“Look how small it is,” I scream to make myself heard over the sound of the Nobel-prize-winning Detroit Diesel twincharged single-cylinder thumper inhaling the fourth phone book of its very busy media appearance morning. “That’s what we in the business like to call tree-based traction control, heh heh,” I chuckle as my beautiful companion screws her eyelids shut in pain.
“In fact, if I wasn’t here to feed this engine phone books every couple of minutes, it would enter thermal runaway and consume the core of the Earth itself.”
The television personality yells back, muffling her ears with both hands and the boom mic now. “That would be bad, right?”
“Oh yes, very bad. Very, very bad. In fact, I should go get some more phone books now while we have a laps-” I freeze.
“What? What is it?” She is hysterical now, driven there by the combination of my blasé attitude to noise management and the rich arterial blood now trickling down her neck makeup on each side.
“Is it the year 2015?”
I look around in a panic, but no phone books exist anymore.
“Oh god, it is. The prophecy is unfolding. Does anyone have a phone book?”
As if on cue, she turns to flee, leaving the camera man (Floyd) and assorted staff (Erica, Michael) behind. I can barely hear the sound of all four tires squealing as the Chevy Express 2500 satellite upload van rips out of the driveway on a heinous moonshiner’s turn, tugging the camera man behind on its snake-thick electrical cable. Before long, the cable snaps, and Floyd log-rolls into oncoming traffic.
I envy him.