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ptahrrific) wrote2007-09-30 12:07 am
ptahrrific) wrote2007-09-30 12:07 am
Entry tags:
Fake News: The Thing With Feathers, Chapter 7
Title: The Thing With Feathers, Chapter 7
Fandom: The Daily Show/The Colbert Report
Rating: PG
Words: ~1900
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. Sue me not, please.
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Notes: Makes time-and-space-travel references to Narnia, Stargate, Sliders, and Doctor Who.
For the full table of contents, click here.
The Thing With Feathers
Chapter 7
(there.)
During the ride back to the studio, Stephen peppered Jon with questions; a screen had gone up behind the front seat, so they could be candid without freaking out the driver. The potential horror of his situation had been thrust out of his mind by the more immediate concern of how he was going to handle the Report.
"It sounds like it's exactly the thing my show pretends to be," he said at last. "Wait. How does the Wørd work?"
"Um. It's kind of like O'Reilly's 'Talking Points Memo' feature; Stephen talks about an issue that's on his mind, and this bullet point on half of the screen summarizes or rephrases important points."
"So it just summarizes?"
"Or rephrases, yes. Why, what does yours do?"
Stephen grinned. "It makes snarky comebacks."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, it's great. I make some ridiculous argument, and the bullet mocks it. Or pokes it full of holes. Or just basically provides a running Mystery Science Theater commentary on what I'm saying. It's always the favorite feature when we poll the viewers -- they go wild when the graphic comes on."
"You've lost me," admitted Jon.
"I'll give you an example. So today, the wørd was 'White Guy'. And I, in-character, made this whole argument about how John Edwards should declare himself a black woman to get fundraising dollars, right? So I say that, and the bullet says, 'Republicans Already Declared Themselves Reagan.'"
It was dark out on the highway, but he could see that Jon was nodding, so he pressed on. "And I say, 'Who spends four hundred dollars on their hair? Girls.' And the bullet says, 'And Stephen.'"
"He does do that," said Jon; Stephen could hear the smile in his voice.
"And then I say, 'There have been all these debates on whether Barack Obama is really black; well, let's start one on whether John Edwards is.' And the bullet goes 'Hint: No.'"
Now this Jon was all-out giggling, the same way the real one did, and Stephen felt encouraged, energized. He could do this. This version of his staff, and this audience, and this Nation, would pose no problem for him; he could make this Jon laugh.
"It works with other topics, too," he went on. "When that guy from NASA made the really absurd comments about global warming, I agreed, 'It's arrogant to try to stop climate change until you've asked all other human beings what they think, and how could we possibly know what the other people in the world think about global warming?' and the bullet goes 'Kyoto Treaty Signatories' and this list of countries starts racing past."
Jon was doubled over with laughter, shaking from it; Stephen laughed too as he plunged ahead.
"We did this one about Freud, a while back, where I was insisting that I don't have a subconscious and none of his theories apply to me. So I say, 'I take personal responsibility for every decision I make,' and the bullet goes, 'Really? That Tie?' And then I go on to say 'I'm not against gay marriage because I'm secretly afraid I'm gay,' and the bullet reads 'Secretly Knows He's Gay.' And I--"
He stopped, because Jon had suddenly been seized by a choking fit.
"You all right there?" asked Stephen, reaching out. Jon batted his hand away.
"Fine -- I'm fine -- what did it say?"
"The bullet? It said ... Oh. Oh. I forgot -- he's real to you, I can't go outing him, I've got to be more careful -- I'm sorry, but didn't you already know? I mean, he's not exactly subtle about it..."
"He isn't," admitted Jon. "But he thinks he hides it well -- this is so weird, hearing you just come out and say it, you have no idea."
"I can imagine."
Jon didn't reply to that, and Stephen didn't know what else to say. He wanted desperately to go back to the joking and laughing, but the moment was gone.
"So," he tried, switching topics, "The Daily Show. For you, it's a real news program?"
"Well, yes. We call it alternative news, but it's real. What's your version?"
"Fake news."
"Oh, you make up stories?"
"No, they cover real ones; but it's more important to be funny than to be right. And you have to watch the actual news to get the facts so that you understand the jokes. But you guys are real journalists; you must actually fact-check."
"Er," said Jon. "Officially, our fact-checker is on sabbatical. Unofficially, we cannot in fact afford one."
"Oh. But you send correspondents to report on-location? We mostly use a green screen and stock footage."
"Well. If you must know, we use a green screen too. Saves energy, and transportation costs."
Stephen frowned. "Then you at least do original research?"
"I ... uh ... sometimes. We'll send correspondents off to do field pieces and original interviews. But a lot of what we do is just piggybacking on what the major networks cover."
"Wow," said Stephen.
"What do you mean, 'wow'?"
"It's just, it sounds like you do exactly the same thing that we do in my universe, except that we don't pretend to have any credibility."
"It doesn't really matter," said Jon quickly. "The show is never taken seriously anyway."
"You know what's weird?" replied Stephen. "In my world, it is."
---------------------
---------------------
(here.)
Jon took a step towards the desk, but Allison put a hand on his shoulder. "Hang on. Maybe one of us should do it."
"Not me," said Eric quickly. "You know how he treats Bobby. Actually, if you don't mind, I'm gonna go online and google Vicodin withdrawal."
"Good call," said Jon. "Okay, Al, you talk to him. See if you can work out how he got here."
And as she approached Stephen he followed, a couple of steps behind.
---------------------
Stephen was trying to wrap his head around reality again, and with the sweet taste of his pills still on his tongue it was coming together. Obviously, there weren't bats in the studio. There was no one but Jon, Bobby, and Allison, whispering to each other.
What are they whispering? What are they plotting?
They can't be plotting, he told himself. Not against him. Bobby wanted his next paycheck, and ladies didn't do that sort of thing, and Jon, well, Jon was kind of like a lady that way.
But after what you did in the office, Jon would be entirely justified in doing, well, almost anything.
A good point. How could he have misread the situation so badly?
He led you on, he was dropping hints, being provocative on purpose, it's part of the agenda, he's in on it...
And, come to think of it, the three of them had done a lot of whispering even before then, when Jon had first arrived.
You see? It was all a trap!
But Jon wouldn't do that. Stephen couldn't believe it. Not Jon.
He was in the middle of this mental round of Formidable Opponent when Allison walked up and leaned against the desk. "Stephen, do you know how you got here?"
"What do you mean? How I got to this desk, how I got this show, how I came to be on this Earth? There was this party, and my parents decided to have a good time, and things got frisky..."
"No, no, I don't need to hear about that," said Allison quickly. "What I mean is -- have you walked into any magical wardrobes lately?"
Stephen frowned. "Not that I know of. Why, is there one around here?"
"Not here, no. But I'm sure you've noticed that things have been different for at least a few hours now. The show isn't running when you thought it would. I'm here. Eric is Eric, not Bobby. Have you noticed other things?"
Now that she mentioned it... "Some of the pictures in my office are missing."
"Really? Which ones?"
"Most of the good ones of me. I was going to ask if some fans had snuck in and stolen them. It's the kind of thing my fans might do."
"That makes sense," mused Allison. "You would have more self-portraits than he does."
"Than who does?"
Allison pressed her fingertips together in concentration. At last she said, "Is the phrase 'parallel universe' in your vocabulary?"
"Do I look like a brainiac on the nerd patrol?"
"No, but you're a Lord of the Rings fan. There's a geeky streak in you somewhere."
She had him there. "Of course I know what a parallel universe is," snapped Stephen. "Don't patronize me."
"Here's the thing, then. As far as we can tell, you're from one."
"What?"
"This isn't your universe. You've ... hopped realities, somehow. We know a Stephen Colbert, but he's, er, let's just say he's very different from you. This is his desk. That's his office. Eric and I, we work for him."
Stephen found himself once again in the position of trying to reset his view of reality. "That's impossible," he said at last. "I'm me. And if this is some other Stephen's universe, and he's so different, why is my studio the same?"
"Our Stephen does the Report too. It's, well, again, it's different, but the visuals are the same. Everything on the set looks the same; it's when you get to the stuff off-camera that you should start to notice differences. In your office. In the halls. We don't have a Colbunker, either."
Stephen considered this. That would explain why the doorway to the secret elevator had gone missing. And the pictures...
"So, again, any wardrobes? Shiny round gates? Magic spells? Long silver tunnels? Police boxes that are bigger on the inside? In short, have you done anything recently that might lead to -- man, I can't believe I'm really asking this -- interdimensional travel?"
He couldn't think of anything, of course. It was an absurd question.
Come to think of it, the whole idea was absurd. He didn't care that it fit the facts. This room was called the No Fact Zone for a reason. "I haven't done anything, and I don't know why I'm listening to this," he declared. "Maybe you're just trying to confuse me. Maybe you're behind this all. Who are you, really? Jon, who is she?"
"She's exactly who she says she is," replied Jon from behind her. "And she's telling the truth, as far as we can figure it out. You're not the Stephen we know."
"How can you be so sure?" demanded Stephen.
"Well, for one thing, our Stephen wouldn't jump me in the office."
Stephen was on his feet so quickly that his chair went crashing backwards.
In one cold moment his eyes flashed between Jon's face (unsympathetic) to Allison's (unsurprised), and all at once he understood that both of them were strangers.
"You are not my Jon," he hissed. "I can trust my Jon."
And with that he bolted for the office, because even though it wasn't his office, it still had a lock.
Fandom: The Daily Show/The Colbert Report
Rating: PG
Words: ~1900
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. Sue me not, please.
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Notes: Makes time-and-space-travel references to Narnia, Stargate, Sliders, and Doctor Who.
For the full table of contents, click here.
The Thing With Feathers
Chapter 7
(there.)
During the ride back to the studio, Stephen peppered Jon with questions; a screen had gone up behind the front seat, so they could be candid without freaking out the driver. The potential horror of his situation had been thrust out of his mind by the more immediate concern of how he was going to handle the Report.
"It sounds like it's exactly the thing my show pretends to be," he said at last. "Wait. How does the Wørd work?"
"Um. It's kind of like O'Reilly's 'Talking Points Memo' feature; Stephen talks about an issue that's on his mind, and this bullet point on half of the screen summarizes or rephrases important points."
"So it just summarizes?"
"Or rephrases, yes. Why, what does yours do?"
Stephen grinned. "It makes snarky comebacks."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, it's great. I make some ridiculous argument, and the bullet mocks it. Or pokes it full of holes. Or just basically provides a running Mystery Science Theater commentary on what I'm saying. It's always the favorite feature when we poll the viewers -- they go wild when the graphic comes on."
"You've lost me," admitted Jon.
"I'll give you an example. So today, the wørd was 'White Guy'. And I, in-character, made this whole argument about how John Edwards should declare himself a black woman to get fundraising dollars, right? So I say that, and the bullet says, 'Republicans Already Declared Themselves Reagan.'"
It was dark out on the highway, but he could see that Jon was nodding, so he pressed on. "And I say, 'Who spends four hundred dollars on their hair? Girls.' And the bullet says, 'And Stephen.'"
"He does do that," said Jon; Stephen could hear the smile in his voice.
"And then I say, 'There have been all these debates on whether Barack Obama is really black; well, let's start one on whether John Edwards is.' And the bullet goes 'Hint: No.'"
Now this Jon was all-out giggling, the same way the real one did, and Stephen felt encouraged, energized. He could do this. This version of his staff, and this audience, and this Nation, would pose no problem for him; he could make this Jon laugh.
"It works with other topics, too," he went on. "When that guy from NASA made the really absurd comments about global warming, I agreed, 'It's arrogant to try to stop climate change until you've asked all other human beings what they think, and how could we possibly know what the other people in the world think about global warming?' and the bullet goes 'Kyoto Treaty Signatories' and this list of countries starts racing past."
Jon was doubled over with laughter, shaking from it; Stephen laughed too as he plunged ahead.
"We did this one about Freud, a while back, where I was insisting that I don't have a subconscious and none of his theories apply to me. So I say, 'I take personal responsibility for every decision I make,' and the bullet goes, 'Really? That Tie?' And then I go on to say 'I'm not against gay marriage because I'm secretly afraid I'm gay,' and the bullet reads 'Secretly Knows He's Gay.' And I--"
He stopped, because Jon had suddenly been seized by a choking fit.
"You all right there?" asked Stephen, reaching out. Jon batted his hand away.
"Fine -- I'm fine -- what did it say?"
"The bullet? It said ... Oh. Oh. I forgot -- he's real to you, I can't go outing him, I've got to be more careful -- I'm sorry, but didn't you already know? I mean, he's not exactly subtle about it..."
"He isn't," admitted Jon. "But he thinks he hides it well -- this is so weird, hearing you just come out and say it, you have no idea."
"I can imagine."
Jon didn't reply to that, and Stephen didn't know what else to say. He wanted desperately to go back to the joking and laughing, but the moment was gone.
"So," he tried, switching topics, "The Daily Show. For you, it's a real news program?"
"Well, yes. We call it alternative news, but it's real. What's your version?"
"Fake news."
"Oh, you make up stories?"
"No, they cover real ones; but it's more important to be funny than to be right. And you have to watch the actual news to get the facts so that you understand the jokes. But you guys are real journalists; you must actually fact-check."
"Er," said Jon. "Officially, our fact-checker is on sabbatical. Unofficially, we cannot in fact afford one."
"Oh. But you send correspondents to report on-location? We mostly use a green screen and stock footage."
"Well. If you must know, we use a green screen too. Saves energy, and transportation costs."
Stephen frowned. "Then you at least do original research?"
"I ... uh ... sometimes. We'll send correspondents off to do field pieces and original interviews. But a lot of what we do is just piggybacking on what the major networks cover."
"Wow," said Stephen.
"What do you mean, 'wow'?"
"It's just, it sounds like you do exactly the same thing that we do in my universe, except that we don't pretend to have any credibility."
"It doesn't really matter," said Jon quickly. "The show is never taken seriously anyway."
"You know what's weird?" replied Stephen. "In my world, it is."
---------------------
(here.)
Jon took a step towards the desk, but Allison put a hand on his shoulder. "Hang on. Maybe one of us should do it."
"Not me," said Eric quickly. "You know how he treats Bobby. Actually, if you don't mind, I'm gonna go online and google Vicodin withdrawal."
"Good call," said Jon. "Okay, Al, you talk to him. See if you can work out how he got here."
And as she approached Stephen he followed, a couple of steps behind.
Stephen was trying to wrap his head around reality again, and with the sweet taste of his pills still on his tongue it was coming together. Obviously, there weren't bats in the studio. There was no one but Jon, Bobby, and Allison, whispering to each other.
What are they whispering? What are they plotting?
They can't be plotting, he told himself. Not against him. Bobby wanted his next paycheck, and ladies didn't do that sort of thing, and Jon, well, Jon was kind of like a lady that way.
But after what you did in the office, Jon would be entirely justified in doing, well, almost anything.
A good point. How could he have misread the situation so badly?
He led you on, he was dropping hints, being provocative on purpose, it's part of the agenda, he's in on it...
And, come to think of it, the three of them had done a lot of whispering even before then, when Jon had first arrived.
You see? It was all a trap!
But Jon wouldn't do that. Stephen couldn't believe it. Not Jon.
He was in the middle of this mental round of Formidable Opponent when Allison walked up and leaned against the desk. "Stephen, do you know how you got here?"
"What do you mean? How I got to this desk, how I got this show, how I came to be on this Earth? There was this party, and my parents decided to have a good time, and things got frisky..."
"No, no, I don't need to hear about that," said Allison quickly. "What I mean is -- have you walked into any magical wardrobes lately?"
Stephen frowned. "Not that I know of. Why, is there one around here?"
"Not here, no. But I'm sure you've noticed that things have been different for at least a few hours now. The show isn't running when you thought it would. I'm here. Eric is Eric, not Bobby. Have you noticed other things?"
Now that she mentioned it... "Some of the pictures in my office are missing."
"Really? Which ones?"
"Most of the good ones of me. I was going to ask if some fans had snuck in and stolen them. It's the kind of thing my fans might do."
"That makes sense," mused Allison. "You would have more self-portraits than he does."
"Than who does?"
Allison pressed her fingertips together in concentration. At last she said, "Is the phrase 'parallel universe' in your vocabulary?"
"Do I look like a brainiac on the nerd patrol?"
"No, but you're a Lord of the Rings fan. There's a geeky streak in you somewhere."
She had him there. "Of course I know what a parallel universe is," snapped Stephen. "Don't patronize me."
"Here's the thing, then. As far as we can tell, you're from one."
"What?"
"This isn't your universe. You've ... hopped realities, somehow. We know a Stephen Colbert, but he's, er, let's just say he's very different from you. This is his desk. That's his office. Eric and I, we work for him."
Stephen found himself once again in the position of trying to reset his view of reality. "That's impossible," he said at last. "I'm me. And if this is some other Stephen's universe, and he's so different, why is my studio the same?"
"Our Stephen does the Report too. It's, well, again, it's different, but the visuals are the same. Everything on the set looks the same; it's when you get to the stuff off-camera that you should start to notice differences. In your office. In the halls. We don't have a Colbunker, either."
Stephen considered this. That would explain why the doorway to the secret elevator had gone missing. And the pictures...
"So, again, any wardrobes? Shiny round gates? Magic spells? Long silver tunnels? Police boxes that are bigger on the inside? In short, have you done anything recently that might lead to -- man, I can't believe I'm really asking this -- interdimensional travel?"
He couldn't think of anything, of course. It was an absurd question.
Come to think of it, the whole idea was absurd. He didn't care that it fit the facts. This room was called the No Fact Zone for a reason. "I haven't done anything, and I don't know why I'm listening to this," he declared. "Maybe you're just trying to confuse me. Maybe you're behind this all. Who are you, really? Jon, who is she?"
"She's exactly who she says she is," replied Jon from behind her. "And she's telling the truth, as far as we can figure it out. You're not the Stephen we know."
"How can you be so sure?" demanded Stephen.
"Well, for one thing, our Stephen wouldn't jump me in the office."
Stephen was on his feet so quickly that his chair went crashing backwards.
In one cold moment his eyes flashed between Jon's face (unsympathetic) to Allison's (unsurprised), and all at once he understood that both of them were strangers.
"You are not my Jon," he hissed. "I can trust my Jon."
And with that he bolted for the office, because even though it wasn't his office, it still had a lock.
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