Predictably, this follows Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3
SCENE 8. INT. WISTON’S BEDROOM
They arrived back at his. They’d walked the 30 minutes to his flat, a sense of forward-momentum that Wiston realised after Lily had suggested it was actually better than the risk of a waiting-for-a-bus lull. Their casual rapport and fragile passion for each other was like a shark unable to stop swimming for fear of death. It was nothing so sinister as fearing that either would sober up and realise they’d been tricked by the other; more the mutual fear that human connection would once again slip through their fingers on contact with reality. The abyss could not be glimpsed, not tonight. The racoon’s candy floss must not touch water.
Back at his, Wiston suggested smoking a joint. It was a habit he’d got into when drunk; the vertiginous anxiety that has recently started accompanying the first 30 minutes of his weed highs dampened enough by the alcohol to allow him to reach the good bit without too much permanent damage.
They sat on his bed, in their underwear, chatting about nothing and everything; the void and God. It was probably a mix of the various intoxicants, but sitting cross-legged across from her, laughing about some shared understanding of what Twitter meant as an art form, he felt it was the most erotic experience of his life. He touched her leg (her thigh! Her beautiful, soft, pale thigh!). Maybe sex should never be had, and you should just always do this, semi-naked, forever.
Eventually they started kissing, touching — their senses heightened by the weed, dampened by the anxiety of fracturing what had at least briefly seemed like a real connecting of spirit.
As always for Wiston, the ol’ desire “not to be seen as a virgin” kicked in pretty quickly, and he decided to take control of the sexual narrative. Rather than fumbling with pants, and not knowing exactly what and where a vagina was, he decided to climb on top, and kiss his way down Lily’s body to her pants, shifting down to position himself between her thighs. Yep — he was going for oral on the first date — decisively! Was he a hero? A radical? A feminist? A sex God? Sure. But also he did actually like it, tbf.
Was it obnoxious actually?
One for later.
In some ways, he was going through the motions for sure — an artificiality and affectedness to all of this — but occasionally he had flashes of authentic connection. I mean — this was probably the best thing ever. It probably meant something — was important — maybe it was Jungian — maybe he was communing with womanhood — with Jesus — with The Temple — with God himself. Herself? Lily shifted a little, and let out a small, forced moan.
Wiston continued enthusiastically, like an amateur harmonica player struggling to produce a note. He devoured her with the passion and effectiveness of a break-dancer operating a pedal bin, freestyling his way to the same place. He was sincere, for once in his life.
Eventually, “enthused by desire”, Lily grabbed his head and pulled his face up to passionately kiss hers. They started having sex, I think both unsure as to whether it was on the verge of being the best thing ever, or a damp squib. Both were desperately trying to paint the picture of the former, which to be fair gets you half-way there, at least if you’re not afflicted by being a fucking buzzkill. Wiston again — in his moments of consciousness — tried to assert competence. Competence but not aggression, obviously. He didn’t have that kind of insecurity or general hatred. He mainly hoped for a review of ‘competent’ in all his sexual encounters. At one point Lily brought his hand to her throat.
“Choke me” she said.
Wiston tried not to give too much of a half-hearted squeeze, opting instead for general consistent firmness. He tried to channel how his late Grandad had given handshakes. I know, right?
“Choke me!”
He gave a bit more of a squeeze, somehow less strong than his previous grip. He didn’t really like this. Not ethically in particular, just… it wasn’t his bag. But he felt he kind of had to. Was he… was he being dominated into being dominant?
There was a bit of slapping requested — at once both inadequate but also eliciting a semblance of enjoyment from his partner.
How had this happened? He felt the sex was definitely getting away from him. It reminded of him of telling a story that halfway through he realised no one cared about.
Always unable to conceive of the fact that someone might enjoy something he didn’t for authentic reasons, Wiston slowly established in his mind that this sex had gone from promising-but-tense to fully performative and acted. That was OK with him though. If anything he was right back in his first-date wheelhouse.
At one point they switched positions, Lily on top. Riding him, she whispered breathily “Tell me you want this.”
God Wiston was an amateur.
“I… err, I want this,” he said, desperately trying to hide the question mark at the end of that.
“Tell me how much,” she said.
This was a real test. He thought back to them sitting on the bed 10 minutes ago, finding and sharing their favourite Limmy sketches on Youtube. He could take it or leave it, to be honest.
“I want it” he summoned, with more conviction. “I want it so bad” he said. ‘So bad’ sounded good, he thought. It sounded pornographic, which this had kind of descended into.
Anyway. They both soon didn’t come, and Lily rolled off of him exhausted, spent; a case-study in just having had an orgasm despite not having one. Wiston pulled off his condom, tossing it down the side of the bed with a small eyebrow raise as though amused, charmed and disgusted by the amount of come he’d deposited in it. They both knew the other hadn’t orgasmed, and on some level both knew the other knew the reverse of that, but both knew that to say it would break the spell. If only Wiston had fully understood what Zizek had been on about, he felt he could have cracked the nature of Ideology right there and then.
Anyway — Wiston would probably reflect on it as a good sexual experience — not too bad at least. Lily might even have too, despite how it sounds on paper. Who knows? Who knows anything any more. This could be as good as it gets.
They cuddled together as they drifted off to sleep, an intimacy far greater than that they’d just had — even when he’d licked her bum. As he drifted off, slightly confused and bruised by the evening, but holding this relative stranger close in his arms, he felt that perhaps the reason we are so able and willing to do this — the most fraught and transactional and shallow and performative and hedonistic and disposable of acts — is simply because on some level we are all completely ready to love one another at the drop of a hat; to find a beautiful connection with each other amidst the noise. “There is no desire other than the true desire to be at one with God,” he remembered a spiritual leader once saying.
OK, it was Russell Brand, quoting a spiritual leader who’d said it. He’d gone through a Russell Brand phase. Sue him.
SCENE 9. INT. (MOSTLY) THE FOMO HOUSE OFFICES
Wiston made it through the night without encountering any Coalition-era night demons. Perhaps he’d found peace. Lily had left by the time he’d woken, and he wondered if he’d ever seen her again. It was too perfect for him not to, but that was the way of the world; perhaps that was exactly why he wouldn’t. He thought about when he would possibly text her, and immediately realised he would never have anything interesting to say in his life ever again that would warrant that. God. He wondered what her favourite cereal was. I bet he could talk to her forever about that.
It was the day of the party, and Wiston was working from home until it kicked off. Not in a post-pandemic way. If anything this is vaguely set before that. He was working from home because of the party, and because FOMO was so bloody chill, and also because Guillem was barely ever in the office, and was this even a real business anyway, or just some hobby of his, and who the fuck cared about any of it? That was the real disruption.
He procrastinated all day. He googled (yes — lowercase ‘g’ — get used to it Granddad) various interpretations of AI, but struggled to find (or understand) anything similar to what Lily had been talking about. The memory of it slipped further from his grasp the more he tried to remember it, like a faded dream. Or something he’d only half-listened to when drunk and horny.
He arrived at the ‘party’ at 5, before it all really started. He had to set up the cakes! He didn’t. That was a reference to what Kevin had said earlier. Ah fuck you. Go read the other parts.
Entering the downstairs area where the party was being setup, the first person he encountered was Emma, FOMO’s CEO. Emma was from quite a corporate background, and Wiston did wonder why she was doing this. As with anyone else over 30 involved in this, he assumed it was a mid-life crisis. The corporate Gen-X-ers trying to pay for fucking everything up by making money in a slightly more fun way than they had before.
“Harry!” She said
Oh — his first name was Harry btw.
“The man of the moment. I heard Cthulhu loved your pitch.”
“Aye, I bet they did.”
He never said “aye” before, but he was gonna roll with it. His body tensed as though trying to hold in diarrhoea.
“No, well done you! Well done!” Fuck off Emma. “I can’t believe you pulled that together so quickly.”
Had Wiston killed someone? He saw Cara in the background. Maybe he could talk to her about it?
“Ah well,” he said. “It wasn’t really that original if I’m honest.”
“Are you kidding, they loved it.” Emma was looking around slightly. It seemed like she was bored of her own conversation.
“I just think it was a bit too… y’know. It didn’t really speak to… anything. It was Nothing.”
Wait. Who capitalised Nothing? Wiston hadn’t.
“Oh — I haven’t actually seen it yet. But listen, they love it.”
What a fucking lightweight. They were all lightweights except for him. And maybe Lily.
“Well — anyway!” He said, trying to move on. “How’s the party setup going?”
“Oh good, good.” Emma’s eyes were deader than a shark’s. “Look — I think they’re upstairs right now actually. With Guillem. They were struggling to access the pitch documents or something — I think something technical. Maybe you could go up and help them actually, now you’re here. Would that be OK? Sorry.”
Wiston flinched. He really fancied a beer, but also he didn’t want to have to confront Cthulhu. Not yet. He hadn’t really even figured out his new angle…
“Oh.. yeah. No problem. Sure”.
Perhaps he’d just get lost on his way upstairs. He’d go to the toilet, kill some time. Bump into someone else on the way. Get chatting to them. Miss Cthulhu before they left. Get through the party, go home, delete Lily’s number from his phone, go to bed, and sleep for 3 weeks.
He headed off, back out the door, towards the stairs. To his surprise, Emma seemed to watch him go. He looked back at her — she nodded; a mix of encouragement and extreme anxiety. He had no choice but to head upstairs.
As he rounded the corner onto the staircase, he saw a man stood at the top of the first flight of stairs. He seemed to be waiting for Wiston.
“Oh, hey, sorry,” Wiston said. Why was he sorry? He’d killed someone hadn’t he (maybe)? That should have at least boosted his confidence.
“Wiston?” the man asked.
“Oh… erm. Yes”
“Come this way please”
“Oh — I’m actually just going to see my bo-”
“It’s OK. Come with me”.
The man had all the vibe about him that he was wearing a suit, even though he wasn’t.
Without really knowing why, Wiston followed.
He was lead down past the main office, down the corridor to the “meeting room”. Perhaps this guy was from Cthulhu? He was wearing a plaid shirt, slim chinos, and casual shoes that looked like they came from a start-up Instagram advert about how before now the concept of shoes was “broken”. He had grey hair styled in a wet-gelled quiff. Could you trust people with a quiff? It seemed off whenever anyone had chosen a style aged ten and then stuck with it.
“In here, please,” he said, as he opened the door. Had he been waiting for him on the stairs? What was this? He knew where the meeting room was anyway.
“Thanks” said Wiston.
As he entered, everyone in the meeting room seemed still, facing towards him, as though waiting in silence for his arrival. How had they known he was going to come up?
“Wiston,” said Guillem gregariously, looking delighted to seem him. “Wiston Wiston Wiston”.
He sounded like my clumsy writing style.
“We notice you’ve been a bit of a busy boy…”
“Oh.” Shit, this was about the deleted files. “Yes. Look, sorry. I was going to tell you…”
“Very busy indeed.” Guillem interrupted, guffawing as he said this. A few of the Cthulhu lot laughed along. It was textbook repulsion. Lazy evil.
“No, it’s just I was having some doubts about the advert — about the strategy. It’s more tha-”
“Stop”. Guillem stood up, suddenly serious. Then a glimmer in his eye, as he started pacing round behind the chairs, suddenly re-addressing the room, back in presentation mode.
“He thinks we’re talking about the campaign!”
Why was it so dark in here?
“A philosopher, but he can only think in business terms.” He stopped, smiling. “But wasn’t this what FOMO was all about anyway? Hiding our philosophy behind business?”
The plaid shirt man from the stairs sidled up behind Wiston, awkwardly placing his hands on his shoulders. “Oh — dear Guillem. I don’t think he understands at all”. More laughter. How was he being jock’d by this bunch of fucking nerds.
“Of course not! Of course! But he was so close.”
Quiff-Boy ushered Wiston to sit down at the table. He was in a daze. This was really surreal. Were they mad at him about the files? Was he about to get fired?
Guillem turned back to face Wiston, his face suddenly once again cold.
“You were so close my boy. So close. We thought you got it. We thought you were a protegé, we thought you were trying to help us.”
Wiston exploded. “Help you do what!??? What is this? What are you talking about? Who… what is even going on?”
A brief thought crossed his mind that this might be Kevin playing a prank on him. It did feel a little broad-brush. But it also felt… sinister. It felt real. God he hoped it was Kevin.
“Ahhhh, that famous temper” smirked Guillem. “We thought you might have left that in the canal!”
A suited woman sat opposite him laughed loudly, sadistically. A woman! In this day and age!
“Wha… but how did you know ab…?” Wiston looked around the room, suddenly sweaty. Suddenly cold. He felt the chill of the canal tickle his back.
“Wait. Was that…. Was that real?” His voice felt small.
The words hung in the air. Guillem stood still for a second, enough to capture the room in his theatre. He moved back round to his seat. He pulled out his chair slowly, somber almost. He sat down.
“Was it real?” Guillem said sadly, looking down at the desk. “Was it…” He shook his head.
Wiston was spinning. Guillem leaned back on his chair, exhaling.
“Was it real…?”
He snapped back suddenly, slapping the back of the person next to him as he returned upright.
“Why don’t you tell him, George?”
The man next to Guillem leant forward, and all of a sudden came in to focus. Fuck. How had he not seen? It was Osborne. George Osborne. What the fuck was he doing here? Was he real? Well — of course he was real. But was the canal real? The cave? The blood. The white dot???????
A sly grin spread across Osborne’s thin, slimy lips. And then nothing. The white dot, if anyone even cares about that anymore. Wiston saw the white dot. You get it by now right? The final scene is how Osbornes jizzes into the Large Hadron Collider to initiate the destruction of of the universe into a new singularity from which complete evil reigns. Let’s grind it out either way. See you next time.
