PROLOGUE: THE IDIOT
The Unaired Incident was infamous now; it was
a cloud that hovered in the air around Bro Gator at all times,
obscuring everything else about him. There were runs and reruns of
the original TV show, and even more reruns in syndication on
various low-rent cable channels, but every time Gator was on the
screen, no matter what he was doing, the Unaired Incident is all
people thought about.
Even before said Incident, Gator had achieved
a tiny fraction of what could be called fame, mostly among those
aged 12-20. With that slight notoriety came the requisite misplaced
confidence that was the hallmark of the self-proclaimed leaders of
his silly generation.
And it wasn't like he needed anything to
increase his self-esteem. He was born with the disease of
Ubermenschian Cockiness, a debilitating condition that had only
gotten worse since he convinced the producers of Frat Blast
Season 3 to let him on the show. Gator killed that audition
with something he called Keg Stand Canyon Belching, an act that
pretty much summed up his man-child charm in four simple words. The
producers couldn't get enough of his steroid-fueled immaturity
after that, and neither could the TV audience -- the ratings for Frat Blast Season 3 exceeded those of Frat Blast Season
2 by 15-20 percent. The producers would call him into their
office and give him instructions like “Pick a fight with Barry” or
“Run naked though the house screaming random numbers like you're a
giant angry telephone book” and he would obey them without
hesitation. He really was a dream come true for Frat Blast ,
a concept that was already exhausting itself after just two
six-episode seasons.
The Unaired Incident and the subsequent civil
trial made him a household name among the tabloids and the internet
gossip douchelords. For at least a month he was Bad Boy Number One,
the heartthrob who had recklessly and remorselessly torn another
man's scrotum in half by trying too hard in a wedgie contest on a
Reality TV show. America hadn't really seen anything like this
(which is saying something), and it became mildly fascinated by
this dangerous roided-up boy-man with a faux-hawk. And then, out of
nowhere, the trial was settled out-of-court – thus picking up
America's attention and placing it somewhere else.
It didn't help that his low IQ and lack of
wit was obvious from the moment he opened his mouth. He literally
could not end a sentence in any word other than “dude,” “bro,”
“brah,” or some combination of the three. This tended to not play
well in any situation where skilled editors weren't sifting through
hours of footage to get the best five minutes of his day.
Ironically, this verbal ineptitude and lack of depth made him
successful with many of the dumber Hollywood starlets for as long
as his slight notoriety lasted. They very much enjoyed his fame,
his muscular body, and his minuscule vocabulary. But when his
appearances went away and that fame dried up, they quickly deleted
him from their phones and stopped answering his inane texts. It was
less than a year after the trial ended, and he was completely out
of the public consciousness and living in his mom's basement. Which
made the noise coming from his phone kinda weird.
Oh how he had longed to hear that noise. It
had been over three months, but he still knew exactly what it was
-- the special ringtone reserved for his condescending agent and
publicist, Janey Smith. He dropped the syringe he was holding and
ran to where he thought his phone was. It wasn't there. He spun
around, seeking to pinpoint exactly where the tone was coming from.
It seemed to be following him. Bro, he thought to himself, your
phone is in your pocket, dudebrah. And so it was. By the time he
reached it, the call had been missed. He stared in pure hope at the
phone's sleek colorful screen, trying to will the voicemail
indication icon into existence. When it appeared, he heard an “eek”
come out of his mouth, and then scowled
The Unaired Incident was infamous now; it was
a cloud that hovered in the air around Bro Gator at all times,
obscuring everything else about him. There were runs and reruns of
the original TV show, and even more reruns in syndication on
various low-rent cable channels, but every time Gator was on the
screen, no matter what he was doing, the Unaired Incident is all
people thought about.
Even before said Incident, Gator had achieved
a tiny fraction of what could be called fame, mostly among those
aged 12-20. With that slight notoriety came the requisite misplaced
confidence that was the hallmark of the self-proclaimed leaders of
his silly generation.
And it wasn't like he needed anything to
increase his self-esteem. He was born with the disease of
Ubermenschian Cockiness, a debilitating condition that had only
gotten worse since he convinced the producers of Frat Blast
Season 3 to let him on the show. Gator killed that audition
with something he called Keg Stand Canyon Belching, an act that
pretty much summed up his man-child charm in four simple words. The
producers couldn't get enough of his steroid-fueled immaturity
after that, and neither could the TV audience -- the ratings for Frat Blast Season 3 exceeded those of Frat Blast Season
2 by 15-20 percent. The producers would call him into their
office and give him instructions like “Pick a fight with Barry” or
“Run naked though the house screaming random numbers like you're a
giant angry telephone book” and he would obey them without
hesitation. He really was a dream come true for Frat Blast ,
a concept that was already exhausting itself after just two
six-episode seasons.
The Unaired Incident and the subsequent civil
trial made him a household name among the tabloids and the internet
gossip douchelords. For at least a month he was Bad Boy Number One,
the heartthrob who had recklessly and remorselessly torn another
man's scrotum in half by trying too hard in a wedgie contest on a
Reality TV show. America hadn't really seen anything like this
(which is saying something), and it became mildly fascinated by
this dangerous roided-up boy-man with a faux-hawk. And then, out of
nowhere, the trial was settled out-of-court – thus picking up
America's attention and placing it somewhere else.
It didn't help that his low IQ and lack of
wit was obvious from the moment he opened his mouth. He literally
could not end a sentence in any word other than “dude,” “bro,”
“brah,” or some combination of the three. This tended to not play
well in any situation where skilled editors weren't sifting through
hours of footage to get the best five minutes of his day.
Ironically, this verbal ineptitude and lack of depth made him
successful with many of the dumber Hollywood starlets for as long
as his slight notoriety lasted. They very much enjoyed his fame,
his muscular body, and his minuscule vocabulary. But when his
appearances went away and that fame dried up, they quickly deleted
him from their phones and stopped answering his inane texts. It was
less than a year after the trial ended, and he was completely out
of the public consciousness and living in his mom's basement. Which
made the noise coming from his phone kinda weird.
Oh how he had longed to hear that noise. It
had been over three months, but he still knew exactly what it was
-- the special ringtone reserved for his condescending agent and
publicist, Janey Smith. He dropped the syringe he was holding and
ran to where he thought his phone was. It wasn't there. He spun
around, seeking to pinpoint exactly where the tone was coming from.
It seemed to be following him. Bro, he thought to himself, your
phone is in your pocket, dudebrah. And so it was. By the time he
reached it, the call had been missed. He stared in pure hope at the
phone's sleek colorful screen, trying to will the voicemail
indication icon into existence. When it appeared, he heard an “eek”
come out of his mouth, and then scowled
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