“Jim, I don’t know how else to say this,” said executive producer Jeff Stubbins. “We don’t believe in fucking fishmen! So stop pitching your ludicrous pipe dream story and let’s move on!”
But Jim couldn’t move on. He’d always been Mister Believable with a capital B—even when spinning corporate propaganda or scandalous lies. No one had ever doubted him—at least, until now. And that change, that loss of reputation, was driving him crazy.
“There were thirty people in that room, Jeff!” Jim spluttered. “From a range of outlets and organisations, and they all saw the fishmen clear as day!”
“And yet, none of you trained media professionals brought back a single iota of footage. Not one measly clip!”
“I told you that was because of…”
“The octopi… that rose up out of the sea?” sneered line producer Lionel Goats.
“The people expect facts, Jim,” said Stubbins. “Fact-checked facts. This isn’t the fucking Joe Rogan Experience.”
Many present that day secretly wished it was the Joe Rogan Experience. At least then somebody would be watching. Everyone knew that legacy media was on its last legs. But those legs, though feeble, were too stubborn to just lay down and die.
New Zealand television had two competing news broadcasts, both battling for irrelevance. Jim bounced between them, milking the rivalry for the best paycheck, and was now earning far more than any rational accountant would justify.
“This is the biggest story in generations!” he blustered. “An undiscovered species of fishmen rise from the deep, dead set on world domination! A story like this could put legacy media back on the map.”
“A story like this will put us out of business,” snarled Stubbins. “We’re not reporting on fictional fucking fishmen! End of story!”
***
“Hold for Director Sir Peter Jackson,” said a woman claiming to be his assistant, “Creator of Bad Taste, Meet the Feebles, Braindead, Heavenly Creatures, The Lord of the Rings Part One – The Fellowship of the Ring…”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
It can’t be, thought Gary. As the list of credits built to a crescendo before finally—CLICK.
“Gary! It’s Gary, isn’t it?”
“It is,” whispered Gary, too excited to say more.
“Gary, it’s Director Sir Peter Jackson here. We’ve been watching your Pièce de résistance on YouTube, the aptly titled: Fishmen versus Fisherman, and all of the staff here at Weta are in awe of your flawless effects work.”
“My… effects work?”
“The creatures, Gary! They look so real! Naturally, we want to know how you did it? Is it some kind of new rendering technique? A piece of technology you’ve developed?”
“It’s not an effect, Peter.”
“I see,” chuckled Director Sir Peter Jackson. “Playing it close to the chest, are we?”
“Not intentionally, mate, no.”
“I get it, Gary. You’re a magician – I am too! You can reveal your secrets to Sir Peter – whisper them in my ear.”
“There’s nothing to whisper. The fishmen are real.”
“It isn’t mocap, is it? It can’t be! Is it some kind of newfangled AI?”
“It’s a practical effect,” said Gary, mostly as a joke.
“You’re kidding? It’s all practical? We’re pioneering a wealth of tech here at Weta, but the old ways… ahhhh! I’m getting nostalgic just thinking about it. You know, in Bad Taste I sculpted the alien masks myself from liquid latex. Had to bake them in my mother’s oven, and trust me, she was not thrilled about the smell!”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.”
“I’ll cut to the chase, Gary. I like to work with the best people, the best of the best, with prodigies like you!”
Gary heard the compliment and liked what he heard. It was easy to get lost in praise, which for him was such a rare commodity. Sir Peter seemed convinced of his genius, and it takes one to know one, after all. What if he had made the creatures in a moment of subconscious wizardry?
“Wow… Peter, what do I say to that?”
“Here’s what you say, Gary. You say, Sir Peter, I’d be honoured to meet with you at a time of your choosing.”
“I uh…”
“Your channel says you’re from New Zealand. You’re not in Wellywood, are you?”
“We’re actually on Great Barrier Island.”
“Ah, I see! Well, in that case, we’ll book you a flight.”
“Uh…”
“Actually—scratch that. I’ve got a better idea! Why don’t I just send the jet? Have you ever flown private before, Gary? The bar is stacked, and we’ve got Hobbiton’s favourite cider on tap! Just say the word, and I’ll whisk you away on a meteoric rise to fame and/or glory!”
Gary gulped. The words felt a little wrong—yet somehow, oh so right. “Sir Peter, I’d be honoured.”
“Brilliant. The jet will be there first thing in the morning.”
As the call ended, Gary sat in astonished silence. He stared at his reflection in the laptop screen. Finally, a little fucking acknowledgement from the world—a little respect. Maybe he was a genius. Maybe this was destiny.
Gideon slapped him on the back with a slimy hand. “Well, what did he want?”
“He wanted me…” said Gary, still lost in the dream. Then, after a moment. “And uh… you guys too, obviously.”
“We’re going on an adventure!”
Greg’s gills flared with excitement. “How close are we, do you think, to ruling the world?”
Gary let out a slow, satisfied breath. “Closer than ever.”