Remote Control

            by Jacob Rubin!!

 

            Roland Dempsey is very, very content with his life. Every problem he’s ever had has been resolved in the long run. He ditched his monotonous and unpleasant life in a minuscule town in Arizona after graduating high school and has never looked back. He became a student at UC Berkeley due to his astonishingly high grades and phenomenal test scores, but was almost rejected due to his lack of extracurricular activities. If you ask him why he’s there with this glaring vacancy in his high school transcripts, he will tell you the dean of admissions thought he was sexy. Thankfully, no one ever asks him this. However, if you ask him why he never took up any extracurricular activities, not even writing a small piece for the school newspaper or joining the bowling team, he will tell you what many have asked and many more know the answer to: Roland Dempsey absolutely adores television. It’s a powerful history going back all nineteen years of his existence, from being in the womb and hearing “I Love Lucy” reruns to watching the season finale of “Lost” instead of going to his senior prom, even though he had seen it before and was simultaneously TiVo-ing it. And now, here it was, Thursday night, and he had a problem.

            “Dude, where the fuck’s the remote?”

            Roland lifted up the couch cushions in his dinky dorm room. The gorgeous, wall-mounted, 24-inch slice of high-definition heaven across the room from him remained off. At this time, his roommate, Dustin Caldwell, was reading a book.

            “I don’t know. I don’t watch TV, dingus.”

            “Psh. Yeah. You hate the ‘idiot box’. But whenever I’m cranking up one of those Star Wars: Clone Saga cartoons they made after Episode II, you just happen to be wandering around in here.”

            “That’s different! It’s… it’s not… you just don’t understand the sublimity of the animation.”

            “I bet. But seriously, where the fuck’s the remote?”

            “Dude, I don’t know. I’m not the TV freak who’s always got the thing in his pocket.” Dustin turned the page in his book and tried to forget the conversation had ever happened.

            “That’s only because I hate losing it. And I’ve totally just fucking lost it. And it’s Thursday.”

            “Oh, lord…”

            Roland started quivering. “You know how much I love Thursdays. I open up at 6 with some ‘Entourage’ on DVD to act as a cleanser, then go into the hour of ‘Simpsons’ reruns on the CW until… until… the greatest two hours currently on the ‘tube… NBC’s Comedy Night Done Right. ‘Earl.’ ‘The Office.’ ‘Scrubs.’ And the kind of okay ’30 Rock’. I swear to you, Dustin, it’s magical. And I can’t find the fucking remote!”

            Dustin put down his book. There was no way he was going to finish it tonight. “Chill. It’s probably somewhere in the dorm.”

            “No… no, it wouldn’t be. I think I might have taken it to someone else’s place. It’s always in my pocket, it could have fallen out. I’m going to the fourth floor and see if Tracy or Logan has seen it.”

            “I wouldn’t go out tonight. The Berkeley Bloodsucker’s still on the loose.”

            “Who?”

            Dustin rolled his face in his hands. “For Christ’s sake, dude, read the newspaper! There’s a serial killer who’s been stalking around the Berkeley dorms, killing kids who are out after dark, and throwing their bodies in the bushes. I hear he sucks the blood out of their bodies and they’re all shriveled up when some jogger finds them in the morning. Like a vampire.”

            “A ‘Buffy’ vampire or a Bram Stoker vampire?”

            “What’s the fucking difference?”

            “Well, um, a ‘Buffy’ vampire can only be killed by a stake through the heart, sunlight, or decapitation. A Bram Stoker vampire can’t be decapitated. Oh, and it’s a long ritual to become a vampire on ‘Buffy’, they have to drink your blood, and you have to drink their blood. With Bram Stoker, just about any bite will do it.”

            “Fuck, dude, I don’t know. There’s just a serial killer out there.”

            “Pfft. Like he’s actually killed anyone. Probably an urban legend.”

            “Well, he did get Logan.”

            Roland felt a slight chill. “Logan? Shit. He has my ‘Prisoner’ DVDs. Maybe I can get them out of his room before they get taken for evidence or something.”

            “Right. That’s the ethical thing to do.”

            Roland seemed oblivious to the fact that he’d been insulted. “Well, whatever. It’s not like I’m going outside. I’m just going up three floors. I’ll talk to Tracy.” He got his coat and walked out into the hall.

            Dustin called after him. “You know, you could just get up to change the channel.”

            “Won’t do it! You can’t make me!” Roland ran out of earshot and up the stairs.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*

 

            Tracy McAdam didn’t like most people. She typically was buried in her schoolwork or doing recreational cocaine to forget her schoolwork and lack of social skills. She was doing the latter, mostly because of her boyfriend Logan’s death, and quietly sobbing when Roland burst in her room.

            “Tracy! Put the shit away! This is important!”

            “Oh, God, Roland! Did you hear about Logan? It’s huh-huh-horrible!”

            “Yeah, yeah, Logan was a great guy. But, Tracy, really now… have you seen my remote control?”

            Tracy was caught more than a little aback. “… Huh?”

            “It’s Thursday, Tracy. I can’t find the remote. Have you seen it?”

            Tracy had a million things flying around in her mind. Logan, Roland, the cocaine, school… “Oh, shit, there’s a new ‘Office’ tonight, huh?”

            “Yeah. I think Jim and Pam are finally going to get together tonight.”

            “Please, they’ve hinted at that in every fucking promo since the end of the second season. Don’t tell me you’re one of those people.”

            “What, an optimist? A fan of brilliant British-style awkward humor? I guess you’re just going to have to classify me as one of ‘those’ people, then.”

            “I guess I will. But no, sorry, Roland. I haven’t seen your remote. I’ll call you if it turns up.”

            “Thanks, Trace. Sorry about Logan and everything.”

            “It’s okay. Jim and Pam hooking up tonight… Jesus, you are dense.”

            “Bite me, ma’am.” Roland closed the door behind him and hopped down the stairs back to his room.

            Tracy, now with something to look forward to at 8:30, did her last line and flopped down on the couch. She reached for her remote on the end table when the TV turned on by itself. The channels flicked by rapidly, and Tracy, in her un-sober state, had trouble keeping a steady head. Suddenly, something crashed through the window and pinned Tracy on her couch. A massive knife was at her throat.

            “You’ve made far too big of a mistake tonight,” it hissed deeply. There was a silent slash. A fountain of blood jettisoned from Tracy’s neck, onto her assailant’s face. She could not scream. Her vocal cords were severed. All she could do was run her fingers across the gaping hole where her neck used to be until her eyes rolled back in her head and her life was pulled out.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*

 

            “Tracy hasn’t seen it.” Roland was searching through Dustin’s clothes closet for the third time, knocking down a stuffed Ewok that was resting on the top shelf. Dustin had just come back from a trip to the vending machine.

            “Careful with that Ewok, douche! That shit’s in mint condition!” Dustin darted across the room to rescue his creepy bear-thing holding a spear. “They haven’t made this kind since the re-release in 1997. And are you actually still looking for that remote?”

            “Am I actually… unlike you, my fanboy friend, I have a lot more passion about the timeliness of my addictions.  It’s 7:40. ‘The Office’ is at 8:30. Without that remote, full pleasure is impossible. Y’think it’s in the fridge?”

            “No matter what I say, you’re going to check anyway,” Dustin replied to Roland, who was purging the deli drawer by the time Dustin could finish his sentence. “And of course Tracy hasn’t seen it. She was probably on coke when you asked.”

            “Heh. She totally was.”

            “Have you asked Ned? He’s always over here on Mondays when you guys watch ‘Heroes’. He might have accidentally taken it or something.”

            “Hmmm… maybe. He was here last night for ‘Lost’, too. What floor is he?”

            “Third. Room 314.”

            “Uh… should I take the east staircase or the west staircase?”

            “Fuck, just follow me.”

 

*~*~*~*~*~*

 

            Ned Pickens was blamed for a fire at his elementary school when he was in 4^th grade. A bigger boy named Terrance had used Ned’s glasses to burn an ant, and things escalated from there. Ned eventually was released, free of incrimination, but this event nearly caused Ned to be rejected from every college he applied to. If not for his genius-level IQ and prominent position on the debate team, he would never have been accepted anywhere. The fire is an event Ned has put past him, but it’s made him bitter about nearly everything else, ever. He was reflecting on the time he hit Terrance with his car, non-fatally, unfortunately, when he heard the theme to “King of the Hill” knocked on his door.

            “What do you want, Roland?” He grunted deeply.

            Roland forced his way past Ned into the kitchen. “Gotta find remote. Apologize for breaking stuff later.” He started rifling through Ned’s empty Pringles tins, finding nothing but crumbs.

            “Don’t worry. He’s just crazy. How’s it going, Ned? I see your voice is still deep enough to vibrate the fish tank three rooms over.”

            “Heh. Thanks. I’m fine. Watching ‘The Simpsons’. It’s a really good one. ‘Bart the Daredevil.’”

            “Homer falls down Springfield Gorge. A classic if ever there was one. Say, do you still have that Attack of the Clones extended cut? I’ve been meaning to borrow that from you.”

            “You know it. DVD or Blu-Ray? I’ve got them both in my bedroom.”

            “Man with the plan. I like it. How’s the search, Rol?”

            Roland re-entered the living room, smelling of sour cream and onions. “Nothing. This is creepy. I’m starting to suspect foul play.”

            “Oh, yeah, did you hear about Logan? The Bloodsucker got ‘im. Horrible, man.” Ned was visibly creeped out, but his eyes never left the TV. Homer was falling down the gorge for the second time.

            “Yeah, truly, truly a tragedy. I’m going to poke through the couch cushions.”

            “And I’m going into Ned’s bedroom to get that Clones re-edit. And, you know, whatever else I see that piques my interest.” Dustin grinned and left the room.

            Roland emerged from the couch moments later. “Still nothing. Anywhere else you can think of it might be?”

            Ned shrugged. “I don’t even think I took it. Why would I? We have different TVs.”

            “I honestly am out of ideas. I guess I’ll have to miss the show tonight. Balls.”

            “You could come here and watch it, you know.”

            “Non-HD? You disgust me. I’m going back to my room. Thanks, Ned.”

            “No worries.” Ned shut the door behind Roland and returned to the couch. “Tell me if you need anything, Dustin!” he called into the bedroom. He picked up his remote and hit the “Channel Up” button. Nothing happened.

            “Wait, this isn’t my…” A figure crashed through the window and threw a small blade at Ned. It missed by inches. Ned leaped to his feet and sprinted for the door, but the figure grabbed his ankle and threw him back on the couch. Before Ned could speak, a big knife was in his mouth, stabbing the back of his throat.

            “Buhsdin… Buh-us… Buh…”

            “Shhhh,” the figure whispered in the only voice Ned had ever heard that was deeper than his own. “He can’t hear you.” The figure pulled the knife out of Ned’s mouth through the right cheek, then through the left. Ned wanted to scream, but before the sensation could travel from his blood-gushing cheeks to his brain to his throat, his head was cut clean off by a very shiny machete.  In the moments before the decapitation really set in and Ned’s life ended, all he could hear was the music over the closing credits to “The Simpsons” and, just barely, hushed slurping noises.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*

 

             At 8:25, Roland sat across the room from his high definition television. It was off. Loud footsteps could be heard coming down the hall.

            “Roland! Roland! Shit, dude! Ned’s dead! His fucking head, man!” Dustin was nothing if not winded.

            Roland tried very hard to show emotion about his friend being violently slaughtered, but he was still reeling from the missing remote that seemed to be gone forever. “That’s… that’s awful. How… how did you…”

            “I was in his bedroom, remember? I didn’t even hear anything! That goddamn Bloodsucker’s seamless, dude. He’s… he’s… heh.”

            In the state Roland’s mind was in, he could not be unfazed. He was locked in a catatonic state. The remote was gone. He was never going to see “The Office”. Hell, he might not ever see “Heroes”, or “Lost”, or “Scrubs”, or “Curb your Enthusiasm”, or “Entourage”, or “Aqua Teen Hunger Force”, or “Prison Break”, or “Saturday Night Live”, or “Desperate Housewives”, or “South Park”, or “24”, or “Venture Brothers”, or… or…

            “Wait wait wait, did you just laugh?”

            “Did I?” From the mouth up, Dustin looked pretty shocked, but he couldn’t hide the giant grin.

            “Yeah, you laughed when you were talking about the Bloodsucker. Was that… was that my imagination?”

            “Um… yeah.”

            “You asshole! You’re grinning like a pig in shit! Aw, Christ… dude, you’re the Berkeley fucking Bloodsucker.”

            Dustin giggled. “Was I that obvious? Eh, well. I had a good run. And let me tell you, sir. You’re fun as balls to fuck around with. You should have seen your face. I knew there was only one way to get to you, man, just gotta completely start freaking you out. Have you travel around the dorm, just happen to visit all the people who died tonight, but give you a good reason! It wouldn’t make any sense if the people dying were just your friends, y’know? So send you to people’s rooms looking for a remote that isn’t even lost and the pieces will just fall into place. That’s all the law needs to hear, anyway.”

            “What?”

            “Yeah. That’s right, fucker. I’ve framed you. No damn proof, buddy. Even if there was some sort of security camera around I didn’t know about, that Darth Vader Voice Changer proved to be good for something. Until the memory is washed from humanity’s minds, your fluid-soaked corpse will be what people think used to be the Berkeley Bloodsucker, committing suicide to avoid incrimination or, possibly, in an attempt to escape the soul-crushing pain of ending human lives.”

            “You had the remote the entire fucking time?”

            “What? Oh, yeah. Here. But I have to kill you. Make it look like a suicide.”

            “But… but…”

            “Yeah, I know. You’re a kid. You’ve got a long life ahead of you. You’re what, an Economics major? Lot of good stuff comes from that line of work. Hey, I’m sorry. This is how I do my work.”

            “But… can it wait until after ‘The Office’?”

            “Oh. Um. Yeah. I don’t see why not.”

            The following conversation took place during the first commercial break of the show.

            “So you were the Bloodsucker, huh?”

            “That I was.”

            “What was with the, um, the blood drinking?”

            “You know, that comes up a lot. It’s the weirdest thing; I just really, really, really like the taste of human blood. Drives me nuts.”

            “Weird.”

            “I know, right? They could write an entire fucking psychology thesis on me.”

The following conversation took place during the second commercial break.

            “You’ve done this other places too?”

            “Yeah. You know the Boise Bloodsucker? That was me. And in Baltimore, I was the Baltimore Bloodsucker. Then, I got ambitious and was the Vermont Vampire. That was a fun month.”

            “Heh. You ever go to Boston?”

            “Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone tastes horrible in Boston.”

The following conversation took place during the third commercial break.

            “Okay, here we go.”

            “No, wait, there’s always a little bit more just before the credits.”

            Those were Roland Dempsey’s last words.

 

END