Fuzzy Logic
Chapter 1 - A Meeting of No Minds
Today’s work-in-progress is the first chapter of Fuzzy Logic, a dark comedy/satirical paranoid thriller along the lines of The Truman Show meets Altman’s The Player and Fincher’s The Game, with a bit of American Psycho chucked in for good measure.
Fuzzy Logic began as a film script back in 2010, one of the last I wrote before going on a self-imposed hiatus from writing scripts. It was a completed script and I was meeting with producers and directors, but it was nudged in the wrong direction and ended up as a sort of screwball romantic comedy, which always felt at odds with the dark places where the story goes.
As it’s a work-in-progress, please take it as such: It’s not the finished article - there may be additions and subtractions in future drafts, but you get the gist.
The story centres around the head of a multi-media company who is on the knife-edge of losing everything. On a quest to find the next big thing before he is ousted from his position, he acquires the voyeuristic means to pry on everybody in his life. Every tiny whisper and well-kept big secret becomes his to expose or wield as a weapon. But who watches the watchman?
You’re getting noticed.
See who’s been looking.
Who’s been viewing your profile?
Jonathan Holeyman, do you know Colin Punt? Add a connection to discover new opportunities.
Nope. Don’t know, don’t wanna know. Whoever Colin Punt was, he had been checking out my profile, hence the e-mail alert. Just another anonymous nobody checking me out on my LOOKED-AT PRO account, a networking platform that everyone has but never uses.
Jonathan Holeyman, do you know Guy Emerson?
Sadly, yes. Or rather, he knows me. I met Guy six months ago at some trade expo… or maybe it was the London Comic-Con? Anyway, we spoke briefly - well, he spoke, I briefly put up with it - then he sent me a friend request late one night when I was on my fifth glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape and was trawling through photos of faces from the past… one accidental click later, I’ve friended Guy and the rapport-building mission commences: Liking everything I shared, commenting on all of my posts... I don’t even know him. For a second, “flies around shit” skits across my mind, but I instantly dismiss it because what does that make me?
A softer voice would suggest he just wants to be friends, except he doesn’t. He wants a career like the rest of them, and I’m the one they flock to. I should just delete him. In fact, that’s going to be the first thing I do when I get into the office. If only I could delete him from reality.
I continue scrolling down a list of names and faces on my smartphone. Some I know, some I don’t. Some I wish I didn’t. Most had deeply unappealing headshots. I stop at a pretty face.
Jonathan Holeyman, do you know Tessa Brough?
I recognise the face staring out from a small frame on my phone, sure. Pretty in a normal way. Cute, but not annoyingly so.
Tessa Brough… Bruff? Brow? Broff?
As I try to recall how to correctly pronounce her surname, the elevator door opens. I step out onto the forty-second floor, only to be blocked by a face I don’t want to see. The face steps far too close, forcing me to straighten my neck. He’s all blue and white stripey shirt and Eton hairstyle. The same entitled sneer as his profile pic. Guy Emerson speaks at me with agitation. I pretend he’s not there by continuing to thumb at my phone, scrolling down a never-ending list of people who might know me.
‘Spoke to Rick Friggle last night. Pitched me an idea about zombie dinosaurs that escape on the International Space Station.’
Oh, here we go.
‘That was my idea. Rick told me you gave him the idea. For free.’
‘I had no use for it. It’s more Rick’s thing,’ I said.
‘It wasn’t your idea to give away. It was mine,’ glares Guy. Oh dear he’s actually being serious. I draw a long intake of breath, knowing this particular fly will not buzz off until I put him straight.
‘If I recall correctly, we were pitching the worst ideas we could come up with. I came up with the idea. You just happened to be there when I said it. It’s a shitty idea, deliberately so. Be thankful I saved you from wasting any time or money on it.’
I swipe my card and step inside the safety of the open-plan office, closing the door on Guy and his stupid face.
Bruff… Brow?
The drab reception looks gloomier than normal.
The musty air is stifling my senses. The budget-permitting flourish of a glowing company logo - HEPPER PEPPER - can’t hide the fact that we’re cheap.
We do everything: All media: apps, games, online platforms, music, promos. We even have our own daytime streaming service for airing television shows and films made and bought on the cheap. The evening stream is for chat lines and 1970s smut-dressed-as-comedy. We do everything, and none of it is worth a toss.
I pass the odd girl at the reception desk with the weird name. She looks even more like a mad purple minion: Long like a giant pencil, with big mad hair and dressed all in purple. She bids me good morning with that wonky voice of hers. I reply with an instruction.
‘Do not let Guy Emerson into the office. Find out why he was running free inside the building. Call the front desk or pest control… something…’
Broo? Bro?
The purple pencil calls out like she’s bidding for cattle. Apparently, Mr. I wants to see me in his office.
I reported to Mr E for seven years before he was mysteriously redeployed to Japan amid rumours of hidden cameras in the staff toilet cubicles. His replacement, Mr I, has been here for six months and I’ve no idea who he is. He barely glanced up from his computer when we were first introduced like I was some run-of-the-mill pleb producer. Okay, I was at the time, but I’m not now. I run this place now, bar Mr I, and I’ve no idea what he does, other than report back to our financiers.
I enter Mr I’s office, and once again he looks up from his desk with emotionless eyes. Just a look. But his eyes aren’t trained on me. They direct me to a third presence in the office. My heart sinks into my bowels. It’s Woodrott.
A Pot-holed complexion and a two-bit Michael Hutchence haircut, Crispin Woodrott used to work with me. Well, I worked for him. All you need to know about Woodrott is that within a week of him oozing behind the manager’s desk, me and my colleagues had created our own in-house comic, entitled “The Amazing Adventures of Shithead-Curly-Moptop”. These weekly instalments were passed around the office, until one day Woodrott picked up a copy. He found it hilarious, even though he failed to join the dots between himself and his artist’s impression on the paper.
Woodrott is a Company Jumper: Hop-scotching from one media company to the next, putting his stamp on things by making a few “radical changes” like changing the company name and sacking the ugly work experience youths to make way for “fit birds”, stays two years and buggers off before he can shoulder any real blame for why the company has gone down the swanny.
Why is he here?
‘Jonathan. Hi. Great to see you,’ creeps Woodrott. I smile and say hello, my voice breaking as I try to spot the angle.
‘Mr I and… I… we met over dinner at Tetsuo. Had a very interesting chat.’
Wait. Mr I spoke to him? With actual words?
‘Mr I has invited me to spend a few weeks in the office in an advisory role. See if there are any improvements to be made.’
‘Between jobs, then?’ I jibe, impressing myself with a spot-on amount of snark.
‘Well, not quite.’
He so is. I read the last story in the trades. “Mr Woodrott was politely asked to leave with pay due to allegations of sexual harassment.” I’ll never forget that one.
‘I’m more of a freelance trouble-shooter,’ replies Woodrott.
‘A gun for hire, like the Wild West, eh?’ I say, playing along but merely tolerating.
Woodrott suddenly yells ‘DRAW!’ and jabs me in the stomach like the arsehole he is.
‘Oooh, getting a bit soft down there!’ jeers Woodrott, attempting to pinch more than an inch.
‘Careful. That’s tantamount to sexual harassment,’ I caution; both of knowing he’s got form for being the office sex pest. Woodroff’s oily face slides and wraps things up before I say anything else.
‘Good to have you on board, Crispin,’ I say, backing out of the office. I turn away and refocus on the pronunciation of Tessa Brough’s name, as the merest thought of Woodroff fills my nostrils like overcooked onions.
By the time I’m sat at my glass board-room table, I decide her surname is pronounced “Bruff”. Tessa Bruff.
I chose a glass table for transparency. I like to see if someone’s giving me the finger under the table. The only problem with that is the three trendies who are sat opposite me can see me thumbing at my phone, not paying them the slightest bit of attention as they witter on with their brain-numbing ideas for content.
I’m so glad we’ve ditched the term “multi-media”. That descriptive carried far too much gravitas. “Content” is far more honest. “Ramming endless junk down yer cakehole” is even more to the point, but uses more words than “Content”. Content is the appealing pillow we gag on in the middle of the night.
I spend a lot of time online, looking up people I once knew. I like collecting them, even the ones I despise. I like to see where they are now, how they are… Are they dead? Are they living their best life? Are they doing better or worse than me? It’s become sort of a hobby, and I consider myself an expert at it. Within seconds of checking out Tessa Brough’s profile, I’ve scoured all of her social media accounts on all the other platforms and have found out everything there is to know. Education. Likes. Dislikes. Hair styles. Boyfriend. Pfft.
Knowledge is power. But having everyone’s number is to be God.
The phone in my hand vibrates, instantly setting my heart on edge. What. Now.
I answer the call. A familiar, sleazy female voice. Suzy Kellington. The flirting doesn’t bother me - I’ll take whatever interest I can get these days - and I don’t care if the three gormless mugs perched on the other side of the table have an issue with it.
I coo and sigh in equal measure, playing the same old song down the phone.
‘Suzy, no… Because I don’t want to come out and play. The last thing I want to do is go to a bloody exhibition. There is no art anymore. The money won.’
Suzy asks me to explain myself as if she doesn’t know the state of affairs in my life. Everyone knows, so I don’t bother trying to hide anything that could be construed as a secret shame.
‘My darling wife is hell-bent on ruining me. Bored wives are an expensive hobby.’
I sit the three monkeys across the table sit up and pay attention. They all want my job, and the presence of Woodrott will only add fuel to the rumours about my imminent departure, so I do my best to make them feel awkward for their perking interest.
‘What colour underwear have you got on?’ I ask Suzy, cupping the phone briefly to instruct my minions to help themselves to a scone.
The three creatives sat opposite - a menagerie of unemployables - Grendal Franklyn, Arian Vague and Mondy Norways - smile patiently. I detect sarcasm in Grendal’s thumbs up because I’m meant to. She’s been far too over-familiar with me lately. She knows she can get away with it. Oh, Grendal, if only you could.
I continue phone-flirting like nobody’s watching because I know what I’m in for. I am postponing the inevitable barrage of banal office-speak:
It’s a double-edged sword…
It’s about finding the right balance…
Square the circle…
We need to push the envelope…
Yes. And I know exactly where you can push it.
I wrap up my call as Arian’s pubey-looking beard grates on me. I dream about scissoring the bloody monstrosity off right there and then.
I give in to Suzy’s request to join her at some art exhibition just to get her off my back, and hang up without so much as a goodbye. That’s how they always do it in the movies. Nobody says goodbye. Al Pacino says what he has to say and hangs up and everybody loves him for being so decisive and in control.
I wave a hand at See/Do/Hear no evil opposite me. ‘Televisual prowess. Dazzle me. Go.’
Grendal presents her pitch with some visual mock-ups that I’ve seen at least fifty times before, as I try to figure out if the elastic band around her nipples is a cardigan or just two separate sleeves buttoned together. She’s pitching a social issue debate show called ‘Temper Temper’, which, if Grendal has her way, will be presented by Tony Temper; an ex-footballer renowned for his on-pitch violence.’
‘Isn’t there that other thing with that football guy? That talk show,’ I ask, knowing all too well there already is and that Grendal is simply pushing me reheated leftovers.
‘The Steve Hardman Show, yes. But instead of Steve Hardman telling a panel of famous guests to button it or else they’ll get a slap, Tony Temper deals with social issues.’
In the futile hope that a visual explanation will make everything better, Grendal presses play on a remote control. On the wall screen, a clip from a pilot episode plays. An audience debate show, marshalled by gurning football thug, human tin-of-spam Tony Temper. Tony addresses the camera directly as if it were staring at his wife from across a crowded pub.
‘Today, we’re talking benefit cheats. Are they a bunch of dossy muppets who need to ‘ave a word, or should the government give ‘em a right old kick up the jacksy?’
Tony brandishes the mic at a nervous-looking middle-aged woman. She stutters with some trepidation, as she attempts to give her two-penneth.
‘I… I think we should support those who genuinely need help---‘
Tony stares the woman into silence. ‘You ‘avin’ a giraffe?’ The woman stares up at Tony with a pleading look of ‘Please let me live.’
Tony jabs the mic at another audience member: An intellectual-looking young man with a strap over his shoulder. ‘Oi. Go on.’
A young student straightens their spine, coughing politely before mustering the confidence to converse with the hulking presence armed with a microphone cosh.
‘My perspective is if the shoe was on the other foot, I know I’d---’
Tony cuts off the student in mid-flow. ‘Oh ‘my perspective’. Talk sense.’ Tony then notices the student has a bag with a strap hooked over their shoulder. ‘Why you wearing a girl’s bag?’
‘It’s a satchel,’ replies the student.
Tony pokes around in the satchel like a monkey rooting for amusement. He produces a metal flask from the satchel. ‘What’s that, then?’
The student, now shifting awkwardly in their chair, unable to stop the violation, mutters a reply without eye contact. ‘My lunch. It’s soup.’
‘Poof’s lunch,’ comes Tony Temper’s unhinged reply.
I gesture for a pause before I put my foot through the wall screen.
‘Hmm. Old Tony seems like the most volatile person on his show,’ I conclude.
‘That’s the brilliance,’ states a bizarrely animated Grendel, going all-in. ‘Celebs line up to be on the Steve Hardman show just to be called a ‘muppet’. If we put the right foot forward, choose the next step carefully, the public will love being threatened by Tony. Upsetting all the right people in all the right places.’
‘You say that as if it’s a job qualification…’ I drift off, unwilling to engage with Grendel’s nonsense anymore. ‘I need innovation. Not replicas.’
Arian speaks up with a breezy air, confident that he has the answer to my plight. ‘I’ve secured the rights to the new master of horror K.P. Sheldrake’s “Inanimate Objects”. Punters will binge on the box set ‘til they puke.’
Arian takes his turn, exposing us to a twenty-second trailer for some sort of horror series in which people are attacked and/or killed by washbasins, exercise bikes and chaise lounges. The title luridly splatters on-screen, a lurid cherry atop a gore-filled layer cake.
A stunned silence follows. All I can do is stare at Arian like he’s a bimbly pup who was just done a packet on my luxury mohair rug.
‘Arian. Can you tell me? What was that?’
He looks suitably shamed with the fresh understanding that his master plan was an utter waste of his life energy. ‘I don't know,’ is all he can mutter.
The dopiest of the three minions jumps up at me with excitable licks, unaware that he’s the widest-eyed lamb to the slaughter.
‘How about a contest with real-life heroes and pit them against their nemesis - live on TV. Got the feel-good factor,’ suggests Mondy Norways with a steely tone.
‘You can’t keep chasing trends,’ groans Arian. ‘Baking contests. Singing contests. Carpet laying contests.’
‘People watch it,’ counters Mondy.
‘Concretely, what does this mean?’ asks Arian.
‘What does concretely mean?’ asks Mondy.
‘This needs to be an action point. Get me a treatment,’ I bark.
A smile cracks across Mondy’s face like an expanding sinkhole. ‘Seriously?’
‘No, you vapid twonk,’ I say, unable to withstand the torrent of nonsensical tripe. ‘Well. There’s three flavours of dipshittery. We’re supposed to be industry leaders, showing everyone how it’s done. Look in the trades, for crying out loud!’
I demonstrate how to read the news by picking up an actual trade paper and reading aloud.
‘Kardashians launch their own channel “24K”! Endless live streaming, never cutting away, even when they go to the bathroom!” I throw the paper at them, actually hitting Arian in the cheek as I continue my rant.
‘Rhianna is launching her own line of self-aware mandroids called ‘Sentient Fenty’, for crying out loud! And you’re giving me ex-footballers and… whatever that man-eating furniture-thing was. Stop spending money before thinking. It’s only my career’s neck on the block here!’
Grendel rallies, doing herself no favours. ‘You don’t know what you want. Tell us what you want.’
Hmm, and would you like me to wipe your mouth after spoon-feeding you?
I spin my chair, turning my back on them like a vexed Bond villain, whimsically floating the straight-forward idea of killing my nemesis.
‘Something simply wonderful.’
Long after the three little pigs had left to sift through what was left of their poorly constructed brick house, I realised that I hadn’t moved. I’ve been staring out of the window at the Docklands skyline. I turned forty-five years ago, and ever since I’ve felt like the world was coming to an end at any second. I never believed in all the midlife crisis stuff until it slapped me across the face repeatedly.
A female confidente who was studying to be a shrink suggested I should make a list of my achievements to prove in black and white that my life hadn’t been one endlessly wasted opportunity. Which I did, and you know what, I was pretty proud of it. So I turned it into a website, to show the world what I had done.
Well done me and sucks-to-be-you. You may have done one off the following list, two I doubt. Definitely not all of them.
*Snogged a world-famous pop star.
*Created a business networking app before they were a thing.
*Watched the sunrise on a tropical beach with Take That. Even Robbie.
*Drove a car into Noel Gallagher’s pool (I was aiming for his house).
*Published a number one book.
*Was motion-captured and turned into a video game character in the biggest-selling game ever.
*Produced music videos for fifty number-one songs.
*Featured in the Guinness Book of Records for initiating the biggest custard pie
fight. On rollerskates.
*Sold a film script at the age of sixteen which was made into a film.
*Lived in New York as a male model, with seven female models.
*Became a millionaire before his 30th birthday.
*Influenced the lives of people the world over through his own trend-setting multi-media content company.
So why can’t I stop thinking about Tessa Brough?
Simpler times.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2024