“But he survived?”
“Yep,” I said. “Ended up dying of old age.”
“Sounds like a hero to me,” Donut said.
“I am not reading this bullshit,” I said. “Where did you even get this? It’s like you used Reddit and Youtube for research, and that’s it.”
The teleprompter froze. I could see Donut through the glass of the booth next to me. This room was different than the holo studios we were used to. This was an actual studio with physical soundbooths. My chair was made for a creature much too small, and I asked if they had a different one. The chair in the booth disappeared, and a new one appeared in its place. It was like the room itself had an inventory system.
Donut was currently narrating her portion on pet shows with gusto. I couldn’t hear her, but she was waving her paws in the air and narrating with obvious enthusiasm.
My section was on human beauty pageants. The paragraph I was supposed to read hung in midair. The first part of the program had been okay. I’d read about the history of beauty pageants throughout the ages. I had no idea if any of it was true, but the information was both believable and harmless. I talked about an ancient Greek ritual called “Kallisteia,” which I had no idea how to pronounce. Their description of the event seemed a little too children’s book-y to be accurate. Especially since the script included video inserts from several bizarre and random sources, like Fraggle Rock and WKRP in Cincinnati. It was like the Unsinkable Sam cat tale I’d just told Donut. It was probably exaggerated and filled with half-truths, but it was an interesting story passed down through the ages.
Once we got into the specific details of the modern beauty pageant, the tone of the script changed. I couldn’t stomach reading any more.
“Why do you even need me to do this?” I asked. “If they can make a realistic video of me banging an orc, then surely you can have a robot Carl recite fake, made-up facts.”
I looked over the script hanging before me.
The swimsuit portion of this human mating ritual is designed to entice the Chad-class males. The evening gown is to demonstrate their ability to mix with society, and the question and answer portion is to prove mental fitness. The goal of each pageant contestant is to attract the highest-quality male and have him inject them with his superior sperm in order to create the most viable offspring. After they receive the gift from a genetically superior male, they oftentimes find a lower-quality male, a “Beta,” to help raise the child.
Judges for these pageants are usually a mix of ultra-alpha males and former contestants who are well past their prime.
These women are oftentimes referred to as “roasties.” A roastie is common human parlance due to their genitals being irrevocably damaged by multiple sexual partners. These roasties are honored and desired only by the male beta members of society, as evidenced by my recent trip to an Arby’s-themed saferoom.
Multiple images and videos accompanied the script, including a photo of the actors Lorenzo Lamas and Fabio as examples of an ultra-alpha male. The “roasties” were an Asian woman I didn’t recognize and Judge Judy. They also had a video of me eating a roast beef sandwich.
“Seriously. What the fuck?” I said.
The screen lowered, and Bin the producer appeared. He was one of those stereotypical gray aliens. He looked tired and irritated.
“Carl, we can’t artificially create your voice. It’s against the law to do so without a disclaimer. People will watch this because they know it’s really crawlers telling them about their world. Don’t you want the universe to know about your culture?”
“I do, actually, which is why I’m not reading this bullshit. Where do you even get this stuff?”
“We hired a consultant.”
“Christ. Was it some 15-year-old kid?”
“No. We can’t use surface human consultants. We can’t approach the natives until the crawl is over. We used an AI consultant who has consumed all of your media.”
“Well then you got ripped off.”
“We got a discount because Borant started the season early, before the AI could complete its scan. It insists its knowledge is adequate and accurate.”
“You guys can’t be this stupid,” I said. “Do you really believe this is the truth?”
The gray shrugged. “Do you know how much we paid for this? The cost for you and Donut was more than the entire budget of the last two seasons combined. People have an unexpected thirst for your world’s culture, and this little show has suddenly found itself as a ratings powerhouse. The least you can do is help us out. Hekla had no problem reading her script on Nordic mythology. Prepotente and Miriam Dom were happy to discuss earth hip hop culture. Your partner may be off script, but she is also embracing the subject. Why can’t you?”
I looked over, and Donut was still gesticulating, talking animatedly.
“How off script is she?”
“She is telling the universe about a breed of dog called a cocker spaniel, about the real reason why they are the winningest champion of the Crufts dog show. It is fascinating. We have never heard such a tale of evil and intrigue.”
“Goddamnit, Donut,” I said. She saw me through the booth window and waved.
Carclass="underline" Don’t make shit up.
Donut: I AM TELLING THE TRUTH THAT NEEDS TO BE TOLD, CARL.
I sighed. “You’re either going to have to get another script or ask Borant for a refund because I’m not reading this. I don’t care what happens.”
The alien looked as if he wanted to jump through the screen and strangle me. We stared at each other for several moments before he seemed to deflate. He looked back and forth nervously and leaned in.
“Look, Carl. I know the scripts are crap. When I started this program years ago, it was just me. I wanted to tell the real story of the cultures that were getting erased. But suddenly this show is bigger than I ever expected, and Titan, who was happy to leave me alone and let me make this show with little to no interference, is up my ass. They are making me use crawlers to narrate, we have to use shit intelligence to make the scripts, and the show I created is about to get yanked out from underneath me unless I make it even more ‘interesting.’ It’s a kick in the chest cavity is what it is. I was happier when I wasn’t noticed, and now that I am, I am being punished for being successful. So the last fucking thing I need is somebody giving me shit about something neither of us have control over.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, anger rising. “Your rented slave labor isn’t participating like how you wanted? Well, let me look for some sympathy.” I patted myself on the chest. “Nope, all out.”
The alien looked as if he was about to cry. “Okay, okay. We have a few other scripts. Which one do you think will resonate with your audience better? We have the history of mechanized military conflict. One on video arcades. Oh, and this one is about the history of milk pasteurization.”
I almost told him to give me the milk one just because it would be so boring maybe this idiotic show would get canceled. But then I took a deep breath and thought about it for a minute. If I took him at his word, he genuinely seemed interested in presenting the truth about our planet to the universe. That wasn’t so bad, was it?
“Just give me the damn videogame one.”
After we were done, we returned to the green room.
“Carl, Carl!” Donut said as we entered the room. “Sledgie just messaged me. He said Frank is dead! You know that crawler who was talking to him? They got into a fight, and the crawler killed him! I can’t believe it!”
“Huh,” I said. “I’m not surprised though.”
“It was Chris. Chris killed him. Sledgie said he did it and walked right out. Now he’s banned from the club. Sledgie said he’s a rock monster like him, but a different kind.”