By
Basil Utter
Using the two new Edit-Master 5000 editing machines that the producer had supplied, renowned editor Petros Zow spliced the ten hours of footage shot for Scream 65: The Hoarse Throat into a more manageable two and a half hours all by himself in only two eight hour work days. As he watched it, he decided that, while the movie itself wasn’t The Birds (not that anyone besides him had seen The Birds), he had done a superb job considering it was only edited in sixteen man-hours.
Petros had been editing films since 2025, which would make him an editor for, let’s see, 50 years next November. November ’25, when, at age 15, he first edited a movie his friends made, 32 Nights of Blackness. Since then, he had edited over 1500 movies and held the record for most “Best Editing” Oscars, 30 in all. Some of his most famous movies were 2084, an adaptation of the George Orwell novel, the James bond movie Leg of Gold, and the cult classic The Last Rocky Horror Picture Show. Many times, he had been asked “Hey, man. You’re so famous. Why don’t you direct or produce?” Petros just shrugged in response. He knew that he was Petros Zow, and Petros Zow was an editor. It was what made him happy, what he excelled at. He was the best at something, and if he did anything else, he not only would he fail at it, his work after that would be significantly worse then it had been before. And he wasn’t there for the money. He was there to be recognized for what he was: the best editor the world had ever known. Everyone in high school and college had laughed at his dream, but he showed them.
He took the final version of the film and decided to take it to the director himself. He had never trusted sending films via computers, as it decreased the quality incredibly. He got into his molecular teleportation device and dialed the director’s house. A fuzzy feeling came over him, then unconsciousness. Suddenly, it was over. The door of the molecular teleportation device opened, and there he was. The director, a man known only as Qual, was watching the news.
At this point in the story, I feel it is necessary to pause to describe the technology in 2075. The molecular teleportation device mentioned earlier is a machine that works like a telephone, except it takes all of your molecules and puts them all back together somewhere else, like the TV in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. It’s faster then cars, pollutes less, and has virtually no risk of death, unless, like they said in the movie, you’re rearranged in the wrong order, but that’s rare. In molecular teleportation device books, they have the numbers for pay molecular teleportation devices, but not for normal people’s houses, as that would be an easy way to break in and steal stuff. They still have phones for talking, however. They still don’t have Smell-o-vision, 3-D TV, or virtual reality movies. Unless you’re Tim Curry, you can’t do the time warp again. Cars don’t fly; as everyone has molecular teleportation devices, cars are for bums. No keyboards or mouses are needed for computers, because all computers have voice recognition. We’ve been colonizing Mars for twenty-five years, and twenty thousand people are living on the moon. The entire world is one country, United Nations. Everyone has clapper lights. If you want to know anything else, why don’t you take a trip there?
“Hey Qual! I got the...”
“Shh!”
“What’s going on?”
“UN leader Jeff Smith just announced that the UN has proposed a way to get rid of all the nuclear waste and weapons that have been building up for the last century before we all die of radiation.”
“Really? How?”
“Shh! He’s just about to say.”
They both sat on the couch and listened as Jeff Smith informed the world about the new development.
“Yes, thank you GBI leader, Agent Bacon. Without your advice into the subject, we wouldn’t have researched and agreed with your theory. That theory has saved the world. Anyway, my fellow humans, that’s it. The press may ask questions. Yes?”
A young woman reporter stood up. “Sir, you didn’t mention how we are going to combat radiation.”
“Sorry. You know how it is when you’re old, with Alzheimer's and stuff like that,” said Jeff Smith, who, at thirty, was the youngest leader of UN ever.
“At the suggestion of the president of the GBI, Agent Bacon, scientists have researched into what would happen if we sent nuclear waste and weaponry into the sun.”
The audience gasped at this radical idea. “I know it’s a bit much, but millions of people die from radiation every year. Besides, I have the utmost confidence in the scientist’s research, and it indicates that there would be no harm in it.”
“Wow, said Petros. “That’s pretty drastic.”
“Drastic times call for drastic measures,” said Qual. “Every day, ten thousand people die from radiation. Now, let’s see that tape."
One week later, GASA (Global Aereo-Space Administration) launched Garbage I-X, ten space probes which would head towards the sun carrying the nuclear waste and weaponry while collecting information on the sun and relaying it back to Earth for six weeks until they reached the sun at which point they would be automatically incinerated.
Most people were skeptical to the safety of the mission. If it were safe, why wouldn’t it have been done before? Why wasn’t it tried until now?
Petros thought the scientists knew what they were talking about. They were trained to be right in stuff like this; they could handle it. It didn’t bother him that much; what did bother him was having to go to the opening of Scream 65 with the cast, crew, and all of those diehard disembowelment fans who always showed up. He new he had to go because Qual had given him a huge loan to get out of a jam with his bookie, but after he paid him back, he wasn’t going to work on any more bad horror movies. He was the most sought-after editor in the world, and he could pick and choose his movies as he saw fit.
The movie opened at number 5, which is pretty good considering the critics hated it. Petros cashed the paycheck from the producers to pay off Qual and then he was home free.
Then, two days before the probes were scheduled to land, he had a dream.
He dreamed he was in a room, and a phone on a table rang. He picked it up, and someone said “Do you like scary movies?”
In the dream, Petros said, “Yes.”
“What’s your favorite?”
“Alfred Hichcock’s The Birds. What’s yours?”
“I hate horror.”
“Oh. Why?”
“No reason in particular, I just don’t.”
“Why’d you ask me then?”
“That’s how your new movie opens, isn’t it?”
“No, first you see a couple people bloodily slaughtered, and then it flashes back to that scene. Great—now I’ll have that scene stuck in my head tomorrow.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Wes Craven?”
“No.”
Petros thought. “Freddy Krueger? Because if you are, I’m not a sexually active teenager.”
The voice sighed. “No Petros, it’s God.”
“Really? No wonder you don’t like horror movies. That sort of makes the first two really bad guesses, doesn’t it?”
“That’s okay; you’re asleep, so it’s not your fault. It’s your subconscious’s fault.”
“Damn subconscious.”
“Such language in My presence! Anyway, Petros, why didn’t you do what I told you to do last week?”
“What did you tell me to do last week?”
“What? You didn’t get my memo? This will mean Mercury’s head!”
“What was he going to tell me?”
“He was going to tell you that those space probes headed towards the sun are going to doom humanity. You have to tell GASA to abort the mission.”
“But they’re going to land the day after tomorrow.”
“Yes, I know. But it’s not my fault. Speaking of which, if you can, could you make it so they hit Mercury instead?”
“I’ll try, but why didn’t you send a memo to UN leader Jeff Smith, or GASA leader Nick Sput?”
“Well, you’re much smarter then them, and people trust you more, and...”
“Get real.”
“I couldn’t come up with a creative dream sequence they were compatible with.”
“Fair enough. Later”
“Later.”
He hung up the phone only to have it start ringing again. He wondered why he hadn’t heard the call waiting beep, but soon realized it was his alarm clock.
He was just about to push the snooze button and turn over (he didn’t have any work to do that day) when he remembered the dream.
He molecularly teleported himself to a molecular teleportation booth outside GASA headquarters, as the official number for GASA was classified.
He walked inside and went to the main desk.
“May I help you?”
“Hello, I’d like to see Nick Sput.”
The lady at the desk was calmly filing her nails. “Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“No, but could you please tell him that Petros Zow is here to talk to him about how the Garbage project will doom Earth.”
“Okay.” She picked up the phone. “Mr. Sput, a Petros Zow is here to wage war against your space program. Shall I throw him out like the rest of them...okay sir, one moment. He says your name sounds familiar. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a film editor. I’ve edited many films.”
“He says he’s a film editor...really...at the Oscars...six years in a row...wow...well shall I...He says to go in. He says he only hears what celebrities have to say. It strengthens his image.”
He walked into the office and sat down in a chair in front of the desk where Dr. Nick Sput, head of GASA and top scientist in the world, was siting.
“Hello, Mr. Zow," said Nick Sput. He had the slow, toneless monologue-like voice Petros had in many movies, though he couldn't recal which ones. "I have studied your work, and it’s rather impressive. However, I notice your last picture choice was different, substandard. Any reason why?”
“No.”
“Come, Mr. Zow. There must be some reason why you picked such a grotesque film to edit in comparison to the cleaver screenplays you normally pick.”
“Qual’s helped me a lot, and I owed him one.”
“Okay. Now, Mr. Zow, there was something you wanted to discus with me?”
“Yes. Last night, I had a dream sequence in which God phoned me and told me the mission was going to doom us all, and we should call the probes back while we still can.”
“Really, Mr. Zow. And can you prove this happened? Many people don’t think this going to work; why should you convince me if those billions don’t?”
“Fine. Ask me a question about you that I wouldn’t know the answer to and give me a sleeping pill. When I wake up, God will have told me the answer.”
“That seems fair. Ask him this: who is my favorite screen character?”
“Okay. But first tell me if it’s possible to put all the garbage onto Mercury.”
“No, Mercury is on the far side of the sun. Here’s your pill.”
Petros swallowed the pill and fell into a deep, half-hour long sleep.
He dreamt he was in the same room, and there was a phone on a table.
It didn’t ring.
He waited about ten minutes and then had an idea. He picked up the phone and dialed 1-800-CALLGOD.
A lady answered the phone.
“Welcome to God Services. How may I help you?”
“Hello. I’d like to talk to God.”
“Yes, we all do, but He’s a very busy deity. Who should I tell him is calling?”
“Petros Zow.”
“Just a minute.”
He waited a minute or two, listening to the Musak, until God picked up.
“Hi, Petros. How’s it going?”
“Good. I’m at GASA, and Nick Sput says he needs proof, so you have to help me: what’s his favorite screen character?”
“Agent Smith.”
“Who?”
“Agent Smith, from The Matrix.”
“Oh. Thanks. And by the way, Mercury is on the far side of the sun, so they can’t dump onto it right now.”
“I know. I interrogated Mercury, and he said that’s why he couldn’t get the message across.
“Because he was so far away?”
“You got it.”
“Thanks.”
“Good luck.”
“Oh and how much time until I’m awake?”
“Thirty seconds.”
“Bye.”
Soon, he woke up.
Unfortunately, he was lying on the pavement outside the building with a note next to him, saying he had been thrown out while he was asleep. He noticed his wallet was gone, and a bum about a hundred yards away was dancing away happily.
Petros angrily walked back into GASA. He was determined to accomplish his mission from God.
“Hey, weren’t you just here?” She was still filing her nails. When she started they must have been longer than her fingers.
“Yeah, but they threw me out.”
“I know. Nick told me not to let you back in.”
“Could you just tell him the answer is ‘Agent Smith’.”
She picked up the phone. “Okay. Mr. Sput? That man is here again and...yes Petros Zow...I know you told...he says the answer...yes, the answer is ‘Agent Smith’...okay, I’ll tell him.” She put the phone down. “He says you got it right, but he still doesn’t believe you. The mission will rendezvous with the sun at the appointed time.”
“Well, that sucks.”
“Have a nice day, sir.”
“But...”
“Leave now and have a nice day at home, or don’t and have a nice day in jail. It’s your choice.”
“Bye.”
Well, this was great. The apocalypse was 40 hours away, and the head of GASA wouldn’t listen to him. He decided to talk to Jeff Smith and see if he could convince him before it was to late. He put his fifty cents into the molecular teleportation booth and dialed a booth outside UN. He went in.
“Hello. I’d like to talk to Jeff Smith.”
It was as if the woman from GASA had switched her mole from her right cheek to her left and instantaneously been moved to UN. “Do you have an appointmnt?”
“No, but I have some very urgent news about the Garbage mission. Tell him it’s Petros Zow.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s in the Hamptons from now until the mission is over due to all of the people barging in here telling him it will endanger humanity. He told me that if anyone comes in yelling the mission will destroy us or something like that, I was to have them arrested.”
“Oh,” Petros said nervously. “Have you arrested many people?”
“Yeah. We’ve arrested 100 people since he left yesterday.”
“Wow. Well, I gotta leave. Bye.”
When he got home, he took another sleeping pill. This time, he instantly called 1-800-CALLGOD
“Welcome to God Services. How may I help you?”
“Could you tell God that Petros Zow wants to talk to him?”
“Okay.”
He listened to the Musak for a minute and then God was there.
“Did he stop them?”
“No, he said it was right, but he didn’t believe me. Don’t you know this stuff?”
“I may be God, but can’t be everywhere.”
“What’s more important then saving the world?”
“I was trying to get the spacecraft not able to change inches into meters.”
“What are inches?”
“Forget it. Did you try UN?”
“Yes, but Jeff Smith had retreated to his home in the Hamptons. What should I do?”
“It doesn’t sound like there’s much you can do. Actually, it sounds like no matter what you do, Earth is doomed.”
“Great. How pleasant.”
“See ya.”
“But...”
He was now talking to the dial tone, so he decided to wake up.
He decided to be as pious and religion as possible for the little time he had left.
At 3 p.m., he decided to watch humanity’s pitiful demise on CNN. They were talking about what was going on with the space probes, as they reached their 4 p.m. impact.
They were showing footage of the sun from cameras on the probes, the Hubbell, and many ground observatories.
Everything seemed normal. Tension really picked up at 3:55.
3:56
3:57
3:58
3:59
“Goodbye, world.”
4:00
4:01
Something was wrong.
He decided to pay attention to what they were saying on CNN.
“Now,” said the anchorperson, “remember that, while the probes are gone, incinerated by the sun, we don’t know because the light and radio waves haven’t gotten here yet, as you can see.” The screen cut to footage from the Hubbell focused on the probes hurtling towards the sun.
4:02
4:03
4:04
4:05
Suddenly, the sky went black.
He looked outside, and saw there was a total solar eclipse. History’s most ironic celestial event.
He looked at the TV, and it showed the probes explode, but the sun didn’t.
Petros was surprised. God was wrong. God was wrong!!! How was it possible?
He didn’t have the slightest idea.
The next day, the headlines read “World’s Population Curbed”
The article said that the estimated global population was currently 2.5 billion people, out of the five billion who there were there the day before. Half the population had died of suicide or homicide, caused by religious zealots, or stuff like OD’ing or bungee-jumping, caused by people living like there was no tomorrow.
In a way, God was right.
Petros Zow edited thirty more films before his death in 2100.
He never went to church again.
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