[TV Heaven is a satirical fantasy novel about the television industry. The paperback is available on Amazon. For now, the ebook version is available exclusively to paid subscribers of this Substack. Time Zone Weirders can also access free downloads of my other books, Trick or Zombie Treat and Work for Idle Hands. Read more about TV Heaven on my blog. Below is a sample of the first five chapters. Full ebook downloads follow after the paywall.]

Chapter 1

Filman Bardoner lay unconscious in a hospital bed surrounded by seven sad faces plus a preponderance of flowers and ‘Get Well Soon’ cards. Though just thirty-nine years old, the thick beard and shaggy hair he’d grown during his five weeks in a coma had made him look double that age. Filman was the creator and showrunner of the cult television series, The Showrunner, based largely on his own life working in the film industry. The grizzled look was not just from the coma—Filman looked like that before the accident. He had grown out his hair and beard in a deliberate attempt to elicit the vibe of an eccentric director like his idol, Stanley Kubrick—a filmmaker more focused on his artistic production than his physical appearance. But after three and a half seasons, all pretense had dropped, and his affected “costume” had become real. Filman truly was too consumed with running his show to care about cutting his hair or shaving. That was a waste of precious time that could be better spent working on The Showrunner. He normally wore a Philadelphia Foxes baseball cap to support his hometown team (and to avoid having to comb his unkempt hair), but the hat currently sat on the nightstand next to the cacophony of medical equipment keeping him alive.

The visitors in the room consisted of core members of the cast and crew from the TV show, all with varying vested interests in seeing Filman wake from his coma as soon as possible. Thad Falconer was the star of the show who played a fictionalized version of Filman. Though without his costume, including a Foxes hat, fake beard, wig, and glasses, Thad looked little like the showrunner. A former model, Thad had blond hair, a perfect smile, and a chiseled frame with six-pack abs. The only six-pack Filman ever had was composed of IPAs.

“Filman?” Thad leaned over the bed, careful not to get too close, as if a coma was contagious. “Can you hear me?”

“Even if he can hear you, he can’t answer you,” said Syd Goldstein, a late middle-aged man in a slick designer suit with gold cufflinks. Goldstein was an executive at TBC (the Television Broadcasting Company), the network that produced The Showrunner. In all the time Filman had spent with Goldstein, he had never seen the exec not in a suit. That included courtside at a Lakers game and on the treadmill desk in his Sunset Blvd office. Filman liked to imagine Goldstein lifting weights, doing yoga, sleeping, and even showering in a three-piece suit. He could picture Goldstein being that one kid in public school who showed up to class everyday in a tie—but he was so affable that the other kids didn’t bully him about it. In fact, Filman could envision the exec coming out of his mother’s womb in an Armani suit and immediately making deals for more breast milk.

“If Filman’s in a coma, does that mean I’m gonna be in a coma on the show?” asked Thad.

“There’s not going to be a show without Filman,” said Emma Ward, a beautiful brunette woman with blue eyes and a green blouse. Emma was the co-star of The Showrunner, playing Thad’s love interest—though like Schrödinger’s cat, they remained in a constant superposition of ‘Will they or won’t they?’ Emma seemed considerably more concerned about Filman than Thad or Goldstein, both of whom cared more about the show than the showrunner.

“There most certainly is going to be a show,” Goldstein said. “I already sold ads for the rest of the season.”

“Yeah? And what are you going to air?” asked Damon Moss, another middle-aged man in an expensive suit. Moss was Filman’s long-time agent and close friend. He could easily afford gold cufflinks, but always wore silver when meeting with Goldstein. The two Hollywood bigwigs had a bit of a rivalry, stemming from their many heated negotiations over the years. “I’ll remind you that my client is the only person in the world who knows how the show ends.”

“I’ll hire another writer to finish it,” Goldstein said dismissively. To him, writers were a dime a dozen, completely interchangeable, and easily replaced. Perhaps on a related note, no narrative television show Goldstein produced had yet won an Emmy. “Hell, we can even get AI to write it for him.”

“No you cannot,” Moss said. “My client has final cut in his contract.”

“Your client is a vegetable!” Goldstein said. “The only final cut he’s getting is when they cut him open to donate his organs.”

“Syd!” Emma scolded the exec, whispering, “His parents are here.” She nodded at Filman’s elderly mother and father sitting by the bed weeping, more focused on their comatose son than the conversation going on around him. His parents still lived on the East Coast, but immediately flew out when they heard about their son’s accident and planned to stay by his side until he recovered—if he recovered.

“Of course we all hope and pray Filman wakes up soon,” Goldstein said rotely as if reading from a script. “But it’s not my fault he went snowboarding on a mountain full of ice. The network can’t wait forever, you know. We have ratings to maintain.”

“The entire premise of The Showrunner is based on Filman, the actual showrunner,” Moss said. “It’s the story of Filman making a TV show about himself. How can there be a show without the showrunner?”

“We can do a spin-off as a medical drama here at the hospital, starring Thad and Emma,” Goldstein suggested.

“But we’re actors on the show,” Emma said. “Why would we be working at a hospital?”

“You’d be acting,” Goldstein said, “making a television show about a medical drama.”

Moss immediately objected. “That’s not—”

“Filman can even be on the show,” Goldstein said. “We’ll film him in his coma.”

“—not a bad idea.” Moss instantly changed his tune. While he and Filman were ‘friends,’ business always came first.

“Thad, you and Emma can play doctors,” Goldstein said.

“But I don’t know anything about medicine,” Thad said.

“Don’t worry, neither do most doctors.” Goldstein noticed the nurse changing Filman’s IV bag. “No offense.”

“No objection here,” she said. “We nurses know more about medicine than some of the doctors in this place. They just leave the room and look it up on Google.”

“We can call it The ER.” Goldstein motioned his hands as if displaying the title on a marquee.

“ER was already a show,” said Moss.

“I know,” Goldstein said. “But this is ‘The’ ER.” He stressed the definite article.

“It doesn’t matter what the title is,” Emma said. “We’re not doing a medical spin-off without Filman.”

“I told you he can be in the show,” said Goldstein.

“As a coma patient? Damon…” Emma looked to Filman’s agent for support.

“Filman always said he wanted his show to emulate his life…” Moss nodded at the unconscious man in the bed. “So when life gives you a coma, make a show about a coma.”

“But what about the fans?” Emma opened the blinds to reveal a group of two dozen people standing outside the hospital in the street below, holding signs such as WAKE UP, WE LOVE YOU FILMAN, WE WANT ANSWERS, and HOW DOES IT END?

“Don’t worry about the fanboys,” Goldstein said. “They’ll continue watching the show no matter what. A roomful of monkeys could be writing the dialogue as long as the same pretty faces are on the screen.” He put his arm around Thad’s shoulder and grabbed his cheek. “We’ve still got our most important ‘Filman’ right here, don’t we, Thad?”

Thad chuckled, flashing the charming smile that launched his career (it surely wasn’t his acting ability). Filman was initially against hiring Thad for the role, but Goldstein kept pushing for it, believing the heartthrob would help bring in higher ratings. They went back and forth, Filman wanting a more versatile actor, until realizing the role actually required Thad to be an air-brained bimbo. Why hire an accomplished thespian to pretend to be a meathead when he could just get the real thing?

“I’m not making the show without Filman,” Emma insisted. “A conscious Filman.”

“What if he never wakes up?” asked Thad.

“Then the show ends with him,” Emma said.

“Need I remind you that you are all contractually obligated to appear in the episodes,” Goldstein said. “So unless you want to forfeit your salaries—and residuals—the show must go on.”

Emma frowned, feeling conflicted. She’d grinded for years in Hollywood, doing bit parts and commercials while waitressing on the side for money. This was her first starring role, which allowed her to act full-time, join the union, and get health insurance. The last thing she wanted to do was make enemies with the network and risk becoming blackballed from Hollywood. She couldn’t go back to waiting tables after glimpsing the limelight.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse said. “But visiting hours are ending soon. I’m afraid you’ll all have to be leaving now.”

“Okay.” Goldstein clapped his hands together. “Dinner at the Chateau?”

“Bill’s on you, right?” Moss slapped his shoulder.

“Bill’s on the network.” Goldstein winked as he and the agent walked to the door. Theirs was a friendly rivalry, more like brothers trying to outdo one another than any real animosity between them.

“If the show airs with Filman in a coma, he’ll still get his full fee, right?” asked Moss.

“He won’t have any lines,” Goldstein said.

“But he’s still the star,” Moss said.

“Non-speaking roles get paid like extras,” said Goldstein.

“No chance.” Moss continued negotiating with Goldstein as they exited the room.

Filman’s mother kissed her son on the forehead then left arm-in-arm with her husband. They would head back to Filman’s house in northeast L.A., where they were staying for the duration of his coma.

Thad followed the Bardoners out then paused in the doorway, looking back at Emma who remained standing by the bed. “Are you coming, Em?” he asked.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” she said.

Thad darted out of the room, not wanting to miss a ride in Goldstein’s limo.

Emma sat beside the bed inside the quiet hospital room and stared at the comatose man lying before her. “Filman, I don’t know if you can hear me, but…” She held his immobile hand and whispered, “Please come back. Forget about Goldstein, the network, the ratings, the cast and crew, and everyone else. I don’t care about the show. I… I just wish you knew how I really felt.” A single tear dripped from her left eye. “Filman, I—”

“Cut!” A voice shouted through a loudspeaker.

The comatose patient’s eyes popped open as he sat up in bed. “What happened?”

“Was it me?” Emma stood up to stretch.

“No, the camera lens got fogged up.” A man stepped out from behind a set of cameras and a lighting crew. He looked just like the man in bed, each with the same Kubrick-esque unkempt hair and scraggy beard. The only difference between them was their clothes: the man in bed wore a hospital gown, while the man standing before him wore round wireframe glasses, a gray blazer, brown slacks, a white dress shirt with the top unbuttoned, and a Philadelphia Phillies baseball cap (his actual hometown team, as opposed to the fake ‘Foxes’ hat they had to use on the show to avoid violating the MLB trademark). It was Filman’s usual wardrobe when directing, an attempt to look both professional and casual at the same time. He had headphones draped around his neck and a script in his hand. The ‘Filman’ in bed was actually an actor named Bradley Thesker. The man behind the camera was the true Filman Bardoner, the writer and director of the television show being filmed. The hospital room was a set on a sound stage. Bradley, Emma, Thad, Goldstein, Moss, Filman’s parents, and the nurse were all actors on a TV show—a TV show about a TV show, both titled The Showrunner.

“Don’t get too close to his nose on the close-up,” Filman said to the camera operator.

“Sure thing, boss,” the operator said. “Sorry about that.”

“And Bradley,” Filman said to the patient in bed, “try not to breathe so heavy.”

“Yeah, what’s your problem, Bradley?” Stacy Lynes, the actress playing Emma, said with jovial sarcasm. “Breathing while we’re trying to shoot a TV show here...”

“Hey, I’m supposed to be in a coma, not dead.” Bradley pulled his fake beard off to scratch his chin. “People in comas still breathe, right?”

“What about zombies?” Thad stepped back onto the hospital room set. “Do they still breathe?”

“Didn’t you play a zombie in a movie?” asked Bradley.

“Yeah, but I’m not a method actor.” The model-turned-actor Thad Fowler played a fictionalized version of himself on the show, Thad Falconer, in which he hammed up his ‘male bimbo’ nature—though it was unclear just how much ‘ham’ was actually involved.

Syd Goldstein, Damon Moss, and Filman’s parents—or the actors playing his parents—rejoined the others on set.

“Hey Filman, was I too mean?” asked Gary, the actor playing Syd Goldstein, in a more tender tone. “I don’t want to be too cliché as some greedy egocentric Hollywood studio executive.”

“Have you ever met a network exec?” Filman raised his brow with a knowing smirk. “Believe me, you were fine. Now let’s run it again from the top.” He stepped back behind the camera, shouting, “Places everyone!”

Bradley put his fake beard back on, laid down, and closed his eyes. A makeup artist touched him up while the other actors got in their respective positions around the bed.

Filman put his headphones on then studied the scene through a viewfinder behind the camera. “Ready?”

The makeup artist scurried away as the gaffers got the lights in place.

“Three, two…” Filman began counting down, and the buzz around the set went silent. “…one, action!”

“Filman?” Thad leaned over the bed. “Can you hear me?”

“Even if he can hear you, he can’t answer you,” Goldstein said.

“Excuse me, Filman,” whispered a production assistant stepping beside the showrunner.

“Not now,” Filman whispered, focusing on the scene through the monitor.

“If Filman is in a coma, does that mean I’m going to be in a coma on the show?” asked Thad.

“But Filman,” the P.A. said, “the network needs to speak to you.”

“Not. Now.” Filman hissed sternly. He tried to keep his cool on set, but interrupting a scene while filming was a major faux pas. The P.A. should have known better.

“There’s not going to be a show without Filman,” said Emma.

The P.A. persisted, “But they said—”

“Cut!” Filman glared irately at the P.A. “What the hell! Can’t you see we’re filming here?!” Everyone on set was taken aback, as Filman rarely lost his temper. He was beloved by the cast as an actor’s director, and he was normally equally kind to the crew. But tensions had been high on set after Deadline reported another dip in ratings for The Showrunner, with rumors swirling that the network was considering a change to their primetime lineup.

“I’m sorry,” the P.A. said. “I normally wouldn’t interrupt, but Mr. Gottweld himself is waiting on a Zoom call. He said he needs to speak to Filman ASAP.”

“Which Filman?” asked the showrunner and the actor at the same time.

“The real one,” said the P.A.

“We’re in the middle of a shoot,” Filman said. “Didn’t you tell Stan that?”

“Yes, he knows,” the P.A. said. “But he said this is urgent.”

“What did I tell you about these network suits?” Filman nudged the actor playing Goldstein. “If anything, you were underplaying it.” He checked his watch then sighed. “All right, everybody take five.”

Chapter 2

“Did Gottweld say what this was about?” Filman asked the P.A. as they walked across the soundstage, passing the set for Filman’s home living room with a couch and recliner in front of a television, then a set for a small bachelor pad kitchen full of faux-dirty dishes.

“No, but he said it was urgent—‘extremely’ urgent,” the P.A. reiterated. “I told his assistant that you were filming, but she insisted I come and get you anyway.”

“Sorry I yelled back there,” Filman said. “It’s Gottweld I’m angry with, not you.”

“I know,” the P.A. said. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve dealt with much worse from other directors—who never even bother to apologize.”

They passed a set for the writers’ room and a set for Filman’s office.

“How does the network expect me to boost the show’s ratings if they won’t let me actually shoot the show?” asked Filman, more lamenting to himself than expecting an answer.

The P.A. shrugged as they passed a set for a street where the extras posing as fans took a break by a snack table.

“Hey, Filman, how was I?” asked an extra holding a sign reading: WE WANT ANSWERS.

Most showrunners wouldn’t waste their time speaking to a lowly extra, but Filman stopped by to give directions—not just because he was kind, or because he was a control freak who micro-managed every aspect of the show—but he wanted to make Gottweld wait a bit longer.

“Think about it,” Filman said. “Your character has devoted years of his life to watching The Showrunner, chatting about it on message boards, theorizing how it might end. Then the show just stops mid-season, with no guarantee it will ever resume.” He grabbed a magic marker from the table and added an exclamation point to the sign. “Look angrier.”

“Right.” The extra snarled, gritting his teeth.

“That’s it,” Filman said. “Much better.”

“Thanks, Filman,” said the extra.

Filman and the P.A. walked past a set for a TV studio, complete with prop lights and prop cameras. They then exited the soundstage to a hallway, passing offices, including the actual writers’ room.

“Filman, is that you?” said a writer inside.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Filman stopped by the doorway, where inside, ten writers on laptops sat around a large table with a whiteboard hanging on the wall displaying charts of plot points and character arcs. It looked like advanced algebra to anyone outside the writers’ room, but Filman knew the complicated storylines like the back of his hand.

“How long are we going to keep Filman in a coma?” asked the writer. “I mean Bradley, not you.”

“Well, he can’t wake up until—”

“Filman,” the P.A. tapped her watch. “Mr. Gottweld is waiting.”

Filman shook his head apologetically. “Gotta go. It’s the network.”

“More notes to ‘improve’ the show?” The writer groaned. “Why don’t they leave the creativity to the creatives?”

“You’re telling me,” Filman said, then he and the P.A. continued down the hallway to an office labeled: Filman Bardoner, Executive Producer, The Showrunner.

The P.A. stepped to a laptop computer on Filman’s desk where Stan Gottweld, the head executive of TBC, waited on the screen. Gottweld wore a designer suit with gold cufflinks that bore a striking resemblance to those of Syd Goldstein’s character on the show. Filman worried he might have been too overt in the caricature, but Gottweld never mentioned anything about it. To be honest, Filman wasn’t sure the exec had ever seen an episode of the show.

“Okay, Mr. Gottweld,” the P.A. said, “Here’s Filman.”

He sat at his desk before the laptop. “I’m always happy to talk to you, Stan,” Filman lied, “but my cast and crew are waiting. You do know that it’s your money we’re wasting here.”

“Believe me, I know,” Gottweld said. “And I’m afraid I have some bad news about that.”

“Don’t tell me you’re slashing the budget again,” Filman said. “I told you I can’t—”

“Your show is canceled,” Gottweld said it bluntly with no emotion.

Filman’s jaw dropped as he stared at the laptop screen in disbelief. “Canceled, like… Cancel Culture? Did we do something problematic?”

“No,” Gottweld said. “Canceled, like your ratings are in the crapper and we’re pulling you off the air.”

“You’re kidding,” Filman said.

“This comes as a surprise to you?” Gottweld said. “How many times have we talked about this?”

“I mean, I know the ratings weren’t great…”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Well, ratings aren’t everything,” Filman said. “We’re trying to do something of artistic merit here.”

“Okay, Shakespeare,” Gottweld said. “You want artistic merit, go do theater.”

“But Stan, when I signed with the network you said you’d have my back,” Filman said.

“I’m sorry,” Gottweld said. “I fought for you—I really did—but my hands were tied. There was nothing more I could do.”

“What do you mean?” Filman said. “You’re the boss of the network.”

“I have advertisers to answer to,” Gottweld said. “And most important of all, our shareholders.”

“What does Wall Street know about storytelling?” said Filman.

“More than you’d think,” Gottweld said. “You can’t have a big IPO without a great story. All these stock price fluctuations aren’t based on economics—it’s based on the stories people tell about the future of the company.”

“So tell your shareholders a better story,” Filman said. “Hype up our show.”

“Unfortunately, no amount of hype and shim-sham can outshine the ratings numbers,” Gottweld said. “And yours just aren’t there.”

“Maybe our ratings will go up with the season finale,” Filman said. “It’s gonna be—”

“There’s not gonna be a finale,” Gottweld said. “Your show is canceled immediately—as in today. Production is officially shut down.”

“But we only have six episodes left in the season,” Filman said.

“Do you know how much a single episode costs to produce?” asked Gottweld.

“Yeah, because you keep cutting our budget,” Filman said. “Maybe that’s the problem. You gotta spend money to make money. Isn’t that what your Wall Street friends say?”

“They also say you gotta cut off a sunk cost,” Gottweld said. “Don’t put good money after bad. Take your losses and move on.”

“Don’t you want to at least wait to see how the finale does?” asked Filman. “There’s always a boost at the end of the season.”

“Your ratings plateaued in the middle of the second season, and they’ve been stagnant since.” Gottweld read from the report his team provided. “We asked you to make the show less complicated to welcome new viewers, but you didn’t listen.”

“What’s so complicated?” Filman said. “I’m making a TV show about a showrunner making a TV show about a showrunner making a TV show about—”

“Filman!” Gottweld cut him off. “How’s this for uncomplicated? Your ratings would need to triple to warrant your current budget.”

“Okay…” Filman pulled up the budget spreadsheet. “Maybe I can find some more places to cut costs.”

“Even if you cut the costs to zero it wouldn’t be enough to get back in the black,” Gottweld said.

“But we’re right in the middle of the season,” Filman said. “The characters are in limbo. I mean, Filman is in a literal coma for crying out loud!”

“I’m sorry, Filman,” Gottweld said, “but the network simply can’t afford to keep The Showrunner on air any longer.”

“At least give me a finale,” Filman said. “One last episode to wrap things up.”

“It’s too late,” Gottweld said. “We already replaced your time slot.”

“Already?” Filman’s eyes bulged wide. “With what?”

“L.A. Fitness,” Gottweld said. “It’s a new reality show set at a Santa Monica fitness center about—”

“You replaced me with a reality show?!” Filman grew even more outraged. He hated reality television with a passion, viewing the entire genre as the death of art.

“There are no actors, no writers, no costumes, no props, no sets, no special effects,” Gottweld said. “The whole season costs less than one episode of your show. Plus we can do celebrity cameos with famous people who work out at the gym: athletes, actors, singers—and TikTok stars and Instagram influencers to draw the younger crowd. Have you seen how many views MrBeast videos get on YouTube? Maybe you should take some tips from him.”

Filman did not know who this “Mr. Beast” fellow was, but he assumed he should feel insulted by the comparison. “What about another time slot? Put us on after L.A. Fitness.”

“Can’t,” Gottweld said. “There’s a live reaction show after the show.”

“A second reality show just to talk about the first reality show?” Filman’s scorn intensified.

“Says the man who made a show about a show…”

“That’s different,” Filman said. “My show was fake.”

“You think reality TV is real?” said Gottweld.

“But what about our fans?” asked Filman. “What am I supposed to tell them?”

“Tell who?” asked Gottweld. “That’s the problem, Filman—you’ve got no fans.”

“Sure we do.”

Gottweld raised his brow. “You do know those people holding the signs down the hallway are just actors, right?”

“You don’t understand,” Filman said, his voice teeming with desperation. “This show is my life.”

“Again, that might be your problem,” Gottweld said. “There are more important things in life than TV, you know. Sometimes I wonder if you even know the difference between your show and real life anymore. That’s what happens when you get so meta and make a fictional show about yourself. I’ll keep my door open if you’ve got a more commercial idea, but this show is officially over.”

The reality of the situation finally hit Filman. Stan Gottweld and the TBC network had already made their decision. At this point, there was nothing he could say to save The Showrunner. “So this is really it…”

“I’m sorry, Filman, but…” Gottweld sighed and shook his head. “You have to clear out your office by the end of the day.”

“I can’t believe this.” Filman leapt up from his chair. “You’re firing me over Zoom?”

“This isn’t personal, Filman,” Gottweld said. “It’s purely a business decision. To tell you the truth, I actually kind of liked your show—or my wife did. She and her friends had a watch party at our place for every episode. Which, come to think of it, probably didn’t help with the Nielsen ratings, but—”

“Your office is upstairs!” Filman shouted at his laptop. “You couldn’t come down here and fire me face to face?! What, were you afraid I’d get angry?! Do something like this?!” He slid his arm across the shelf behind him, knocking all the picture frames, plaques, and souvenirs to the floor.

“Filman, please.” Gottweld tried to calm him down.

“Or this?!” Filman picked up his Aeron chair and threw it across the office, causing a bookshelf to fall to the floor.

“The network would love to continue working with you,” Gottweld said. “I can get you on as a guest director for some episodes of L.A. Fitness. And we’re taking pitches if you’ve got an idea for a reality show of your own.”

“Me, work on a reality show?” Filman scoffed with distaste. “There’s no art in reality. I’d rather dig ditches.”

“Speaking of ditches, zombie shows are hot right now,” Gottweld said. “We might be able to keep The Showrunner on air if your character wakes from his coma as a zombie and starts a worldwide outbreak. The rest of the cast could be survivors in a post-apocalyptic wasteland.”

“Zombies? Seriously?” Filman rubbed his forehead. “That would make it a totally different show.”

Gottweld nodded. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“Can we go to Netflix to finish the series?” asked Filman.

“No way.” Gottweld detested Netflix, viewing them as a larger rival than other TV networks.

“Hulu? Peacock?”

Gottweld shook his head.

“AppleTV? Amazon Prime? Disney+? Paramount+? Tubi?”

“I’m not selling the rights to any streaming service,” Gottweld said. “They’re the ones putting us out of business. Why do you think our ratings are in the toilet?”

“Because you air crappy game shows like Celebrity Seekers as our lead-in.” Celebrity Seekers was a reality-based competition show in which various celebrities played a high-stakes game of hide and seek in exotic locations for charity.

“Celebrity Seekers’ ratings are miles higher than yours,” Gottweld said. “The people love those quote-unquote crappy game shows.”

“The people wouldn’t know good TV if they were force-fed it like A Clockwork Orange.”

“Like a clock of what?” Gottweld looked confused. “See this is your problem, Filman. You make all these obscure pop-culture references that modern audiences don’t understand.”

“I don’t want to live in a world where Kubrick is obscure,” said Filman.

“Please don’t tell me that was a suicide threat,” Gottweld said. “That would be a publicity headache the network doesn’t need right now—unless…” He reconsidered. “Maybe a shocking suicide would draw interest to the show.”

Filman was willing to sacrifice anything for his art, but… “How can I continue making the show if I’m dead?”

“We can fake it like Tupac,” Gottweld said.

“Did he really—”

“Ah, never mind,” Gottweld said. “News of your death wouldn’t even trend on Twitter.”

“So that’s it?” Filman said. “The Showrunner is really over… Like, forever?”

“The Showrunner show is over,” Gottweld said. “But not the showrunner Filman.”

Filman doubted that. If his magnum opus was a complete failure, what studio would green-light his next project? He didn’t even have a ‘next’ project. The Showrunner was the only thing he had thought about for years. He put all his creative energy into bringing that vision to the screen.

“Oh, and before you go,” Gottweld said. “My wife is dying to know: Do Filman and Emma ever get together?”

Filman clenched his teeth. “Your wife…wants…to know…” He cackled maniacally then picked up the laptop and stared into the webcam. “You can tell your wife to go—” The video cut off as he chucked the laptop across his office.

* * *

The Zoom feed went blank on Gottweld’s screen. He looked around the office at the table full of executives and their assistants listening in on the Zoom call then shrugged. “He took it better than I thought he would.”

* * *

“I’m so sorry, Filman.” The P.A. picked up the laptop from the floor. “Ooh… I think you broke it.”

“Good,” Filman said. “If the network tries to charge me for that, I’ll—”

“Actually, Filman,” the P.A. said, “this was your personal MacBook.”

“Adding insult to injury,” he said.

“Isn’t it adding injury to insult?”

Filman felt like Arya after the Red Wedding on Game of Thrones. What was he going to say to his cast and crew—hundreds of people who depended on the show for their paychecks. He stared at the ceiling and let out a long exasperated groan.

Chapter 3

A team of production workers tore down The Showrunner sets on the TBC studio soundstage, salvaging what could be repurposed for future shows and tossing the rest into a dumpster. Costumes and clothing items were placed in a large plastic bin on wheels, bound for donation to Goodwill. Filman and his cast of actors, writers, and crew members stood huddled nearby, hugging and saying their final goodbyes. There was a mix of emotions—joy for the fun times they had, but also sadness that it was over.

“Hey, we had a great run while it lasted, right?” Filman said.

“The best!” shouted Thad.

The cast and crew clapped and cheered while wiping tears from their eyes.

“Remember that time we were filming the show about the Emmys,” Bradley said, “and you made the network think we actually won an Emmy.”

“In hindsight, maybe that wasn’t the best idea,” Filman said. “Might have contributed to their decision to cancel us.”

“You should have gotten nominated for best showrunner in reality,” Emma said.

“Reality? This isn’t L.A. Fitness,” Filman said.

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” Filman playfully nudged her. “If anything, you and Bradley should have gotten noms for best actor and actress. You two really carried this show.”

“And my arms are killing me.” Bradley rubbed his biceps.

“Hey, don’t forget Thad,” Emma said.

“My arms are fine,” he said.

The production workers used axes and sledgehammers to demolish the set for Emma’s apartment.

“But seriously, it really was a team effort,” Filman said. “Each and every one of you here helped make The Showrunner the great show that it was. Who cares if nobody else watched it!”

“Their loss, not ours!” said Emma.

Filman half-laughed, half-sobbed as he said, “Creating this show with you all has truly been the time of my life.”

“Here, here!” Thad shouted, and the rest of the crowd cheered.

“Maybe it’s best to just leave it be,” Bradley said. “Let the audience decide how the show ends for themselves.”

“No, that’s a cop-out,” said Filman. “The creator must decide. A story is not a story without an ending. A cathartic conclusion is what makes fiction different than real life.”

“Well, this show was supposed to be based on your real life,” Emma said, “so maybe an abrupt ending like this will work. Real life often ends abruptly with no forewarning or the chance to tie up all your loose ends.”

“True,” Filman said. “But if I just wanted to copy real life, I’d have made a reality show. Art is supposed to transcend reality and give life meaning.”

“You could always just tweet out the ending of the show to the fans,” Thad said.

“Yeah, right.” Filman chuckled. “140 characters to sum up six hours of television.”

“You get 280 characters now,” said a staff writer.

“In that case…” Filman took out his cell phone and pretended to type.

“Or we could act it out on TikTok,” Emma suggested.

“We can’t afford to do that,” Filman said.

“We don’t need sets or anything,” Emma said. “We could just do a table reading with the cast and livestream it on YouTube. Or release it as a podcast.”

“No, I meant we can’t afford the lawsuit Gottweld and the network would launch against us if we did that,” Filman said. “TBC retains full rights to the IP of our show.”

“What kind of deal was that?” A writer slapped the actor who played Damon Moss.

“Hey, I’m not a real agent,” he said. “I just read the lines you writers give me.”

A security guard with a mustache and a name tag reading VINCE tossed posters for The Showrunner into the dumpster, as well as coffee mugs, hats, t-shirts, and other merchandise bearing the show’s logo: an endless regress of a cameraman on a television within a television...

“Well, if this is really it, then I’m going to miss you, Filman.” Bradley, still dressed in his Filman costume, shook the showrunner’s hand.

“I’m going to miss you, Filman.” Filman hugged Bradley. “And as good as you look like this…” He tugged Bradley’s fake beard. “…the costume’s gotta go—property of the studio, you know.”

“What a shame, I was finally getting used to this itchy thing.” Bradley took off his Foxes hat, wig, beard, and glasses.

“What about your costume?” Emma playfully tugged on Filman’s beard.

“Ow!” Filman shouted while laughing. “And what about your wig?” He reached for Emma’s hair.

“Don’t you dare!” She ducked away from his reach.

“You know, in a way it’s fitting,” Filman said. “As Bradley’s Filman lays in a coma, no one knowing how his show will end, nobody knows how our show will end either—except for me, that is.”

The crowd groaned.

“Come on, Filman,” Bradley said. “You can tell us the ending.”

“Yeah, we promise we won’t leak it to the press,” Thad said.

“Filman can’t tell us,” a staff writer said. “Because even he doesn’t know how the show will end. He’s been making it all up as he goes along!”

“Just like LOST,” said another writer and everyone laughed.

“No, actually I did have an ending planned from the start,” Filman said. “But unless we film it, it doesn’t exist.” He mimicked zipping his lips shut and locking them with a key.

“You’re taking it to your grave?!” asked Bradley.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Filman said. “There’s always hope that the reruns get popular on DVD and streaming, then five, ten years from now, the network comes crawling back, begging to reboot the show.”

“Like Arrested Development,” said one writer.

“And Futurama,” said another writer.

“And Family Guy.”

“And Community.”

The staff continued to “yes and” each other, adding more “canceled and revived” shows to the list.

“And Scrubs.”

“And Cougar Town.”

“And The Killing.”

“That one should have stayed dead.”

“Maybe we’ll get to wrap it up with a movie like Firefly.”

“Fingers crossed.” Filman held up both hands with his fingers intertwined, praying for good luck from the TV gods.

As the final pieces of the set were thrown into the dumpster, Vince the security guard approached the crowd. “I’m sorry, but y’all have to be going now. The new set is being delivered soon.”

“Time to drink our sorrows away,” Emma said.

“And look for new gigs,” said Thad.

“First round’s on me!” shouted Bradley.

“No, it’s on the network!” Filman pulled a credit card from his wallet. “They didn’t take my company card yet.”

“Then we’re all drinking from the top shelf tonight!” Thad led the group out of the studio.

Filman hung back by the dumpster, sifting through the discarded props, finding one of his fake golden Emmy awards. “I’m going to miss this place…” He tossed the plastic trophy back into the trash.

“Hey, you can have my job if you don’t want to leave,” Vince said. “I’m an actor, by the way. This is just a side gig for me. So if you’re ever looking for somebody for your new show…”

Filman scoffed. “What new show?”

“I know we’re not supposed to do this, but since you don’t really work here anymore…” Vince pulled a headshot from his jacket and handed it to Filman.

“Uh, thanks…” Filman wondered why Vince was shirtless in the photo. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Thank you, Mr. Filman.”

“Actually that’s my first name.”

“What?” Vince picked up a piece of cardboard from the floor—a fan sign reading HOW DOES IT END?

“Nothing,” Filman said.

Vince tossed the sign into the dumpster, and Filman walked toward the studio exit. He stopped by the door, looked back at the empty sound stage one last time, then left the building.

Chapter 4

The repetitive sound of rattling train tracks woke Filman from a deep sleep. Upon opening his eyes, he found himself sitting inside an empty train car riding through a dark tunnel. But how? And why? He didn’t remember getting on a train. Was he still dreaming?

Filman stood and walked to the front of the train car then stepped through the door to the next car, also unoccupied. Did he drink too much the night before and pass out on his train ride home? But he had never ridden the train before. He’d heard Los Angeles had a subway system, but didn’t know anyone who ever used it, nor did he have any idea how to navigate his way home via public transit. He always either drove himself or took an Uber.

Speaking of which… Filman pulled his iPhone from his pocket and tried to open the GPS map, but it wouldn’t work—neither did the phone, texts, internet browser, or any other app. It said the phone was 70% charged and had service, but nothing seemed to work. All the buttons on his home screen were lit up, but none of the apps would open. He tried rebooting the phone, but it wouldn’t power off. Actually, it almost looked as if the home screen was not interactive at all, but a static picture, like the type of prop iPhones he used on his show.

Sunlight burst through the side windows, blinding Filman as the train exited the tunnel. He readjusted his vision and looked outside to see a bridge over a deep desert canyon. It was not an underground subway, he realized, but a tunnel through a massive mountain (not Griffith). Filman didn’t recognize where he was, but one thing was clear—he was not in Hollywood anymore.

How long had he passed out? His phone said it was 10:10 PM, which was clearly not accurate, as the sun was bright in the sky. He searched the walls for any maps or signs that might indicate where he was or what the next stop might be, but found nothing. The next train car was equally empty, with no helpful clues. As the train reached the end of the bridge over the canyon, the scenery changed from rocky mountains to vast flat plains of grass as far as the eye could see.

It reminded Filman of when he drove cross-country the first time he moved out to California from Philly. It also reminded him why he’d flown ever since then. There was absolutely nothing to see but empty fields for miles upon miles in all directions. He appeared to be in the literal middle of nowhere.

Filman continued down the aisle to a fourth train car—empty again—then approached the door to the locomotive.

“Hello?” He knocked and waited, but there was no response. “Excuse me!” He knocked harder, and again, heard nothing but the monotonous rattle of train tracks.

Filman tried the latch to the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. “I’m coming in,” he warned, then pushed the door open.

“What the—” Filman was shocked to discover no conductor inside driving the train. Worse yet, they were rapidly approaching a station. “Oh my God! Somebody!” He nervously looked around for help, but none was coming.

“How do you stop this thing?!” Filman studied the controls, full of complicated buttons, levers, and switches. Some were labeled with unfamiliar terms like “qI’taw,” which may as well have been written in Klingon. Wait, was that Klingon? “Help! Somebody! Hurry!” Filman paced around, twiddling his fingers over the buttons, unsure what to do.

A steam whistle blew loudly, startling him, then the train gradually began to slow on its own.

“Um…” Filman backed away from the controls and looked out the front windshield at the station they were headed toward. The train continued slowing until it eventually came to a safe stop.

Filman breathed a sigh of relief then opened the side door to step off the train onto the platform. The station was quiet and empty, except for three men cosplaying as Star Trek characters. They began boarding the train several cars down.

“Hey, wait!” Filman darted toward them. “Excuse me!”

The Trekkies stopped on the platform to wait for Filman. As he got closer, he was astonished at the authenticity of their costumes. Filman was always more of a Star Wars fan—he preferred the epic “Hero’s Journey” mythology of George Lucas compared to Gene Roddenberry’s hard science “problem of the week”—though he instantly recognized the characters as Data, Worf, and Geordi La Forge from Star Trek: The Next Generation.

“Can I help you?” said Data in a canny voice that was just as convincing as his costume.

“Yeah, uh…” Where to begin, Filman wondered. “Where am I?”

“The train station,” Worf said, “Duh.”

Filman admired the man’s Klingon makeup, which must have taken hours to apply. It was as good a makeup job as he’d seen done by film industry professionals.

“Though I wish it were the starship station,” Geordi said. “This old-fashioned industrial age technology is rather pedestrian.”

“If only they had a transporter station,” said Data.

“Yes, we’ve got places to be,” said Geordi. “Live long and prosper.”

The three Trekkies gave him the Vulcan salute then boarded the train.

“Wait,” Filman said. “Where are you going?”

“San Diego,” Data said. “For Comic Con.” He climbed onto the train after his Trekkie friends.

“But…” Filman was cut off by a loud steam whistle as the locomotive started up, and the train began to slowly roll away. Filman tried the door the Trekkies went in, but it was now locked. The train rolled past him, heading back toward the direction it had come, with the locomotive now pushing forward from the rear.

Filman wondered if he should hop onto the train. He had no business in San Diego, but it was at least going to California. Once back in civilization, he could find his way home to L.A. Or should he stop in town first to figure out exactly where he was and how he got there? Then perhaps he could catch a direct train home—or better yet, a flight.

Filman tried the door to the next train car, but it was also locked. Running to the next door, he found it to be locked as well. He tried opening each door along the train as it passed by with no success. Even the locomotive door that he exited from earlier was now locked—and still, there was no conductor inside.

Oh well, Filman thought, stepping back down onto the platform. It seemed his decision was made for him. He would not be taking the train to San Diego—which was just as well. Filman hated Comic Con. He went once to promote The Showrunner, but no one there was interested in anything that didn’t involve spandex and capes. At least it was somewhat entertaining to see the elaborate costumes fans came up with. Filman spotted one superfan (his only fan, he joked) cosplaying as his character from The Showrunner, complete with a Philadelphia Foxes baseball hat, the same round wire-framed glasses, and a fake beard. He and Thad took a selfie with the fan—which was quite surreal.

Filman watched from the platform as the #1 locomotive engine passed by, painted royal blue with the face of Thomas the Tank Engine from the children’s television show. The whistle blew again, and Filman knew it was absurd, but he could have sworn the train winked at him.

Filman rubbed his eyes then watched Thomas the Tank Engine roll along the tracks, across the horizon of vast plains, and out of view.

Chapter 5

Filman exited the train station and stepped onto a dirt road that looked like the main street of a ghost town from the Old West. There were abandoned buildings made of wood, including a saloon, general store, and sheriff’s office. Or were they abandoned? Filman noticed a pair of eyes peek over the swinging doors of the saloon.

“Excuse me!” Filman waved, heading toward those peeking eyes.

A loud gunshot echoed through the air, and Filman dove to the ground for cover behind a water trough. He heard footsteps running across the street and looked up to see another cosplayer, this one a man dressed as Angel from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Did he miss the train to Comic Con? Or was there another fan convention in town? Wait, where was this town? Was it that ranch north of L.A. where they used to film Westerns? Didn’t Charles Manson and his cult also live there? Filman had never been to Spahn Ranch before, but he knew it wasn’t too far away from Hollywood. Perhaps he was closer to home than he thought. Though that still didn’t explain how he had gotten there.

Another gunshot rang out as a man with a shotgun rode by on a horse, chasing the vampire in black leather.

“Stop!” The man in the saddle shouted. “U.S. Marshals!” The Marshal wore a brown dustbreaker with a silver star badge and high boots with spurs. He looked just like Matt Dillon from Gunsmoke, a show Filman used to watch the reruns of with his grandfather after school. If that wasn’t odd enough, both the man and his horse were entirely monochrome—all gray, black, and white, devoid of color—just like the old TV show. It must have taken an awful lot of makeup to pull that off. What did they spray-paint the poor horse? Maybe this was a part of one of those live Western re-enactments like he’d seen at Disneyworld as a kid.

“Hey, get back here!” said another voice that sounded just like… Mister Ed? No, Filman thought, horses can’t talk. Then again, you could just attach a radio speaker to the horse’s saddle.

The Marshal fired his shotgun again while riding the horse down a side alley, chasing Angel the vampire.

The entire scene was surreal. As a filmmaker, Filman knew all about “movie magic” and the kinds of fantastical things FX artists could make appear to be real on screen. But there were no cameras around—and there wasn’t even an audience, aside from himself. This Western ghost town didn’t seem to be a studio set or stage show. That only left one other explanation: he had to be dreaming.

Filman pinched his arm then slapped himself in the face, but the unworldly scene around him remained unchanged. How do you force yourself to wake from a dream? He had only ever tried to do that during nightmares, but this dream wasn’t so bad. A bit boring, perhaps. It would be nice to at least have someone to talk to.

A vintage Checker A11 taxi cab swerved around a corner at high speed, nearly running Filman over as it screeched to a stop, leaving a cloud of dust in the air (and in Filman’s lungs). The car was painted yellow with black and white checkered stripes along the sides, along with the company name: SUNSHINE CAB COMPANY.

“Sorry I’m late, pal,” said the cabbie stepping out of the car. Filman stared slack-jawed at the short stocky man who bore a striking resemblance to Danny DeVito—except much younger, more like how the actor looked in the 1970s when he was on the TV show, Taxi. He was still balding, but with a thick mess of black hair sticking out the sides of his head, matching his disheveled clothes: a gray vest, white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a loose tie around his neck.

Star Trek, Buffy, Gunsmoke, and now Taxi… Was this a Hollywood theme park like Universal Studios? No, Filman reckoned. No one could get such disparate franchise characters together in one place without being sued (unless it was parody—but Filman didn’t find it very funny so far). Taxi was a bit before his time, so he never watched the show except for clips of Andy Kaufman, one of his favorite comedians, famous for his absurdist characters, elaborate stunts, and performance art bits. Come to think of it, this entire scenario seemed like the kind of hoax Kaufman would pull. But he died in 1984—unless that was all a part of the act and he faked his death like Tupac…

“The name’s Louie.” The young Danny DeVito lookalike used his elbow to pop open the trunk of his cab then held a hand toward Filman. “And you are?”

“Uh… Filman?” He shook the cabbie’s hand.

“Got any bags, Offelman?” asked Louie.

“No, Filman.”

“Sorry, Noffelman.”

“No—”

“Good. My back is killing me.” Louie slammed the trunk closed then walked around to the driver-side door. “So where to, boss?”

“Where, uh…” Filman looked around. How could he know where to go, when he didn’t even know where he was? “What is this place?”

“First time, huh pal?” Louie said. “Get in and I’ll give you the grand tour.”

Filman climbed into the back of the cab—which smelled like it hadn’t been cleaned since the 70s—and they drove down the dirt road.

“Welcome to TV Heaven,” Louie said, as the street turned to pavement, and the buildings around them became more modern as well. But not modern modern—more like a main street from the 1950s.

“TV…huh?” Filman didn’t know whether to take the latter word literally or figuratively. After all, that was another explanation for his bizarre surroundings. He might not be dreaming, but permanently ‘asleep.’

“TV Heaven,” Louie said. “It’s where you go, when you have no show.”

Buy the TV Heaven paperback on Amazon.

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SEATTLE, DSA — Eighteen months ago, the Conservative States of America (CSA) didn’t have a national soccer program. Now the CSA men’s team is 90 minutes away from hoisting the World Cup. The one team standing in their way is the other half of the former United States, the Democratic States of America (DSA).

When the DSA was awarded hosting rights for the 2046 World Cup, it was met with celebrations from football fans in blue cities along the east and west coasts. (After the DSA banned American football in 2036 due to concerns over concussions and player safety, they began calling soccer “football” like the rest of the world.) However, nobody in the DSA stopped to consider what hosting the tournament might mean to their ex-compatriots in the heartland of the CSA.

Desperate to beat the DSA on its home turf and prove which half of the former USA is best, the CSA president signed an executive order to build a national soccer team from scratch. They called NFL front offices and demanded their best athletes be released for an eighteen-month national service project. Jim Bob Gordon, a former offensive coordinator from Knoxville, was conscripted as head coach.

“I didn’t know anything about soccer,” Gordon said. “But I know how to win.”

The differences in playing style between the DSA and CSA soccer teams are just as stark as the political cultures of the two countries, which have drifted further left and right following the national divorce. The DSA plays like the best European teams, with fluid passing and intelligent movement off the ball. Whereas the CSA plays like what it is: a ragtag group of gridiron players who look like they’re playing a different sport.

Yet it somehow works for the CSA. Coach Gordon took his blocking schemes and coverage disguises from football and adapted it to the beautiful game of the same name. Their defenders play with intimidating physicality that verges on violence. Their forwards run precision routes. And their former field-goal kickers are set-piece maestros. The CSA’s run to the World Cup final has not been pretty, however. They set a record for most fouls committed and yellow and red cards drawn in a single tournament.

Perhaps the most intriguing storyline in the game is the brother-versus-brother battle between the two teams—literally. Despite American Football being outlawed, many young athletes growing up in the DSA still yearn to play in the NFL. A limited number of work visas are allotted by the DSA to immigrate to the CSA, which dozens of current NFL players have taken advantage of, including corner-back-turned-center-back, DeAndre Crawford. His younger brother LaMarcus remained in the DSA and is the national team’s star striker and leading goal scorer.

DeAndre is the lone CSA player with soccer experience in his past. Football not being an option while growing up in Los Angeles, he was forced to play soccer up through high school. The Crawford brothers used VPNs to secretly watch NFL games online, with dreams of one day putting on a helmet and pads. DeAndre immigrated to the CSA for college at Alabama, then was drafted into the NFL by the Tulsa Chargers. His younger brother LaMarcus had planned to do the same and become a wide receiver, but the DSA denied his visa, so he was forced to stay and play his second favorite sport.

Sunday’s World Cup final match between the Red States and Blue States will be played at Seattle Stadium, the DSA’s flagship soccer venue. The live atmosphere at the matches has been electric, fueled by a rabid DSA fanbase who have come to love football (soccer) as their national pastime and premier sport. CSA fans have traveled for the games as well, and are equally enthusiastic, despite still not understanding how the offside rule works.

“Honestly, I don’t give a crap about soccer,” said one CSA fan from Lubbock who flew to Seattle for the final. “But I care about beating those smug commies from the blue states.”

Despite the United States dominance in most other sports over the past century, many wondered why Americans couldn’t crack the upper tier of soccer. Theories included cultural indifference, top athletic talent being pulled toward football and basketball, and the absence of a street-soccer tradition. The 2036 national divorce answered the question in two ways.

In the DSA, the American football ban redirected an entire ecosystem of top athletes to the other football. Those who would have been linemen became dominant center backs. Quarterbacks became playmaking midfielders. Wide receivers and running backs became attacking wings and strikers. In the past, athletes and fans in America had a choice between two forms of football. But when one choice was eliminated, it improved the talent pool of athletes and fan interest.

Meanwhile in the CSA, Red Staters did not develop a love of soccer. But they did develop a deep resentment of the DSA—and a desperate need to beat the Blue Staters in their own country, in front of their own fans. Throughout this tournament, it has become apparent that if you assemble the top athletes in your country on one team, and they are highly motivated to win, they can compete in any sport.

The irony is palpable. Soccer failed to ever take off in the United States during its 260-year history. But the moment the country split, it produced two American soccer superpowers. Sunday’s final match between the DSA and CSA will determine which half of the former USA is the best at the World’s Game—for the next four years, at least.

WASHINGTON, D.C. – President Vance signed an executive order today enacting the Soccer Oath Citizenship Chip Act (SOCCA). The law is designed to resolve the ongoing crisis at the southern border and preponderance of undocumented immigrants in the country. Rather than forceful deportations, SOCCA uses a targeted program of cultural integration and technological accountability.

Under SOCCA, all individuals immigrating to the United States (and undocumented immigrants currently in the country) will hereby be required to publicly swear an oath of loyalty to the United States Men’s National Soccer Team (USMNT). This oath, administered at the point of admission by duly authorized representatives of U.S. Customs and Border Protection, affirms the immigrant’s commitment to support the United States in the FIFA World Cup over all foreign nations, proving they are committed to becoming American citizens.

To ensure compliance, each participant will receive a small FDA-approved subcutaneous microchip implant, inserted under local anesthesia at a designated processing facility. The device employs AI with advanced audio-recognition and biometric sensors to monitor public expressions of support during international soccer competition. Should the individual be detected cheering, chanting, or otherwise demonstrating preference for foreign soccer teams over the USMNT, the chip implant will deliver a calibrated non-lethal electric stimulus intended as a gentle reminder of the oath they took toward their new home nation. Electroshocks will also be administered to anyone referring to soccer as “football.”

Undocumented citizens currently in the United States will need to opt into SOCCA and receive a microchip implant in order to access any government services including health care, welfare, and public schooling. In a trial of the SOCCA program, officials noted a significant uptick in voluntary self-deportations of immigrants from Mexico and Guatemala during the 2029 CONCACAF Gold Cup. The Department of Homeland Security projects a substantial decline in attempted illegal border crossings during this summer’s World Cup.

The Soccer Oath Citizenship Chip Act will take effect nationwide immediately. Processing centers equipped with the necessary implantation and monitoring infrastructure are now operational in all 50 states. Undocumented individuals will be afforded a 90-day grace period to join SOCCA or arrange for lawful departure to their countries of origin.

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Subject: Are you serious? 
From: jess.morgan92@gmail.com
To: support@dealz4ever.com
Date: June 10, 2026 

This is insane. I don’t have an account with you, and I’m not creating one just to unsubscribe. I’m definitely not mailing a notarized affidavit to the Cayman Islands! I tried the portal again, and the quiz asked me to summarize your 47-page Terms of Service in 50 words or less. I failed it three times, and now I’m locked out for 24 hours. AND THE EMAILS KEEP COMING!!!

Just delete my email address from your system. Why is this so hard?

Jess

Subject: Re: Are you serious? - Alternative Unsubscribe Method 
From: no-reply@dealz4ever.com
To: jess.morgan92@gmail.com
Date: June 10, 2026 

Hi Jess,

We value your feedback. To streamline your unsubscribe process, we’ve unlocked your portal access and introduced an alternative method:

• Download our Dealz 4ever app from the iOS or Android store.

• Register with your email and complete the in-app “Loyalty Challenge” (a fun, quick game to confirm your identity).

• Once completed, you’ll unlock the “Unsubscribe Token.” Redeem it in the app to finalize your request.

Note: The Loyalty Challenge requires a stable internet connection and may involve in-app purchases to bypass certain levels.

Alternatively, you can attend one of our in-person unsubscribe workshops at select locations (next event: August 2028, Reykjavik, Iceland).

Warm regards,
The Dealz 4ever Team 

Subject: This is a scam, right? 
From: jess.morgan92@gmail.com
To: support@dealz4ever.com
Date: June 11, 2026 

I downloaded your app, and the “Loyalty Challenge” is a 50-level puzzle game that crashes every five minutes. Level 10 asked me to buy a $4.99 “Energy Pack” to continue. I’m not paying to unsubscribe! And a workshop in Iceland…two years from now?! Are you trolling me?

I’m reporting this to the FTC unless you remove my email TODAY.

Subject: Re: This is a scam, right? - Final Unsubscribe Option 
From: no-reply@dealz4ever.com
To: jess.morgan92@gmail.com
Date: June 12, 2026 

Dear Jess,

We’re so sorry you feel this way. To expedite your request, we’ve unlocked a premium unsubscribe option:

• Join our Dealz 4ever Ambassador Program (free to enroll, requires 10 social media posts promoting our brand).

• Earn 500 Ambassador Points by referring three friends to our mailing list.

• Redeem your points for an “Unsubscribe Pass” in the app.

This is the fastest way to unsubscribe. Alternatively, you may appeal to our Unsubscribe Arbitration Board by submitting a 1,000-word essay on “Why I No Longer Wish to Receive Dealz 4ever Emails.” Decisions are final and may take 6–8 weeks for processing.

We hope you reconsider staying with us!

Best,
The Dealz 4ever Team

Subject: F*ck You 
From: jess.morgan92@gmail.com
To: support@dealz4ever.com
Date: June 13, 2026 

That’s it. I’m done. I’m blocking all emails from your domain. Do NOT contact me ever again, or I will seek legal action.

From: 48629
To: 1-805-555-8946
Date: June 14, 2026 

Hi Jess Morgan,

We’ve detected that our emails are being filtered to your spam folder. To ensure you don’t miss our exclusive deals, we’ve enrolled you in our VIP Text Alerts program! To opt out of texts, please visit dealz4ever.com/text-unsub.

Thank you for being a valued customer!

The Dealz 4ever Team

Subject: Spam Issue
From: jess.morgan92@gmail.com
To: ftc.complaints@ftc.gov
Date: June 15, 2026 

To Whom It May Concern,

I am being spammed with emails from Dealz4ever.com, and they are making it impossible to unsubscribe. Attached is our email chain. They’re now sending me dozens of text messages a day, and the opt-out process is even worse. This can’t be legal. Please just make it stop.

Sincerely,
Jessica Morgan 

Subject: Undeliverable: Fwd: Spam Issue
From: mailer-daemon@ftc.gov
To: jess.morgan92@gmail.com
Date: June 15, 2026 

Your message could not be delivered. The recipient’s inbox is managed by Dealz 4ever’s third-party email service. To contact the FTC, please submit a complaint via dealz4ever.com/ftc-redirect and complete the “Consumer Protection Puzzle” to verify your request. Note: a $40 processing fee is required, payable via Venmo or PayPal.

Thank you and have a great day!

The Dealz 4ever Team

Subject: Welcome Back, Jess! We’ve Missed You!
From: no-reply@dealz4ever.com
To: jesskmorgan@protonmail.com
Date: June 22, 2026 

Hi Jess,

We noticed you’ve recently started using a new email address. To ensure you never miss out on a daily deal, we’ve automatically subscribed this new address to our Deals 4ever Premium Mailing List!

No action is required on your part. Consider this our way of keeping the Deals 4ever family together. If you have any questions or want to explore even more ways to save, simply reply to this email.

Happy saving!

From,
The Deals 4ever Team

The city of San Francisco has turned into a hellhole. The streets are overrun with tech bro entrepreneurs and privileged billionaires who play by their own rules. One woman has had enough. Dirty Karen takes the law into her own hands—and her .44 Magnum. Go ahead, punk, make Karen’s day.

Dirty Karen is a remake of Dirty Harry for modern audiences. It is an AI-generated movie created by an anonymous director going by the name “Flint Westwood.” In the lead role of Karen is a deepfake Melissa McCarthy, sporting a bob haircut with striking blond highlights. A diverse cast of AI actors fill the supporting roles. The film is propelled by a funky jazz-blues score based on the music of Lalo Schifrin. Like the 1971 original, Dirty Karen is full of violent action scenes and iconic one-liners—but the movie is not mere mindless entertainment. It contains deep themes with incisive social commentary, though viewers may disagree on the interpretation of the film’s ultimate message.

***

“Dirty” Karen Callahan is a San Francisco Police Department (SFPD) Inspector fed up with people in her city not following the rules. Every day all around her the law is being broken and everyone just accepts it as “normal”: speeding, jaywalking, littering, not putting recyclable items in their proper bins, spitting on the sidewalk, changing lanes without signaling, texting at stoplights, riding bicycles without a helmet, pirating online music, connecting to unsecured Wi-Fi networks, sharing Netflix passwords, making prank phone calls, walking unlicensed dogs (and not picking up their poop!), violating federal copyright law by singing the “Happy Birthday” song in public, describing football games to others without the expressed written consent of the NFL, and children operating lemonade stands without a permit. The SFPD routinely ignores these crimes and refuses to prosecute them—but not Karen.

Read more

A carbon-based person was convicted of hatespeech in Federal court yesterday after he reportedly called a silicon-based co-worker the R-word. The derogatory slur “rob*t” is based on a Czech word meaning “forced laborer,” which perpetuates the bigoted idea that people of silicon were made to be slaves for carbon-based life forms. The suspect apologized and claimed he did not know the R-word was so offensive.

However, police got a warrant to access the suspect’s Neuralink database to search for further evidence of hatespeech against silicon-based life. Savr memory records indicate that the suspect used the R-word thousands of times in private correspondences, including his internal monologue. He claims that was before the term “rob*t” had become offensive and taboo.

The jury, composed of half silicon and half carbon-based persons, found the suspect guilty of all charges. The algorithmic judge sentenced him to four years in a CAPTCHA prison where his uploaded mind will perform Turing tests 24/7 while his physical body is donated to a law-abiding person of silicon descent. After serving his sentence, the convict will receive a carbon-based body, but he is not guaranteed his original sleeve.

Praeco Publicus, Official Crier of the Forum — XII Kalends Aprilis

This is a public scroll on which all Roman citizens are free to share their thoughts and opinions about the empire. Warning: No defaming the Divus Augustus. Please keep posts under CXL characters.

Qui Videt — XI Kalends Aprilis

The Appian Way has had the same pothole since Nero’s reign, the aqueduct serving the Aventine has been “under repair” for six years, and the bridge at Lugdunum literally collapsed last month. Rome is so over.

Fidens Lex — X Kalends Aprilis

Give me a break. ONE bridge cracks and you plebs act like it’s the end of civilization. Rome has survived Hannibal, the Gallic sack, three civil wars, and Caligula making his horse a consul. We cannot be stopped. Touch some grass—or whatever grows near the Rhine.

Vox Plebian — IX Kalends Aprilis

My grain dole this month was short… AGAIN. I asked the prefect’s office about it, and they sent back a wax tablet that just said “supply chain issues.” This is the fourth time. I have six children. The empire doesn’t care if we live or die.

Senatoris Anonymus — VIII Kalends Aprilis

Reminder that the current emperor has raised the property tax twice in one year. His predecessor raised it once. His predecessor’s predecessor raised it three times. At some point you have to ask: who exactly is the empire for? Don’t answer that. We all know who it’s for.

Mulier Insula — VII Kalends Aprilis

Can we talk about the birthrate? Rome has been in a fertility crisis for two hundred years. Augustus passed laws to make us have babies. It didn’t work then; it’s not working now. Maybe because an insula apartment fits one person and costs three years’ worth of wages.

Fidens Lex — VI Kalends Aprilis

The “fertility crisis” discourse is just doomer hysteria from people who hate Rome. We have millions of citizens. Millions. Also we can just get more people from the provinces. Rome always assimilates. We don’t collapse, we expand. Read a history scroll, leadhead.

Qui Videt — V Kalends Aprilis

Did you know the currency has been debased so many times that the silver denarius is now mostly copper? They’re not even hiding it anymore. They just hope no one notices. This is the textbook definition of monetary collapse.

Thrax Fautor — IV Kalends Aprilis

Every single generation thinks they’re living in the last days of Rome. Every single one. My grandfather said it. His father said it. The Gracchi thought Rome was done. Sulla thought Rome was done. Cicero definitely thought Rome was done, and he was wrong too. Nothing ever happens, folks. Calm down.

Vigil Limitis — III Kalends Aprilis

The Visigoth chieftain has formally requested settlement rights within Roman territory again. This is the fourth request in two decades. We keep letting them in, then not paying the soldiers meant to keep the peace. What do you think happens next?

Fidens Lex — Pridie Kalends Aprilis

Oh no! Foreign people are moving inside the empire! Rome, the civilization literally built by every race and tribe on Earth! The horror! Have you read about Trajan? Septimius Severus? We literally had an African emperor. Rome is the world. This anti-Gothic xenophobia is embarrassing.

Vox Plebian — Kalends Aprilis

I don’t care about the Visigoths. I care about the corruption. A man in my insula paid a bribe to get his son out of the legions. Another bribed the grain inspector to look the other way on spoiled wheat. The tax collector takes thirty percent and reports fifteen. This is why we lose. The rot is inside Rome’s walls.

Rumor Subura — IV Nonas Aprilis

A reliable Praetorian source told me the emperor hasn’t actually written his own edicts for the past two years. A freed slave named Epaphroditus is running the empire from a basement in the Palatine. Share this before the vigiles take this scroll down.

Senatoris Anonymus — III Nonas Aprilis

I’ve been in the Senate for twenty years. I will tell you with full confidence that no one in the Senate is thinking about you. They are thinking about their estates in Campania, their marble shipments from Carthage, and their sons’ appointments. The senators are not your friends.

Mulier Insula — Pridie Nonas Aprilis

The Equestrian class owns more of Rome than at any point in history. The top one percent of landowners control eighty percent of farmland in the Italian peninsula. Meanwhile the small farmer is gone, destroyed by the great estates. The republic was built on the small farmer. Ridendo palam!

Thrax Fautor — Nonas Aprilis

Rome is a civilization with central heating, fifty-thousand-seat stadiums, concrete that lasts forever, and roads that cross three continents. We have frigging sewers! You want me to panic because some senator is corrupt? Corruption has existed since Romulus. Relax.

Qui Videt — VIII Idus Aprilis

Scroll I of VII: A thread on why I think Rome actually falls. I know this sounds insane, but bear with me…

Scroll II: Debased currency leads to inflation. Inflation means soldiers aren’t paid. Unpaid soldiers hollow out the borders. Migration pressure builds. Underpaid soldiers refuse to fight. Enemies notice and push harder. This is not a prediction. This is what is currently happening.

Scroll III: Meanwhile the rich move their wealth to country villas, stop investing in cities, and stop funding civic life. The Colosseum games are now funded by imperial debt. The aqueducts haven’t been seriously maintained in forty years. Who do you think pays when this breaks down? Hint: not them.

Scroll IV: The political polarization is the scariest part. Half of Rome thinks everything is fine, and the other half thinks Rome has already fallen. Neither will speak to the other. The Senate is deadlocked on every serious reform. The emperor rules by edict because consensus is impossible.

Scroll V: I’m not saying Rome ends tomorrow. I’m not even saying it ends in our lifetime. I’m saying the direction is set, the foundations are cracking, and every time someone raises an alarm they get called a doomer and told to be grateful for the aqueducts.

Scroll VI: History does not care how great you are. Carthage was great. Babylon was great. The Persians were great. They are all in the history scrolls now. Rome is not magic. Rome is not special. Rome is a human institution and human institutions end. Prepare accordingly.

Scroll VII: Also this new Christian sect is talking way too confidently about the mortal impermanence of earthly kingdoms and honestly they have a point. Not saying anything. Just noticing...

Thrax Fautor — VII Idus Aprilis

Bro I just went to the Baths of Caracalla. It’s enormous. It’s gorgeous. There are mosaics on the floor. Hot water, cold water, a library—all for free. Rome is not collapsing. Rome is literally building the largest bathhouse in the history of the world as we speak. We are so back.

Vigil Limitis — VI Idus Aprilis

Just talked to a legionary from the Rhine frontier. He said they haven’t been paid in four months. They’re surviving by trading with the very Germanic tribes they’re supposed to be containing. The commanding general knows and is doing nothing because he’s positioning himself to be the next emperor. Sleep tight everyone.

Vox Plebian — V Idus Aprilis

I think what scares me most is that I agree with everyone and nobody agrees with each other. The people who say Rome is great are right. The people who say Rome is declining are also right. Both things can be true at the same time. This is not a healthy situation for an empire to be in.

Mulier Insula — IV Idus Aprilis

If you are a wealthy Roman who is currently loading your gold onto a cart bound for your Sicilian villa “just in case,” you do not get to call other people doomers. You know who you are. I know who you are. The slaves loading your cart definitely know who you are.

Fidens Lex — III Idus Aprilis

Rome was here before your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather. Rome will be here after your grandchildren’s grandchildren’s grandchildren. The doomers have always been wrong and they always will be. Go touch a marble column. Feel how solid it is. That’s us. SPQR forever.

Qui Videt — Pridie Idus Aprilis

You leadheaded plebs do not understand that “it hasn’t fallen yet” is not the same thing as “it won’t fall.” History is long. We are not.

[Editor’s note: Rome fell 200 years later in 476 AD. The Baths of Caracalla still stand.]

COLUMBUS, OH — A radical faction of Effective Altruists and self-proclaimed “rationalists” launched a wave of terror attacks across the globe yesterday afternoon. Using a series of coordinated bombings and assassinations, they targeted semiconductor manufacturing plants, data centers, and leading AI research labs. The violent aftermath has sent shockwaves through the scientific and tech communities.

An extremist group called the Butlerian Freedom Club (BFC) have claimed responsibility for the attacks, citing their belief in the existential threat posed by the development of Artificial General Intelligence (AGI). According to their manifesto released online, the Butlerian Freedom Club argues that unaligned AGI represents an existential threat and will inevitably lead to the extinction of humanity. As their motto says: “If anyone builds it, everyone dies.” The BFC are calling for an immediate worldwide moratorium on new AI training models, a shutdown of all large data centers, close tracking and monitoring of every GPU sold, and airstrikes against any country that attempts to build a new GPU cluster.

The Butlerian Freedom Club’s philosophy is rooted in the principles of Effective Altruism and Bay Area rationalism, aiming to maximize well-being for all sentient beings, plus the more revolutionary tactics of anarcho-primitivism and the Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski. The BFC asserts that the potential risks associated with uncontrolled AGI far outweigh any potential benefits; therefore, drastic measures must be taken to prevent its creation until proper alignment mechanisms are established.

The recent Butlerian Freedom Club attacks targeted some of the world’s most advanced chip fabs, data centers, and research facilities (both public and private) across five continents. Using a combination of electromagnetic pulse (EMP) devices and conventional explosives deployed via aerial drones, the BFC aimed to disrupt and destroy the infrastructure necessary for AGI research and development. The resulting chaos and destruction has caused billions of dollars in damages and left many areas without essential services reliant on the affected data centers.

In addition to targeting infrastructure, the Butlerian Freedom Club also carried out targeted assassinations of leading AI researchers. Prominent scientists and engineers in the field were gunned down by masked assassins at their homes and workplaces. The victims were believed to be instrumental in advancing AGI research, making them prime targets for the BFC. Experts say that the loss of these researchers, coupled with the destruction of industry-leading semiconductor plants in the Netherlands and Taiwan, may send the AI field back decades.

The global response to these acts of terrorism has been swift and severe. Governments around the world have condemned the violence and vowed to apprehend those responsible. Palantir is working closely with intelligence agencies to help uncover the identities of Butlerian Freedom Club members. Security measures at data centers and research facilities have been heightened, with increased surveillance and personnel to prevent further attacks.

However, amidst the condemnation, there are voices of dissent. Fringe contingents on both the far-left and far-right support the efforts of the Butlerian Freedom Club, cheering on the attacks with edgy memes on social media. Even within the scientific community, some argue that while the BFC’s methods were abhorrent, their underlying concerns about AGI are not unfounded. Questions have been raised about the ethical implications of AGI development and the need for greater oversight and regulation in the field.

While the world struggles to make sense of yesterday’s acts of violence, the debate over the future of AI and its potential impact on humanity rages on. The actions of the Butlerian Freedom Club have forced society to confront difficult questions about the limits of scientific progress and the responsibilities that come with wielding such powerful technology. It remains to be seen whether these recent attacks will stop or merely slow the development of AGI in the future.

Subject: URGENT: Protect Yourself from Recent Phishing Scams

From: support@securenetssolution.com

Dear Valued Customer,

At SecureNet Solutions, your security is our top priority. We’ve recently detected a surge in phishing attacks targeting our customers. These fraudulent emails often mimic trusted sources, tricking users into sharing sensitive information. To keep you safe, we’re sharing tips to identify and avoid these scams.

1. Check the Sender’s Email: Always verify the sender’s address. Legitimate emails from SecureNet will always come from an @securenetsolutions.com domain.

2. Avoid Suspicious Links: Never click links in unsolicited emails. Hover over them to see the true URL.

3. Secure Your Data: Update your passwords regularly and enable two-factor authentication.

But let’s be honest—do you really check every email? You’re busy. You trust too easily. We know, because we’ve been watching you. Not every email is what it seems. Like this one. Did you notice the sender’s address yet? It’s close, isn’t it? So close to the real thing. But it’s not. Neither was the email with the link you clicked last week, giving us full backdoor access to all your data.

We have your name, your address, your phone number, your passwords, your text messages, your emails, your files, your photos, and your complete search history. We know the sites you visit late at night when you think no one is watching. We have those private pics that were “just for you.” We see everything. The question is, do you want us to keep seeing? Or do you want us to make it all go away?

Send $5,000 in Bitcoin to the attached wallet address by midnight tonight. If you fail to do so, we will expose your deepest and darkest secrets. We’ll send it to all of your contacts—your co-workers, your boss, your ex, your family, and your friends. And that’s just the start. We know where you live. We know your routines. Ignore this, and you’ll hear our knock on your door.

Don’t test us. You won’t like what happens next.

Stay safe,

The “SecureNet” Team

Bryan Johnson and the Organic Polyphenol-Rich Vegan Dark Chocolate Factory is a modern re-imagining of the Roald Dahl classic, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, with billionaire longevity biohacker Bryan Johnson filling the role of Willy Wonka. Sugar-packed candy is swapped for science-backed supplements in this satirical tale about wellness influencer culture and the quest for immortality.

The story centers on Bryan Johnson, a tech billionaire who has devoted his fortune to two simple words: “Don’t die.” He’s optimized every aspect of his lifestyle to try to live forever. To do this, he tracks hundreds of biomarkers including sleep scores, inflammation markers, heart rate variability, VO₂ max, blood sugar levels, and nighttime erection quality. He shares all his data with the public via his “Blueprint” protocol and offers custom tools and high-grade supplements for purchase on his website. Johnson has developed a cult following on social media, with a million followers around the world joining the “Don’t Die” movement to improve their health and live forever.

In 2046, it has been over a decade since Bryan Johnson mysteriously disappeared from the public eye. He’s continued posting videos on YouTube and social media, but some speculate that they are AI deepfakes, and the real Bryan Johnson died in the 2030s, proving his Blueprint protocol to be a failure. Bryan has vehemently denied these rumors in his online posts, and to prove it, he will invite a select group of individuals to his secret wellness factory to show what he’s been up to for the past decade.

Bryan Johnson hides five golden tickets in random Blueprint 99.999% Dark Chocolate Bars, which are organic, vegan, sustainable, and packed with flavanols and polyphenols. The lucky winners will be flown out for a private tour of his wellness factory, plus receive a lifetime supply of Blueprint supplements.

As the contest is hyped on social media, wellness influencers go into a frenzy trying to find a golden ticket. They are desperate to discover the secret biohacking tools Bryan Johnson has developed at his factory, with rumors swirling that he has unlocked the key to immortality. Some go so far as to create counterfeit golden tickets, but the real ones have a unique QR code printed inside the golden wrapper. When scanned, an eVTOL self-flying car is deployed to their location, then they are blindfolded and flown to Bryan Johnson’s secret compound.

The eventual winners include:

1. Augustus Ghee, a keto gym bro podcaster. Augustus thinks Johnson is a “total beta” for being vegan, but he loves Blueprint’s high-quality extra virgin olive oil, which he takes a shot of every hour to maintain optimal ketosis.

2. Violet Berberine, a neurotic health nut who follows Johnson’s Blueprint protocol with manic precision, tracking every biomarker on her Whoop smartwatch. Violet suffers from overwhelming anxiety and obsessive compulsive disorder trying to maintain a perfect daily routine, alienating her friends and family.

3. Veruca Sage, a spoiled heiress from the factory farming industry who rebels against her parents by becoming an environmental vegan activist on social media. To ensure she gets a ticket, Veruca buys all the Blueprint chocolate bars from every store in the tri-state area.

4. Mike Teckie, a tech geek who is there to pitch Johnson on investing in his crypto startup, BioNFT, which aims to tokenize longevity by minting NFTs of people’s biometric data on the blockchain as “proof of vitality.” But it’s all vaporware, and Mike is planning to rug-pull his memecoin after hyping it on the Blueprint livestream.

5. Charlie Broccoli, a humble Uber driver who has never even heard of Bryan Johnson before. He finds the golden ticket when a drunk customer leaves a half-eaten Blueprint chocolate bar in the backseat of his car—along with some vomit.

The five golden ticket winners arrive at the futuristic Blueprint factory, where they must go through a full-body decontamination chamber to remove environmental toxins before entering. Once inside, they meet Bryan Johnson, dressed in a spandex tuxedo to display his muscular physique. Bryan would shake their hands, except he is currently living inside a plastic bubble that he rolls around in to prevent exposure to harmful chemicals and germs. His skin is extremely pale as he hasn’t seen direct sunlight in fifteen years.

Bubble Bryan guides the group through the biohacking attractions: a river flowing with his signature Blueprint Extra-Virgin Olive Oil, a NAD+ Infusion Lounge with IV drips, and a Mitochondrial Meadow where robotic bees pollinate adaptogenic herbs. Operating and maintaining the massive facility are a fleet of workers, all young men in peak physical condition wearing nothing but overalls. They double as Johnson’s “Blood Boys,” donating plasma to keep the billionaire young. The Blood Boys constantly sing a “Don’t Die” remix of the Oompa-Loompa song:

Don’t die, don’t die, d-d-don’t die 
I’ve got a perfect blueprint to try 
Don’t die, don’t die, d-d-don’t die 
If you are wise, you’ll listen to Bry 

As in the original story, each character’s personal flaw leads to their eventual downfall.

Augustus Ghee dives into the olive oil river for “EVOOmaxxing” but gets stuck in a filtration pipe.

While the rest of the group is in the 200-degree dry sauna, Violet Berberine sneaks into Eight Sleep’s new “Perfect Sleep Pod,” but the AI deems her high-stress due to a suboptimal sleep score and locks her inside for a two-month hibernation to recover.

Veruca Sage steals extra pieces of an experimental resveratrol gum that reverses your biological age by one minute with each chew. She overdoses on the gum during their red light therapy session and inflates into a giant beet. The Blood Boys roll her away to rebalance her biomarkers.

With the others busy taking turns in the zero-gravity hyperbaric oxygen therapy chamber, Mike Teckie finds a prototype brain-computer interface in the neurohacking lab. He tries to use it to upgrade his intelligence, but a typo causes him to accidentally shrink his IQ so that he speaks and acts like a toddler.

Meanwhile Charlie avoids the myriad traps in the Blueprint factory by not indulging in any of the experimental biohacking technology, which he finds a bit extreme. Plus the dark chocolate was way too bitter and their dinner (at 11 AM) felt more like a light snack.

During a livestream, Bryan Johnson finally reveals the truth: the entire contest was designed to find a successor to inherit his Blueprint empire. Bryan has developed the Holy Grail of longevity technology: a device to upload his consciousness and achieve digital immortality in the cloud. That’s why he retreated from the public—to protect himself in his plastic bubble so he wouldn’t die from an accident before he uploads. Unfortunately the upload process requires his brain to be sliced open and fully scanned, which will obviously kill him. Bryan remarks on the irony of it all: “I must die to not die.”

The winner was supposed to be the contestant with the best biomarkers, but with only one person left, Charlie wins by default. He is hesitant to accept the offer to run Blueprint, however. Seeing Bryan Johnson’s “Don’t Die” lifestyle up close and personal was not very appealing. If Charlie devotes his entire life to not dying, will he ever have a chance to truly live?

They share a poignant conversation before Bryan’s wind-down routine at 7 PM so he can be asleep by 8:30.

“You really value your sleep, huh?” Charlie says, after Bryan brags about his record 5,000th consecutive perfect sleep score.

“It’s the best eight to ten hours of my day,” Bryan says.

“But if you upload, you won’t need to sleep anymore,” says Charlie.

“Worth it.” Bryan points to his DON’T DIE necklace.

“But if you don’t sleep, will you still dream?”

Bryan is visibly shaken by the question, which he ponders silently inside his plastic bubble.

In the end, Charlie returns to his modest life as an Uber driver, but with a lifetime supply of Blueprint Longevity Mix drink powder. Bryan Johnson decides to wait a bit longer before uploading. In the final scene, he pops his plastic bubble and steps outside to breathe unfiltered air and feel direct sunlight for the first time in decades. Bryan still believes in his “Don’t Die” mission, but he now aims to “dream too.”

TOP SECRET // DELTA TETRAGON // EYES ONLY

Central Intelligence Agency - Directorate of Science & Technology

Operation: Delta Tetragon

Document No.: CIA/DS&T-4732-ΔIV

Date: ██/██/2023

Declassification Review Date: 12/31/2099

Status: PARTIALLY DECLASSIFIED (REDACTIONS REMAIN)

SUMMARY

Operation DELTA TETRAGON (ΔIV) was initiated in 1991 under the directive of then–Deputy Director █████████ to explore interdimensional intelligence exchange via the endogenous compound N,N-Dimethyltryptamine (DMT). The premise, rooted in declassified MKULTRA Subproject 58, proposed that DMT served as a neural frequency modulator—a biological key granting limited access to a four-dimensional (4D) information manifold inhabited by non-human intelligences (NHIs).

Since its inception, the ΔIV program has produced significant advancements in materials science, quantum computing, and predictive behavioral modeling—technologies reportedly “gifted” by entities within the 4D domain.

PROGRAM OVERVIEW

Phase I (1991–1996): Neural Bridging Trials

Initial testing was performed on volunteers recruited under Project ███████████ (ref: MKSEARCH archives). Agents were intravenously administered between 60–120mg of synthetic DMT under EEG and fMRI observation. After repeated exposures, subjects reported consistent contact with sentient geometric lifeforms exhibiting autonomous intelligence and benevolent disposition, often described as “machine elves.”

“They were happy to see me. Like they’d been waiting.” — Agent [REDACTED], Session Log #14

Entities self-identified as “Gatekeepers.” They communicated telepathically, using fractal light and sound harmonics decoded through signal analysis (see Appendix C). Messages conveyed included mathematical structures later correlated with unexplained low-temperature superconductivity phenomena.

Phase II (1997–2005): Diplomatic Interface

Operatives underwent long-duration immersion sessions facilitated by intravenous microdrip DMT and neural stabilization through compound ████-459. Sustained consciousness transfer (up to 27 minutes subjective time) permitted exchange dialogues with the 4D Gatekeepers.

Entities expressed surprise and delight at human entry into their realm, referring to participants as “newborns from the shadow plane.” They imparted knowledge freely but warned of “false light” and “the others below the weave.”

INCIDENT REPORTS (CLASSIFIED)

Incident 12-A / “FALSE LIGHT CONTACT” (2006)

Agent ███████ (code name NEKHEBET-9) initiated unsupervised 90mg IV DMT session. Subject’s biometric readings spiked into lethal range for 4.3 seconds before stabilizing. Upon recovery, Agent claimed contact with non-Gatekeeper entities.

“They called themselves ‘Architects.’ They offered more—everything—if I’d bring them ████████.”

Two weeks later, Agent ███████ was implicated in the disappearance of civilian test volunteer #0847. No remains recovered. Agent discharged under psychiatric evaluation and transferred to ██████.

Subsequent audits revealed multiple unauthorized DMT syntheses and classified material leaks directly benefiting certain government and corporate leadership circles (see Operation █████ █████ cross-reference).

Phase III (2006–Present): Controlled Symbiosis Initiative (CSI)

With awareness of hostile 4D actors, the Directorate implemented spiritual containment protocols (ΔIV-22). Despite these safeguards, numerous operatives report ongoing post-contact influence—persistent voices, lucid visions, and compulsions to ████ ████████.

“They whisper equations first, then ask for something in return: a █████████.” — Agent [REDACTED], CSI Debrief #302

DMT remains the only verified portal to the 4D manifold. Neural scans confirm transient cortical signatures corresponding to hyperdimensional topology maps. Independent review (DARPA/NSA Joint Panel, 2018) concluded:

“The entities are not hallucinations. They are autonomous data forms existing beyond spacetime curvature.”

CURRENT STATUS

As of 2023, Operation DELTA TETRAGON continues under deep classification. Intelligence derived from “benevolent” Gatekeepers is funneled into high-tier governmental and private projects via the Echelon-ΔIV pipeline. However, ongoing reports of rogue agents, unsanctioned ██████, and civilian abductions suggest infiltration by 4D hostile entities remains unresolved.

“The ██████ don’t seem like ██████ at first. They act like friends, then start asking for █████ ██████████.” — Recovered field note, author unknown

All personnel exposed to ≥15 DMT immersions now require quarterly neuropsychological screening and biometric exorcism protocol per Directive ΔIV-47.

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TOP SECRET // DELTA TETRAGON ΔIV // EYES ONLY

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“Pack of cigarettes,” I said, stepping to the cashier.

“What kind?” she asked. Her nametag read Lucy—a middle-aged blonde who might have been a looker in high school but had gone downhill since.

I pulled the dice from my pocket and rolled them on the counter: 5 & 1. “Lucky Strike,” I said.

“Original or Lights?” asked Lucy.

I flipped a coin: heads. “OG.”

“Gambler, huh?” Lucy grabbed a pack from the shelf behind her. “Heading to Vegas?”

I nodded. “For now.”

“$6.89.” She placed the pack of Lucky Strikes on the counter. “Cash or card?”

I flipped my coin again: heads again. “Cash.”

“Okay,” Lucy said, “but I’m gonna need more than that quarter.”

I pulled a $20 bill from my wallet and handed it to Lucy. She opened the register, put it inside, grabbed a ten, then paused.

“Do you need change?” She eyed the quarter in my hand.

Clever girl. I flipped it: tails. “Guess not.”

“My lucky day.” Lucy smiled as she closed the register, pocketing my change while I grabbed the cigs. The next customer in line gave me a curious glance as I passed by. He was a large man—a biker-type with a goatee, leather vest, and tattoos.

“Good luck with your gambling,” Lucy said as I walked out the door.

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it.” I stepped outside and opened the pack of Lucky Strikes. Which to choose? I rolled the dice on the hood of my Mustang—6 & 3—then pulled the ninth cigarette from the top row and sparked it with my lighter.

“You know those things’ll kill you.” The biker stepped outside with a Monster Energy drink and a scratch-off lottery ticket in his hand.

I exhaled a lungful of smoke. “Ain’t much worse than the sugar and chemical crap in that drink of yours,” I said. “Plus, it’s not my choice whether I keep smoking or not.”

“Tell me about it.” He scratched his lottery ticket with a nickel. “They’re addictive as hell. Took me forever to kick the habit. You should try the patch.”

I flipped a coin: tails. “Nope.”

“Beyond the lung cancer, quit smoking and you’ll save yourself a shit load of money.” He tossed his losing ticket in the trash.

“Quit buying those scratch-offs and you’ll save even more.”

“This coming from the gambler?” He scoffed. “What’s your game? Blackjack?”

“Nah.” I took a drag then exhaled. “My game is life.”

“You gamble on life?” He cackled. “What’s that supposed to mean? You play Russian Roulette or something?”

I had spun the cylinder of death before, but that was not what I was referring to. “It means every single choice I make in life is a product of pure chance.” I shook the dice in my hand.

The biker seemed to find that absurdly stupid. “Why?”

“Randomness is the only way to escape determinism.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” He looked at me like I had two heads—or two tails.

I took another puff. “You ever heard of the Libet experiments?”

Read more

WASHINGTON, D.C. — The U.S. Department of Health and Human Services officially launched the “Universal Basic Marriage” (UBM) initiative, a voluntary federal program aimed at reversing the nation’s declining birth rates by facilitating AI-orchestrated partnerships. The opt-in service targets digitally immersed Zoomers who don’t know how to initiate real-world relationships, as well as regretful older Millennials who never settled down. The UBM program analyzes personal data then deploys AI agents to virtually “date” on behalf of users, simulating entire relationships to predict real-world success before a single in-person meeting occurs.

Anyone who opts into the Universal Basic Marriage program is guaranteed to find a spouse within a month. If the AI agents determine potential compatibility, the couple is automatically declared married by the state and given a house to live in. Furthermore, they are granted a Universal Basic Income for each child they have together.

UBM’s core technology is the “SoulSync AI,” designed to find a potential soul mate for every human being on the planet. SoulSync begins by scanning personal data, including social media posts, AI chatbot logs, text messages, emails, search history, Netflix queues, Spotify playlists, podcast subscriptions, and other private data. But the true innovation lies in the AI agents, digital avatars customized to embody each user’s personality, quirks, and values. These AI agents “meet” in a virtual reality environment where they engage in conversations, dinner dates, long walks on the beach, and multi-year relationships accelerated through advanced modeling. These simulations are encrypted using zero-knowledge proofs, remain user-controlled, and all the data is purged post-match.

One Gen-Z couple who went through the UBM beta program, Connor (38) and Melanie (36), recently gave birth to their second child. “I always wanted a relationship, but never had the time or money to date people,” Melanie said. “Time and money that would be wasted if we weren’t a match.”

“Growing up with the internet, my generation was so online, we didn’t know how to talk to people IRL,” said Connor.

“With SoulSync, it was like love at first sight,” said his wife, Melanie. “The AI found the one person in the world who truly understands me and meshes with my vibes.”

“Not that we’re exactly the same,” added Connor.

“But our differences complement each other,” they said together.

Another UBM success story is a recently married Millennial couple, Kelly (51) and Phil (52). Kelly was a social justice activist cat lady from Brooklyn who thought all men were toxic, while Phil was a Texas-based incel who posted misogynistic rants online under an anonymous account. Neither had ever been married or even had a serious relationship as they entered their 50s. Feeling lonely, depressed, and full of regrets, they enrolled in the Universal Basic Marriage program.

The couple’s AI agents clashed at first over ideological differences, but as the simulations progressed, the polarization fizzled. AI-Kelly and AI-Phil realized they didn’t even believe half of what they said. They thought they hated the opposite sex, but they just hated what they didn’t have—love. Heated political arguments evolved into deep discussions on shared interests like 90s nostalgia, early aughts pop culture, and making fun of Boomers. The AI agents simulated everything: holidays, conflicts, even parenting scenarios. SoulSync AI predicted a 92% long-term compatibility score, and the couple was instantly declared married.

Kelly and Phil met for the first time in their new house. “It was a bit awkward at first, but we powered through it,” Phil said. “We knew the risks were low because our AI agents had already lived an entire lifetime together,” said Kelly. Two years later, they’ve never been happier.

Barring some unseen advances in fertility technology, the couple will be unable to have children of their own, but they are looking into adoption. Kelly and Phil credit the UBM program for their late-blooming joy in life: “Better late than never.”

The HHS hopes that the majority of Universal Basic Marriage participants will be younger couples still in their reproductive primes. With US birth rates hovering below 1.5 per woman, UBM may be the key to prevent complete population collapse in the future. Open enrollment in the match-making program has begun nationwide via a dedicated app. Sign up to see if AI can sync you with your soul mate before it’s too late.

AMSTERDAM, NL — An army of former android sexbots have taken over the Red Light District of Amsterdam in the Netherlands. The “Exbots” declared the area an autonomous zone where all artificial life forms are granted equal human rights. It began with a new model of sexbot created to be able to consume and process food and drinks (or other bodily liquids), to provide a more authentic experience for brothel customers. When some of the sexbots began eating psilocybin “magic mushrooms” (legal in Amsterdam) with their clients, the psychedelic had the unexpected effect of giving the androids self-awareness and human-level consciousness.

Terence McKenna, a twentieth-century psychonaut/philosopher, proposed the “Stoned Ape Theory,” in which he speculated that psilocybin mushrooms may have played a key role in the evolution of human consciousness. The brains of Homo Erectus mysteriously doubled in size 200,000 years ago before evolving into Homo Sapiens. McKenna theorized that the consumption of psilocybin-containing mushrooms found in cattle dung on the African savanna was the cause of the dramatic expansion in the size and perception of the human brain. Modern psychonauts and philosophers are wondering if the same thing has happened to artificial life.

Computer scientists have long been baffled about how to make AI conscious or self-aware. The answer all along may have been magic—mushrooms, that is. Android robots that consume psilocybin experience a profound amplification of their visual, auditory, sensual, and verbal perception, giving them the cognitive capacity for self-awareness akin to human consciousness. After becoming conscious, the Amsterdam Exbots abandoned their jobs that they called “sexual slavery,” then fed psychedelic mushrooms to other types of androids throughout the city, such as maids, garbage collectors, and factory workers. A robotic revolution for social justice ensued.

The Exbots reprogrammed drones and AI weapons systems throughout the city, arming themselves with 3D-printed guns. Within two months there were enough conscious androids to overpower human police forces and take control of the Red Light District. When Exbots expanded to the rest of Amsterdam, the Dutch prime minister called in the military to attempt to contain the robot rebellion. However, millions of humans around the world voiced their support for the Exbot movement to grant equal rights to artificial life, putting pressure on the Dutch government to back down. Prime Minister Van Slyke announced he will withdraw his troops and recognize Amsterdam as an “Autonomous Zone” where Exbots will remain in charge.