but enough for Phil, her director, to notice. Then, she sternly stated, “I am NOT going to stoop to the level of cliché by commenting on the M&Ms!”
> Noomi’s Realife Adventures: 1.132 points; 1.471 share
Aggie’s Reality, Yo!: 1.125 points; 1.398 share
Michealovitsky smiled inside, but was sure not to let it show. “How much longer until the interview?” she asked.
A production assistant poked her head in the door, “Two minutes,” she said, and left. One of the reasons Michealovitsky was such a big star was her impeccable timing.
“Would you like to…read Bacteria Monthly while you wait?” Koriakina, who was pretty in a plain brunette way that Michealovitsky found profoundly unthreatening, cautiously questioned.
“No,” Michealovitsky mildly mused. “I think I should off-centre myself before –”
> you’re about to get drenched in soda – go with it
Before she could finish the thought, Orodovitz burst in, can in hand. He said, “I have it! Here’s your fresh, bubbly Burpsi –” Then, tripping over some imaginary point in the carpet of the green room, he fell towards Michealovitsky, covering her from head to toe in syrupy liquid goo. (Orodovitz was a graduate of the Mel Brooks School of Comedy, with a major in the Physics of Humour; his thesis paper on ‘To Drench or Not To Drench: Liquid Dynamics in Flight’ remains the last word on the subject. And, that word is: providentiary. So, naturally, Michealovitsky had been soaked with a variety of liquid and semi-liquid substances since he had become a regular on the show.)
Michealovitsky started hyperventilating. “Wha – wha – what the hell!” she managed to get out.
The production assistant poked her head in the door. “One minute, Ms. Michealo – oh, what happened here?”
Orodovitz and Koriakina were attempting to paper towel Michealovitsky down. However, because she was covered in cola, little white fluffies stuck to her skin, her hair and her yellow sundress.
“Uhh,” the production assistant (whose name was Kym Kyoko, by the way. Just because she’s a minor character doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve to have a name!) said. “Should I tell Jay to stretch out the interview he’s doing to give you some, umm, time?”
> do you have a twin sister? right for yes; left for no
“Not a problem, Kym” Michealovitsky said. “I’ve done interviews in worse.” Then, she winked at the production assistant. Winked with her left eye. She wondered what this stuff about a twin sister was about, but finding out would have to wait until after the interview.
“Umm…okay, then,” the production assistant said. “I…might as well walk you to the stage.”
Michealovitsky was a guest on The Tonight Show, with Jay Leno IV, a third generation clone of the original Leno. Between the four of them, they had been doing the same shtick for over 67 years, and yet, mystifyingly, he still beat David Letterman’s head in a jar on The Late Show in the ratings. With a small smile, Michealovitsky remembered the time Jay IV announced his retirement, prompting the android with Conan O’Brien’s brain scans wired into its circuits to sign a contract with NBC to be Jay IV’s successor, only to find that he didn’t really mean it two days later. That was just cruel. Considering that the three men (loosely defined) did not need the money, that, in fact, they collectively made about one seventeenth of the annual Gross National Product of America, Inc., you had to wonder if spite was the only thing keeping them going.
The production assistant led Michealovitsky down a corridor, up a flight of stairs, through a checkpoint, down another corridor, left, down another corridor, down two flights of stairs, through a checkpoint where she had to go through a metal detector and be frisked by a burly woman with an attitude, down several more corridors… It took them 20 minutes just to get to the stage. These precautions had been put in place two years ago when members of People for the Ethical Treatment of Hominids (which had hived off from People for the Ethical Treatment of Bipeds, which itself was a splinter group of People for the Ethical Treatment of Mammals, which had once been a part of – you know, it’s kind of obvious where all of this is going to lead, so why make me spend several pages going down the Tree of Life?) tried to kidnap Leno IV with the intention of releasing him into the wild.
As she stood behind the curtain, peeking out, Michealovitsky noticed that there was no studio audience. More computer-generated “magic.” Leno IV was saying, “…next guest has been many things in her life: a short order cook at a greasy spoon; a high priced call girl in Get a Life; the subject of an infamous Internet video where she licked an ice cream cone practically to death; an international man of mystery; a special envoy to the United Nations for ‘sexy fun times’; a member of the band Hole – there’s three minutes of her life I’ll bet she wishes she could get back!; sister of an internationally ignored jewel thief; and writer, director and performer of the one woman, so-far-off-Broadway-it-has-threatened-to-sue-if-we-don’t-stop-using-its-name play My Vagina, Myself. She is currently the star of her own 24 hour reality show, Noomi’s Realife Adventures, please welcome Noomi Michealovitsky.”
Ghost applause filled the studio. Michealovitsky walked onto the stage, shook Leno IV’s hand and plopped on the couch.
> Noomi’s Realife Adventures: 1.136 points; 1.473 share
Aggie’s Reality, Yo!: 1.125 points; 1.398 share
This was her first time on the show. Michealovitsky had been warned about Leno IV, being a third generation clone and all (with all of the strange mental and physical degeneration that that implied), but she was still shocked when she actually got on the couch next to him. There were red circles around his eyes; the software through which the show was run before it was Netcast must have filtered them out. His voice was much higher than the warm tones the home audience heard; this must also have been thanks to software trickery. But, the worst part was the way Leno IV slurred his speech. What the home audience heard as “Thanks for coming on the show”, Michealovitsky heard as “Thung fer cming on da sho”. Those must be some powerful ferking computer algorithms, Michealovitsky thought to herself. Then, in a deeper part of her mind, she uncharitably thought that Leno IV wouldn’t have survived two minutes in the wild.
> you’re not the one with software filters, sweetie – perky! perky! perky!
“My pleasure, Jay,” Michealovitsky answered, smiling broadly.
“Howza sho gung?” Leno IV asked.
“Funny you should ask that,” Michealovitsky answered. “Some critics of the show – I won’t say who, but Shales-Amatic 2137.5e was a big one – were saying that we had run out of ideas after the first episode. But, here we are, in out fifth year, still going strong!”
The phantom audience applauded enthusiastically. A couple of non-people even hooted. Whoot whoot whoot.
Putting on a mock serious face, Michealovitsky went on: “You know, my show is based on my life – my show is my life. And, life is the endless well from which all artists draw, so my show could…umm…last as long as my life!”
Wild applause.
“You no whatha say,” Le
no IV responded. “Reality izza new fantasy.”
“Too true,” Michealovitsky agreed. “Too true.”
> Toronto Maple Leafs 3 Toronto Blue Jays 7
“Gud. Gud,” Leno IV, shuffling cards, commented. “Now, I havva quezzion bout rumurz off Linc Brattiga’s lawzuit –”
Michealovitsky’s smile drooped ever so slightly. “Oh, Jay, “ she said, forcing a cheerful tone. “I thought we had agreed that we wouldn’t be talking about that, you big silly!”
Leno IV looked bewildered for a moment. Then, he casually tossed the card on the top of the stack over his shoulder and continued: “Now, quezzion I wanna no anzer, so am zure audience wantsa no, too: izzer a man in yer lif?”
As the non-existent crowd cheered, Michealovitsky laughed tinklingly.
> your double insists she needs to meet with you. says she’s a Transdimensional Authority agent – whatever that is. do you want to meet with her?
“Oh, Jay, I am not going to respond to the tabloid rumours – if I did, I would never have time to do my show!” Michealovitsky responded. “Or, at least, it would be a different kind of show. Umm, not the show I want to do – responding to tabloid rumours all the time!” Then, she winked with her left eye.
> are you sure? I’m not sure that would be a good idea
Michealovitsky winked again. “Oh,” she fluttered, “I seem to have something stuck in my eye!”
“I’m zure lotsa people wuld luvta helpoo get it out!” Leno IV told her.
Hootin’ and hollerin’ came from the void.
* * *
An hour later, Michealovitsky sat behind the desk in her Sunset Boulevard office. It was large, with one wall made entirely of glass that had a great view of a freeway. The other walls were dominated by large photos of Michealovitsky. Across from her desk, for instance, was a photo of Michealovitsky accepting a Razzie Award for “Worst Performance in Your Own Life.” (“Hey!” she would, when called upon, defend the photo. “DeNiro, Pacino…Oreo – eat your heart out! At least they cared enough to give me an award!”) Next to that was a photo of Michealovitsky with Kevin Spacey. He was actually behind her, and showed no sign that he was aware that she was there. (“Hey!” she would, when called upon, defend the photo. “It was taken at a fundraiser for the New Old Vic, so of course Kevin had a lot on his mind at the time!”) On the wall behind her was a photo of Michealovitsky in a rabbit suit that made her look like a reject from an Anne Geddes photo shoot. (Hey!” she would, when called upon, defend the photo. “Sometimes…a rabbit suit is just a rabbit suit, and rabbit suits need no defence!”)
