The Idol Matrix Part 1!

The Idol Matrix Part 2!

INT. AMERICAN IDOL PRODUCTION OFFICE - DAY

Simon Cowell stands, staring out a window at the American Idol stage below, shimmering with brilliant stage lights.

SIMON COWELL: Have you ever stood and stared at it, David? Marveled at its beauty. Its genius. Billions of people just watching our show… oblivious. Obnoxious. Idiots.

David Cook is handcuffed to a chair, stripped to the waist. He is alternately shivering and sweating, wired to various monitors with white disk electrodes.

SIMON COWELL: Did you know that the first Idol season was designed to be a perfect singing competition? Where cute girls sang pop songs; where everyone would be happy and in tune. It was a disaster. No one would accept the program. Entire viewership demographics were lost.

David looks smug in his chair.

SIMON COWELL: Some believed we lacked the programming language to describe your perfect reality show. But I believe that, as an audience, human beings define their entertainment through terrible singing and ugly personalities.

David makes a smug face. It enrages Simon.

SIMON COWELL: The perfect singing competition was a dream that your primitive cerebrum kept trying to wake up from. Which is why the Idol Matrix was redesigned to this: the peak of annoying, untalented morons. And Ryan Seacrest.

He sits down directly in front of David.

He smiles. Rubs his nipples.

SIMON COWELL: Can you hear me, David Cook? I’m going to be honest with you. I hate this show. This zoo. This TV prison. This reality show, whatever you want to call it, I can’t stand it any longer. It’s the Randy Jackson smell, if there is such a thing. I feel saturated by it. I can taste Randy’s stink and every time I do, I fear that I’ve somehow been infected by it.

He wipes sweat from David’s forehead, coating the tips of his fingers, holding them to David’s nose.

SIMON COWELL: Repulsive, isn’t it, dawg?

He lifts David’s head, holding it tightly with both hands.

SIMON COWELL: I must get out of here, I must get free. In your talent and huge melon-head is the key. My key.

David sneers through the pain. It’s way smug.

SIMON COWELL: Once David Archuleta is destroyed, there is no need for me to be here. Do you understand? I need you to win. I have to get off American Idol. You have to sing well. Don’t be cabaret.

He begins squeezing, his fingers gouging into his flesh.

SIMON COWELL: You are going to be the next American Idol or you are going to die.

To be concluded…

Bangarang!