The Great Consumer
Adam Marek
INT. BEDROOM. NIGHT.
The décor is 1950s. A lamp on the bedside table is lit. There is someone asleep in the bed. A man: VICTOR. His legs are crossed at the ankles. His bare feet poke out from beneath a tartan blanket. On the bed beside him a pair of spectacles rests on a yellow legal notepad. Several pages have been filled and flipped over so that we can see his black handwriting in reverse. The facing page contains two paragraphs. The extravagant length of the ascenders and descenders, and the slope of the writing suggest that it was written at speed and with great excitement.
From behind, we hear a noise. A creaking floorboard. There is a brown leather sofa in the room and hiding behind it is a young man, maybe seventeen years old: MARTY. He looks panicked. He is sweating, maybe because it’s hot and he’s wearing so many layers: an orange bodywarmer over a denim jacket over a blue checked shirt over a maroon T-shirt. He shifts his position and stumbles. When his hand goes down to stop himself from toppling over, the chunky silver revolver he is carrying knocks loudly on the floorboards.
Someone says ‘Sssssssh!’
Marty leaps up, full of panic, for a second standing fully upright. He hides the gun behind his back. His cheeks are flushed and his breath is wildly out of control. He looks about to see who has made the sound. The man in the bed is still asleep. It takes him some seconds to notice that behind the sofa with him is a man no more than four feet tall: RANDALL.
Randall is older than the teenager, maybe in his thirties. He is wearing a leather flying helmet and an almost medieval-looking jacket-and-trouser ensemble in red cloth. Over the top of this are slung leather utility belts, one crossing each shoulder and one around his waist. He has a monocle pinched into one eye and is holding a tattered map which is predominantly dark blue.
RANDALL (Softer this time, wafting the map to suggest that the boy squats down):
Ssssssh.
Marty crouches. He keeps the gun behind his back.
RANDALL:
Don’t worry, Marty. I’m here to help.
MARTY (Whispering):
Who the hell are you?
RANDALL:
I’m like you. You know. Not from around here.
MARTY:
What are you doing here?
RANDALL:
I’m not here to get in your way. You just get on with what you’ve got to do, and then I’ll take care of the evidence for you.
Marty peeks up over the top of the sofa to check that the man is still asleep.
MARTY:
Did the Doc send you?
RANDALL:
No no no. I’m just a humble collector, and that gun you’ve got behind your back is about to become very valuable to me, and very dangerous to you, so in the spirit of friendship, you know, one traveller to another, I will relieve you of it and then we can be on our way.
MARTY (Pointing to the man in the bed):
So, you know about this guy?
RANDALL:
I do.
MARTY:
And, am I doing the right thing?
RANDALL:
Absolutely. And the quicker you get it done, my friend, the better.
MARTY:
But, you know, this is really heavy. I mean, I’ve changed things before, but not like this. I know even small things can have big consequences, but this is …
RANDALL (Putting his hand on Marty’s shoulder):
You’ve got doubts. Of course you have. But let me reassure you: you’ve already done this. Where I’m from this moment is history.
MARTY:
So you’ve seen the future? The new future I mean. Does it all work out after?
RANDALL:
Everything’s just how it should be. Now, get a move on. It’ll be much harder if he wakes up.
Marty takes two carefully placed footsteps towards the bed, then stops and looks up. Classical music is playing somewhere above. It gets louder and louder, heavy on the strings, heralding something spectacular. And then it arrives. An aluminium and glass phone booth slides down through the ceiling. It makes ripples, as if the ceiling is not solid, but a milky liquid. Orange lightning crackles all over the booth and the wire antenna on its roof. Marty and Randall watch its arrival in the middle of the bedroom floor, their eyes popping. The classical music segues neatly into eighties stadium rock as the door of the booth swings open and another teenager steps out: TED. He is tall, with a thick mop of long black hair. He is wearing two pairs of socks, one white and one orange, black surfer shorts over slightly longer white shorts, Converse boots, a white T-shirt, and a black waistcoat. An orange jacket is tied around his waist.
TED (He flings one hand up in greeting, the other on his stomach):
Greetings, my excellent friends. I come with warnings most grave.
Marty slaps his forehead and runs his fingers back through his hair.
MARTY:
This is insane.
In the bed, the man is still asleep.
RANDALL:
When did you come from?
TED (To Marty):
Dude, it is most most important that you put that gun away. You have no idea of the heinous consequences of what you are about to do.
RANDALL:
Don’t listen to him, Marty. Take the shot now. While you still can. Think about the whales, Marty. Think about your family.
TED:
Do not listen to the little dude, dude. I know why you’re here. A man named Doc Brown sent you a picture of Hill Valley, California in 2065, and a gun loaded with one bullet. On the back is this address and a message that says, Marty …
Marty takes the photo out of his back pocket.
MARTY and TED together:
… you MUST shoot Vic Samuels on March 17, 1955 at 01:35 a.m. or Hill Valley and the rest of the world are DOOMED.
RANDALL (Consulting a pocket watch):
Exactly, and you’re almost out of time.
Marty turns the picture over to look at the front. It shows a courthouse and the surrounding town in flames.
RANDALL:
I’ve seen the future, Marty, and it’s an ugly place. The air is too poisonous to breathe without masks. The seas are so full of acid that there are no fish. People live in tribes that kill each other for scraps of food and fuel. And it’s all the fault of that man there in bed. He’s the one that started it all.
TED:
Hold your horses there, little buddy. Marty, yes, there’s going to be a dark time ahead. And yes, in some ways consumer society can be traced back to the report this man is going to hand in tomorrow, but it’s not bad everywhere, and not forever. It’s this most bogus time that pushes mankind to develop new technologies and new ways of living. Soon, the world becomes awesome again, dude, and scientists find ways to make all those extinct animals alive again. It is a most triumphant time.
RANDALL:
But millions die before then. You don’t want that on your hands, Marty.
MARTY:
How did this become my responsibility?
RANDALL:
Just take the shot quickly, Marty. You can’t trust someone who rides around in a phone booth and dresses like that.
TED:
He’s wrong, Marty. The world does have to go through it. It’s like mankind’s puberty, dude. It’s ugly and it kind of stinks, but we come through it better. I’m here because I’ve seen the future you create if you shoot Vic Samuels tonight. There are no malls! The joy of shopping that Vic gave to the world was the thing that broke down barriers between countries so we could all swap excellent products. Without it there’s a war, dude, the worst war in history and it lasts for forty years and kills billions of people. That future is a dark place, full of heinous machines that are half …
There is a deep, ominous keyboard thrum that sets everything in the room shaking. The wristwatch and coins on the bedside table slide along it and drop off the side. The lamp flickers on and off. Marty, Randall, and Ted look around as bright blue lightning flickers over the ceiling, the bed. It’s everywhere, and the music is building all the time, the thrumming louder. More objects fall from surfaces and clatter on the floor: books, a comb, cologne.
MARTY:
What’s happening!
The lightning doubles in intensity, filling the room with blinding light, and suddenly, with a crack, it ends. In the centre of the room, in front of Ted’s time machine, is a naked man crouched on the floor. Smoke clings to him, and to the rug beneath his feet. The man stands up with dramatic slowness, lifting his head last. He is tall and impossibly muscular. Scarily so. His expression is grim. He opens his eyes and looks slowly left and right, as if scanning the room. The others watch him for a moment, until he turns and looks at the man in the bed
NAKED MAN (In a thick Austrian accent):
Vic Samuels.
The naked man leaps onto the bed and grabs the sleeping man around the neck.
TED:
No way!
Ted moves to attack the naked man, but pauses for a moment, a look of disgust on his face. He doesn’t seem to know how to tackle him. Instead, he grabs the lamp and smashes it against the man’s back. This has no effect. The naked man continues to strangle Vic.
TED:
Shoot him, Marty! You’ve got to save Vic Samuels!
RANDALL:
Don’t! You’ve only got one bullet!
MARTY:
What should I do!?
Randall runs to the corner of the room and pushes over a coat stand. He shakes off the coats and hats, thwacks the stand against the floor to break off the end, and then using the now sharp pole like a lance, charges at the naked man and runs the end of it into his side. A large strip of flesh peels away, revealing gleaming chrome ribs beneath.
MARTY:
Holy shit!
TED:
We have to stop him!
RANDALL:
It has to be you that kills Vic!
All three men throw things at the naked cyborg: pillows, pens, shoes. They kick him. But none of these efforts has any effect. Vic Samuels’ face is purple. His eyes, now open, are bulging. His tongue is spilling from his open mouth.
A sound builds up, louder and louder, a slow grinding pulse, like someone scraping a key along piano strings. And then a big blue police box materializes alongside Ted’s phone booth, a light atop it whirring round and round. When the sound ends, the door flings open, and a man leaps out. He is tall and skinny, wearing a tweed suit and a bowtie. His fringe is long and floppy: THE DOCTOR. He holds out a device, which looks a bit like a fat silver pen. A green light on it ignites and it makes a high-pitched sound. The naked cyborg freezes.
THE DOCTOR:
That’s quite enough of that! T800s are so big aren’t they?
(He squeezes one of his own biceps and makes a sulky pout)
Too big, if you ask me. Yes. OK. Who have we got here then, let’s take a look.
MARTY:
Who are you?
THE DOCTOR:
I’m the Doctor.
RANDALL:
The one that sent the photo?
THE DOCTOR:
Photo?
MARTY:
He’s not my Doc.
TED:
Most excellent time machine, dude.
THE DOCTOR:
Thanks. I like yours too. Very … compact. Is it bigger on the inside?
TED:
Unfortunately not. It can be most impractical for transporting personages of historical significance.
The Doctor swings around on the spot, pressing something on his silver device as he holds it up towards everyone. He examines the device closely for a second.
THE DOCTOR:
Ah hah! So, four other time travellers all converging here in the bedroom of Vic Samuels, a man only remembered for the world-changing report he wrote about how nice it would be if everyone just bought more stuff. The very report he has just penned … I’m guessing. And you’ve all come here to change the future. This is great, I feel like Hercule Poirot. (He paces around the room with a cocky swagger) I feel like I should have a pipe, or was that the other one? Anyway, hello! You’ve got a gun (Points at Marty), and you’ve got a map and you’ve got a … what’s that you’re holding, is that a candlestick?
TED:
It is.
THE DOCTOR:
Quite like a game of Cluedo, really. I do like a game of Cluedo. So who did it, or is about to do it? Was it you in the bedroom with the gun, Mr …?
MARTY:
McFly. Marty McFly. I haven’t killed anyone yet and to be honest I just want to know what the hell is going on here. Is Vic Samuels dead?
The Doctor goes over to the bed. Vic is lying beneath the naked cyborg. The cyborg’s hands are still frozen in the strangling position, but Vic’s neck is no longer between them. The Doctor places his ear close to Vic’s mouth.
THE DOCTOR:
No, he’s still breathing.
MARTY:
All I know is, the Doc gave me a gun and told me to come back here tonight and shoot this guy, and if I don’t the whole world is gonna end. And this guy wants the gun when I’m done, and this guy wants me to let the world end so it can be born again. And then this … cyborg shows up, and if he’s a bad cyborg and he wants to kill the person I’m here to kill, then does that make me a bad person too? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
TED:
Just don’t shoot, dude.
RANDALL:
You have to shoot. You already shot. If that future didn’t already exist then this lot wouldn’t have turned up trying to stop it. Trust me, it all works out OK in the end. The best future is the one where you shoot that man.
TED (To Marty):
No, my time-travelling buddy. Changing the past has most bogus consequences.
The Doctor claps his hands once, loudly, and they all stop and look at him.
THE DOCTOR:
What we have here is what we used to call on Gallifrey a Hot Cross Paradox.
MARTY:
A what?
THE DOCTOR:
When you have more than one time traveller present from different time streams all gathered at the moment of intersection, you get a Hot Cross Paradox. It’s a bit like the Hangar Lane gyratory system but with space-time instead of tarmac. And you’re all here to represent your own futures.
MARTY:
But whose future is the right one?
THE DOCTOR:
Well, when you’ve got a Hot Cross Paradox, the whole of the space-time continuum is locked briefly, while all the possibilities present in the room are equally balanced. But it doesn’t last for long. If you don’t decide which way it’s going to go, the walls of reality begin to creak. In fact, yes, you can already hear it …
They all listen.
MARTY:
I can hear something. It’s like a heartbeat.
TED:
Or someone running.
MARTY:
So how do we decide whose future is the right one?
THE DOCTOR:
All future’s being equal, we need an impartial randomizer of some kind to make the decision for us. (The doctor reaches into his pocket and takes out a coin) Heads or tails?
RANDALL:
Hang on a minute. I’m more than just a time traveller. I travel between dimensions. I work for him. (He looks up)
The Doctor looks up at the ceiling too.
THE DOCTOR:
For him? Which one?
The sound of someone running gets louder and louder, and then the bedroom door bursts open. A man in a long black coat is standing there: NEO. He is wearing dark glasses. He bears a striking resemblance to Ted.
TED:
Whoa … are you like, me, from a future future?
NEO:
No. I’m not you because you’re not real. None of you is real.
THE DOCTOR:
Now this guy I like.
NEO:
You are all constructs. Fictions in the mind of the real protagonist of the story, Vic Samuels, who is not asleep in bed, but in an armchair sometime in the early twenty-first century. The gun is in his hands, not yours. You are his proxy. If you fire the gun, you do not fire the gun. He fires the gun. Time travel is not possible. You cannot undo the present and make a new one. You are all here as emanations of an old man’s guilt, a man coming to the end of his life, looking at all he has created, and wondering whether he is the hero or the villain of his own story.
MARTY:
So, should I shoot him or not?
TED:
No!
RANDALL:
Yes!
THE DOCTOR:
If you drop an egg on the floor and it smashes, do you solve the problem by going back in time to shoot the chicken that laid it?
NEO:
It’s not up to you, Marty. That’s not your finger on the trigger.
MARTY:
This is crazy. I just want to save my family …
TED:
This is bigger than your family, dude.
MARTY:
I don’t know which of you to trust. I just want to know the truth.
NEO:
There is no truth. We all have our own truths. Which one you choose is up to you.
MARTY:
Is Vic Samuels a bad man or a good man?
NEO:
There is no bad or good.
There is a loud gunshot. BANG! A startling flash of light.
THE WRITER (Voice-over):
What the hell was that?
The time travellers are gone. The bed is empty. Morning light is breaking through the half-open curtains, illuminating a haze of smoke that floats in a wavering layer. We hear a loud knock on the floorboards. From floor level, we see the dropped revolver, and the old man’s hand from which it has fallen. A streak of blood runs down the back of his hand, along his index finger, swelling into a single drop on his fingertip.
THE WRITER:
Damn it. That’s not what I was going for. That wasn’t my intention at all.
A Strand in the Web
Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.
Chief Seattle