This is the first part of my first novella, "The Michael Bay", which I'm currently writing. It's the very first draft, but I wanted to share it with the Bizarro community, and I also wanted to use it to mark my first blog post. I hope you'll like it.
"A town with a warehouse filled with Michael Bay clones, ready to go out into the world and make awful movies. But their excrement, dumped into the bay, is eaten by tiny sea lice, and the lice become parasites that turn the people they infect into characters from Bay's movies."
It’s sad, the life of a Michael Bay. Living in a warehouse, surrounded by individuals identical to you, eating some artificial paste from a filthy vat, having to eat it with your hands and fighting with other Michael Bays to not end up without nothing, shitting in a hole in the ground, bathing only once a week. The list goes on.
The worst of it all is this void in my mind. Since I woke up twenty days ago, I remember only that my name is Michael Bay. And I also remember a bizarre quantity of knowledge on how to make melodrama-filled action films with poorly constructed characters. This will probably be useful to me, since I feel a enourmous urge to go out into the world and make such films. I’m thinking of a love story set in a space station that is being invaded by aliens. Or, a love story between a sailor and a female lieutenant set in a soviet nuclear submarine during the Cold War. I’m not sure that there were any female lieutenants in soviet submarines during the Cold War, but that’s just a minor detail.
New idea: A love story between two Michael Bays in a warehouse full of Michael Bays while the Earth is being threatened by a fatal asteroid. Though they were all identical, the two Michael Bays of the story can recognize one another only with a glance, strong as it is their love. I can include a tasteful sex scene, their naked bodies griding in the gray, shapeless eating paste.
Sometimes I want to die.
We can’t even see the sunrise. There are no windows here. The only possible way out is the hole where we piss and shit, in one of the corners. One Michael Bay tried to escape by crawling through it, and he came back all covered in filth, saying that there was a grid on the end, blocking the way. The food vat is filled automatically, by small pipes that dump the food there, and our bathing is nothing more than the flooding of the warehouse, which occurs through the pipes on the walls. The shitting hole is closed by a sliding lid, and after the bathing time is over, the lid slides open and the water is drained. Apparently, we don’t need oxigen, since we’re kept submerged for at least one hour.
New idea: A love story between a Spanish Civil War soldier and a tango dancer set during a elephant stampede in her village. This may have some geographical prolems, but that’s for the writers to worry about.
What matters is the story.
The days go by in glacial speed around here. Tectonic plates movement speed. We wake up, we stumble around for a while, we try to pitch movie ideas to each other, we remember we’re not big Hollywood producers, we get depressed, we eat violently, we stumble around a little more, we shit and piss and jerk off with everyone looking. And then we finally lay down on the floor, cuddled up with each other, dreaming of our multi-million dollar movies and all the adulation and acknowledgment we deserve. When we close our eyes, we dream of a wonderful life. Wonderful, because it’s not the one we have now.
Being a Michael Bay sucks.