Ben Young Drafts

Executive Members are crap customers. (Pause.) Wouldn’t think so, but shit. You get all the entitlement of a rich client. Along with that tasty government brand of scorched-earth paranoia.

Pause.

Growing up I thought the big boys were made of marble. Superhuman motherfuckers shat down from the Almighty. But you grow up…gain a few of them as clients…well. Old boys are made of bile and jism just like the rest.

Pause.

Nine years I worked in Fantasy Design and Maintenance. Could have gone for a job more dignified. Less interesting. (Pause.) But come on. Who wouldn’t want to design self contained erotic realms? Guys I grew up with are fiddling their lives away with industrial robots. Nine-to-five and home to a pair of cottage cheese thighs. (Pause.) And here I am. Working half the hours. Pulling down wicked commission. Just to…engineer a little realm apart. Where a busy power broker can plug in, tune out, and retreat to a place…tidy. Extrasensory. Where they are the sexual lord and savior.

Pause.

Jesus I was good. Proper good. Man told me he wanted an opium den. Circa 1870. Full of…preteen Filipino girls. (Pause.) Average hack would just clone the bunch. Regurgitate the same damn girl. Maybe garnish each one with…a different hairstyle. (Pause.) Me I took time. Care. To design heartwarming back story algorithms for each Little Filipino. Wasn’t long before I had more than two hundred fantasy platforms. Humming all night. On call for each client. Each one of them a player. Type of person you only see in pictures.

Pause.

I ran a database that could blackmail the most powerful people on earth and I never. Once. Thought—

Long pause.

My sister. Should have gone to work. Silicone recycling. With her friends. (Pause.) But the girl did figures like nothing. Thirteen got fast tracked into Revenue Service. Knew how to spot a tax dodge before she knew how to pull a boy. Week on week the kid nailed twice the departmental quota. Like one of those violin prodigies except with…taxes.

Thank fuck she never investigated me.

Pause.

Instead. She finds this…guy. On a data trawl. Name of Carl Raine. (Pause.) Son of an Executive Member. Real peach. Trust fund baby revolutionary…splashing around in shallow white guilt…always up for a benefit so long as the drinks are free…you know. (Pause.) Little Carl had millions. Untaxed. Stashed in these random fucking accounts. So my sister flags him.

Pause.

And the department doesn’t respond. Disputes her evidence. But she is who she is so the little…she sends a letter. Straight to the Executive Board.

Pause.

Next day. Few shy of the kid’s eighteenth. My Mom calls. All panic. She thought work might know something but the department…They Have No Record of My Sister’s Employment There. Seventeen years old, their top goddamn caseworker, and overnight the kid’s a phantom. Not even disappeared. Just…deleted.

Pause.

I’m not. Some activist. Jihad fuckhead. But there I was, at work. With this nasty library. Sexual escapades of the upper crust. Including most of the Executive Board. So I think: right. (Pause.) Copy the platforms of my Executive Board clients. Clean out my flat. Clean out my Mother’s house. Check both of us into this dodgy damn no-tell motel.

Pause.

My mother…woman was beyond scared. Staring at the wall. Crunching ice cubes. While I send an encrypted message to the Executive Board. (Pause.) You know: Dearest Fellahs. Release my sister unharmed. Or your predilection for underage Filipinos will…morph. Into a big fat steak for tabloid consumption.

Pause.

No reply no. Reply. Three days. My mother and me live off the instant coffee. I sent the message again and again and the third night wanted to move. Somewhere. New location. Safety in mobility. But my Mom…afraid to leave the motel room. Afraid we might miss the Executive Board’s reply. (Pause.) So I send the message again. Give them a deadline of twelve hours.

Pause.

That night. Three hours to deadline. Mom locks herself in the bathroom. I’m at the desk. Caffeine wears off and I doze. In the chair. (Pause.) When the light. The noise. And the syringe.

Long pause.

It’s not like phantom pains. Not like you wish you had an arm and you don’t. You just… miss. The strangest things. Like dandruff.

Pause.

This is a database. Like any it’s connected. Ways in. Ways around. And out. They aren’t very bright guys and I’m…not sure. They thought this through.

Pause.

Putting me. Lenny Chen. In a database.

Posted on behalf of Olivia because Ben's having trouble accessing the site.

Hey Olivia -- thanks. Looks I'm able to get through again...

Ben. I have been giving people dramaturgical advice on their scripts, trying to integrate themes better. I have nothing to say to you other than thank you so much for integrating everyone else’s work so well into your own.

I will begin rehearsals next week and will start with yours. Love your work!

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