Rest in PCs

And now your host

"Live! From somewhere in the middle of the irradiated wasteland, it's the 11pm variety hour," the announcer boomed from a dilapidated auditorium. "Tonight, from the new movie…" his microphone was interrupted by a deafening scream of electric feedback before he could finish his sentence. Nonetheless, he continued announcing.

Backstage, in an unnaturally minimalist dressing room, the host of the 11pm variety hour put the finishing touches on his immaculate two-piece suit and walked down the hallway towards the stage.

"And now your host…" the announcer thundered, as feedback from his microphone once again interrupted him. 

As the host appeared on stage, the crowd went wild. He allowed their applause to continue for a few seconds and just before it died down, he welcomed his adoring fans. 

In reality, the auditorium might have been dilapidated but tonight it was in impeccable form. There was not a scratch or speck of dust anywhere in sight. The host spent all of last week patching it up with nothing but his bare hands, some photon clay and his quantum multi-tool. Photon clay was a rare, synthetic substance that people probably killed for during the fabled golden age in which it was invented. It was electro-magnetic radiation but somehow also moldable, like clay. 

These days, photon clay was in such short supply that the host felt the need to lead a nomadic lifestyle, exclusively in pursuit of the stuff. Once he found a decent amount of the stuff, he would camp near that location for a while, find anything that resembled a long-abandoned stage, theater, music hall or auditorium and get to work. He would spend hours molding the clay to suit any shape he desired. Modern photon clay had a tendency to degrade over a period of time, probably due to the last remnants of radiation since the war. 

For his current escapade, the host used it to rebuild the walls of the local auditorium, fix the seats, repair the electronics, plumbing, furniture and other fixtures. Using the quantum multi-tool, he adjusted the color, brightness, contrast and saturation to give them a more realistic feel. Nonetheless, the most important feature was still missing - people. So he worked all night to design an artificial audience and artificial celebrity guests made completely out of moldable light. The finished product, with the help of the quantum multi-tool, was essentially indistinguishable from real, flesh and blood human beings. 

The quantum multi-tool looked like an ordinary stick, however, it was possibly the most advanced hand-held device ever invented by humanity. It consisted of four components - the intake port on one end, the converter, an inch long quantum computer and the swarm release on the other end. 

Any matter that might've been available, like sand, a stone or some water, was fed into the intake port. The converter then transformed some of that matter into energy and used that same energy to turn the remaining matter into a swarm of quantum-tier tools based on the design instructions of the quantum computer. The computer itself was voice-controlled by the user. 

By design, each individual quantum-tier tool in the swarm was given just enough processing power by the quantum computer to work with every other tool in the swarm to carry out the user's command. This ensured that the quantum-tier tools never became self-aware or went beyond the user's basic programming. Thus, with the quantum multi-tool, the possibilities were endless - anything the user could imagine, the tool could build. Today, it was used to manufacture a group of human beings. 

Still, the host was never satisfied. Even after using and abusing the quantum multi-tool to conjure up all manner of weird and wonderful fantasies, he wanted the one thing it could never give him - a real life experience. He didn't care if it was good or bad, he just wanted something real. 

"Welcome to the 11pm variety hour, I'm your host and we've got a hot one today. Hot show for a hot day. Sometimes I forget we're in the middle of a nuclear winter. I guess we have global warming to thank for that. You'd think they'd cancel each other out, right. Remember global warming?"

The applause was minimal. "This guy remembers," the host said, pointing at the source of the rapidly dying laughter. "Thank you, sir. Stick around, I'll pay you after the show."

Again, the laughter was barely audible so he returned to the script. 

"Some news from Washington today, when asked about his plans to address the climate crisis, President Coolidge said 'nothing… it's natural, sometimes it gets hot, sometimes it's cold, it's not the end of the world'." The host paused. "He's right. Yeah, because that already happened. The world literally ended, several years ago."

Finally, a joke landed. He lapped up the applause and showboated cartoonishly. He then broke script and said, "Coolidge? More like 'Hot-idge'. Am I right?"

A cacophony of laughter exploded from the audience. The host was in his element, basking in their applause. 

Deep down, however, he wasn't really happy because he knew those jokes weren't funny. The only reason the crowd laughed was because they were programmed to find him funny. Coolidge was President long before anyone even knew about nuclear winter or climate change. The host was aware of these things from ancient entertainment and media reports he'd gathered over the years. Getting laughs for piecing together anachronistic bits of information wasn't something he deserved. This made him feel guilty but he shrugged it off and continued with the monologue anyway. 

"Hey did you hear about this? Apparently it's now legal for Cannibals to get married up North. Yeah, the first thing they do after the ceremony is toast the bride and groom."

Again, the audience laughed and the host hid his contempt for their disingenuity while he pressed on. He was finally on a roll, so the artificially engineered laughter didn't really bother him anymore. 

"More good news for the folks down South today. The local warlord announced that they'd finally gotten rid of their Zombie problem." The audience applauded. "That's right, turns out Zombies can't survive for long in a place without functioning human brains."

There was an uproar as the crowd started eating from the palm of his hand. Shortly thereafter, the monologue ended on a high note. 

He then pretended to go to commercial, interviewed his first guest and finally went to the mid-show comedy sketch. Every night of the show, there was a different sketch and tonight was no different. The host, in character as a bartender, was supported by a cast of reanimated photon-clay 'actors'. 

The scene cut to an outside shot of a small town Texas bar and grill called the 'Confurderate Steaks of America'. This name was emblazoned in a bold, white Old Western font under a signboard on which a modified version of the Dixie flag was painted. However, instead of the standard white stars, this flag had white pawprints. 

The interior was as expected; dimly lit, the walls were adorned with old road signs and animal trophies, various pieces of yesteryear Americana, a dart board, a clock, a risqué calendar, some posters and so on. An aging pool table took up a significant portion of floor space. Finally, an old-school jukebox and various pieces of wooden furniture completed the aesthetic of the establishment. The voice and music of Merle Haggard filled the air to complete the tired cowboy tone of the stage. 

The Confurderate Steaks would've been the quintessential Texas bar except for one major point of distinction - it's target patronage - furries. 

The only non-furry patron, a rugged, hairy trucker called Bubba, sat at the bar, talking to the host, now in character, as Billy Bob, the barkeep. 

"Billy Bob, I'm tellin' ya. Somethin' ain't right with them there fur freaks" Bubba said. 

"Come on now. It's 2006. Them's good ol' fashioned, hard workin', red blooded American patriots. Show some respect," Billy Bob replied. 

"I'm tellin' ya, somethin' just ain't right. Look, here comes one now."

A Polar bear walked up to the bar and placed his order. "I'll have a scotch and a…" the bear paused "...coke." 

Billy Bob looked confused and said, "Sure, but why the long pause?"

Looking at his paws, the Polar bear replied, "I don't know. I've always had 'em. Thanks for the drink." 

Bubba was gobsmacked. "You didn't see nothin' wrong with that?" He asked Billy Bob. 

"With what?" Billy Bob asked.

"The talkin' whatchamacallit!"

"Talkin' what now?" Billy Bob checked the drink he was about to pour Bubba, put it down and said, "I think you had enough. Why don't you get on outta here. Come back tomorrow."

Before Bubba could respond, a Gorilla pulled up a bar stool, sat down and began inspecting the specials.

"We don't get a lotta your kind here." Bubba said, dryly. 

"Bubba!" Billy Ray tersely chided. 

"Not with these prices!" the Gorilla retorted, turned its nose up and walked out in protest. 

"Now tell me you didn't see nothin' wrong with that!" Bubba cried. 

"See what?" Billy Bob asked, impatiently. "Sure, he was rude but only 'cause you scared him off."

"Billy Bob, that ain't normal. Monkeys can't talk."

"That ain't no monkey!"

"Ape, whatever."

Billy Bob was getting a bit annoyed now. "It's just a person in a suit. That's how it works, this here's a furry bar. They're supposed to dress up like animals. I don't really get it neither, I just take their money and serve 'em drinks but they're definitely not… real… animals. They're just people, like you and me, in... surprisingly convincing costumes." 

Just as he finished his rant, a dog walked into the bar. Seeing this, Billy Bob said to Bubba, "tell ya what, if I can have myself a nice little chat with that there 'dog' and prove that it really is a person in a costume, you owe me fifty bucks."

"Deal," Bubba replied confidently. "But if it's just a dog, you owe me fifty bucks."

"Deal," Billy Bob said as he turned to the dog, striking up a conversation, "howdy partner, how's your day been?"

"Rough," the dog barked. 

"Maybe a nice cold one will fix you up." Billy Bob said as retrieved an ice cold beer from the fridge and popped the lid. "On the house," he told the dog. 

The dog remained silent so Bubba began to gloat. Noticing this, Billy Bob decided to extend the conversation and ask the dog what it calls the covering over a house.

"Roof," barked the dog. 

"See, what'd I tell ya? You believe me now?" Billy Bob asked Bubba as he gloated. 

"That's cheatin' and you know it. How about I ask a question and if he really answers it, I'll give you a hundred dollars."

"Deal," Billy Bob replied. "And if he doesn't, I'll give you a hundred bucks."

Bubba agreed and the two men shook on it. 

"Who's the greatest baseball player of all time?" Bubba confidently asked the dog. 

"Ruth," the dog barked again. 

The entire bar went silent. All eyes were now on the dog. 

"Did he just say…" Billy Bob almost asked as Bubba interrupted him, saying "yup."

Billy Bob pulled out his shotgun, pointed it at the dog and said, "there's two things we can't have in here - Yankee praise and dogs. Now go on, git. Scram you dirty mutt." 

The dog turned around and walked with its tail tucked behind its legs. Satisfied, Billy Bob began putting his gun away. Just before the dog could leave, however, it looked back and asked in perfect English, "should I have said Ty Cobb?" 

Hearing that, Bubba spat his drink in disbelief. Unfortunately for Billy Bob, the spit-whiskey sprayed directly across his face, causing him to panic and accidentally fire his gun at an unsuspecting deer at the back of the room. 

"Hey Billy Bob," Bubba said as the smoke cleared. "When you said a hundred bucks, you didn't mean that one and ninety nine more, didja?" 

The sketch ended and the audience was in stitches. 

Before he could break character and return to the show, however, the host noticed something overhead that resembled a meteor. It left a stream of blue light in its wake as it ripped through the sky. Before he could blink, the object plummeted towards the ground and crashed somewhere beyond the horizon. 

The blue stream of light was all but gone now but whatever it was, it was having an impact on the photon clay. The studio began to disintegrate and before long, everything was gone - the stage, the seats, the lights, the cameras and finally, the people. 

The host was still processing what he'd just witnessed. Naturally, he was surprised, shocked and confused at first but more than anything, his mind struggled to make sense of what he'd just seen. He never saw anything like this before; but then again he'd never seen much to begin with. The host searched his memories for something to inform his next choice - should he investigate the crash-site? Ignore it because it might not be safe? Scout the crash-site from a distance? The questions were endless. 

One of his earliest memories was of a family barbecue in a nice white picket fence neighborhood. It was the 4th of July. There were friendly familial faces, radio classics, a healthy mowed lawn, endless potato salad, great company, not a cloud in the sky all day and plenty of fireworks at night. It was perfect in every way except for one - he wasn't actually there. This was something he saw in an old sitcom. In fact, most of his good memories were like this. They involved family, a nice house, friendly neighbors and a good life; just not his. 

His real life wasn't bad but it wasn't good either; it was radically neutral. There was nothing more neutral in the multiverse than his life. His life lacked ups and downs but he didn't mind. He figured he could live without the ups if it meant never experiencing a down. He was all too aware of what real life on Earth was like before the apocalypse - a bombing here, a famine there. War, domestic violence, racism, disease, poverty, homelessness; the lack of these horrors was an acceptable trade-off for the non-existence of backyard barbecues, birthday parties, highschool, college, a 9-to-5, black friday sales, baseball and so on. 

As far as he could remember, this was the extent of his life - moving around the post-apocalyptic desert, finding old records, historical and cultural artefacts, news pieces and not much else. It was a boring life. Apart from pre-apocalyptic entertainment, the only things that came close to being interesting were aging, decrepit landmarks and iconic buildings. To amuse himself, he'd invent games of trying to guess where he was, based on reconstructing the building or landmark with his photon-clay and quantum multi-tool. Both items were found simply lying around somewhere. 

Somehow, he was always literate too. This was the case even though he couldn't remember going to school. Likewise, he always seemed immune to radiation poisoning and never had the need to eat or drink. Had he not bled or felt pain, he would've concluded that his life wasn't real. In fact, there was never really any way to know for sure since there was never anyone else around to ask anyone what pain felt like. The constant isolation didn't drive him mad either and he never desired contact with another human. His reaction to all of this was one of pure apathy. He also had no memory of ever needing nurturing, parental affection as a baby or toddler; but then again, neither did most people. This realisation added to his apathy. 

Following his memory search, he managed to process the events of the crashing UFO and begin planning his next move. The search also helped him come to grips with how he felt about it - a bit scared at first, then annoyed and finally, frustrated. He spent the last few days and nights building his latest stage production only for it to be destroyed by the meteor's influence within seconds. Nonetheless, his frustration was soon overpowered by his curiosity. He wanted to know what crashed on his world so he decided to see for himself.

He thought about walking at first, especially since he was a natural born performer. Footage of a lone-wolf like him trudging through the harsh, unforgiving post-apocalyptic desert would make for an aesthetically pleasing montage should he ever decide to use it in a future film production. Using his quantum multi-tool, he forged a voice-controlled drone camera to record his journey to the crash site. 

After a few minutes of walking, however, he got impatient. At that rate, it would be hours until he arrived at the crash site. Not wanting to waste any more time, he used his quantum multi-tool to turn a nearby rock into a hoverboard. He jumped on the hoverboard and sped to the crash site, arriving there within seconds. The drone footage wasn't as videogenic but it still looked pretty cool. 

The UFO left a crater the size of a major league baseball infield. The host exercised caution as he crept towards the boundary on his stomach like a snake. There were humanoid figures setting up equipment outside the ship. Clearly, they were building a makeshift base. He used his quantum multi-tool again, this time, to turn the hoverboard into a targeted audio amplifying device. 

"Alright, bring it in…" the leader ordered. The half a dozen other humanoids obeyed and converged around her. "There is no margin for error so let's run through the plan one last time. This a capture and contain mission, people. The target is very much armed, dangerous and will no doubt spook easily. You don't need me to remind you to be careful. The base intelligence and memories we implanted make it the smartest predator on Earth so eyes peeled and move out on my command."

The team were paramilitary, probably black-ops based on their attire. Their gear was state of the art and they were armed to the teeth. The host couldn't see their faces through their helmets but they didn't look exactly human. The shape of some of their heads weren't normal so he decided to take a closer look. They were still in the middle of their briefing as he crept closer towards them. However, as he moved, he dropped his listening device and as it fell down the crater walls, a humanoid noticed it and immediately spotted the host as he tried to retrieve it.