The Problematic Boy Who Saved The World

In March of the year 2019 humanity came inches from extinction when an extraterrestrial threat (that looked something like the grey humanoids from science fiction) came to Earth with hostile intent. Cities were levelled and many killed in the short conflagration that followed the invasion, against which the combined might of the world’s superpowers paled.

Huddled, and shivering among the wreckage of gutted cities, humanity prepared to meet an untimely end.

However, unbeknownst to humanity or the alien insurgents a scrappy group of teenagers had slipped aboard the mothership. Utilizing deception, firearms and friendship, the group made their way through the aircraft carrier-sized vessel which hovered over Manhattan until they reached the Core.

The Core, to which all alien sentience was tethered, was protected by the most elite of the invaders’ forces, and even with the element of surprise most of the teenagers met powerfully violent ends. In the final moments of the invasion only one boy, Marcus, stood between survival and the complete decimation of our species. As his last remaining grenade came into contact with the Core and combusted, armies of intergalactic lifeforms all over Earth dropped to the ground — lifeless husks. Using the wireless transmission station with which the aliens had hijacked earthen TV frequencies, Marcus appeared to the world — weary and bruised.

“It’s over, everybody.” He said, a sheepish smile on his face, “They’re gone. We’re safe.”

Victorious and rejuvenated, humanity pulled together to rebuild. Within a couple of months most modern infrastructure was working again. With communication links still being salvaged and most over-air transmission reserved for armed forces and critical services, not a lot was known about the Saviour of Humanity, or what happened to him following the defeat of the aliens. Over the coming days there where whispers on the wind; hearsay from passing supply caravans or travellers that Marcus had been recovered from the mothership, and was reunited with his family somewhere in what remained of upstate New York.

By the end of August, life was coming to resemble pre-invasion times and world-wide interconnectivity was restored. With renewed digital freedom, stories of loss, survival and valor poured over the internet and humanity began searching for the boy who had saved the world.


They didn’t have to look far, and on the 16th of September the first post-war tweet from the (now verified) account @That420Marcus read, simply:

The responses criticising grammar were overwhelmed by an outpouring of thanks and appreciation for the boy who gave everything for his planet. In the following hours further details emerged about the mothership incursion, and Marcus’s firsthand survival account.

With the government being so quick to contain as much of the alien technology as possible, Marcus became the unofficial spokesperson for the invasion, and armchair strategists solicited him for his thoughts on the alien campaign — which Marcus gave freely:

To which, inevitably, came the responses asking if Marcus could clarify what he meant when he said ‘less important places like africa’. Marcus was quick to clarify that he had meant nothing by this remark, and that perhaps he hadn’t phrased it as well as he could have. Other Twitter users jumped to his defense and accused others of intentionally misinterpreting the tweet.

A few minutes later he appended this with a follow up tweet:

A handful of people began a forensic investigation into Marcus’s Twitter post history, which was still publicly available thanks to a robust decentralized network of backup servers. As well as identifying his hobbies (sports) and remaining family (father, two sisters, a dog), this deep-dive also unearthed a thread in which Marcus had referred to a forum moderator using a homophobic slur when his thread titled “sjw genderswapping in movie remakes” was locked.

In one of his many TV interviews Marcus sat small and nervous opposite a presenter who probed him specifically on this digital rant. Between the two figures a large digital screen showed the offending Tweet in triple-XL, and under the interviewer’s stern-but-not-unsympathetic gaze Marcus admitted that it was “a bad look”. What he didn’t do, as many online were quick to point out, was apologize.

Think-pieces sprung up with titles like “Why We Don’t Owe Anything To Marcus” and “Marcus: Pariah or Messiah?”. Certain parties were sympathetic, reminding the more vocal detractors that this was a seventeen year old boy who had watched all of his friends die and done humanity a great service.

On one side you’d hear:

To which:

As a media trail led Marcus to the west coast, he was insulated by high-profile survivors who praised his contribution to humanity; sharing rapport with him on late-night TV slots and tailing his growing entourage as he moved from state to state.

He spoke at motivational conferences where he was (repeatedly) heard to say “I was once a normal guy, like all of you”, and from there attended appearances at movie premieres and celebrity birthday parties. He was invited as a guest speaker at high school graduations, store openings, flat earth conferences and anti-vaccination sit-ins. The latter were met with a forceful online/offline response, but Marcus was quick to address the issue:

Unfortunately, the story of the boy who saved the world only got more concerning from here. In the absence of time, the following thoughts from Twitter user @_smiler232 will have to suffice:

From Now On – Hugh Jackman Kills a Dream

Author’s note: Some creative license has been taken in the following article.


There’s a video that did the rounds in the wake of The Greatest Showman’s release (“The Greatest Showman | “From Now On” with Hugh Jackman | 20th Century FOX”. 25 million views as of time of writing.)

The video — prefaced with a introduction by Hugh Jackman and TGS director Michael Gracey — takes place at a full cast table reading (singing?) where the assembled cast have come together to belt out the movie’s tunes in a dry run; an event eight months in the making due to scheduling conflicts.

Setting the scene in the preamble with Gracey, Hugh explains how he had recently undergone surgery to remove a cancerous cyst from his nose, which will justify:

1. Why his nose is bandaged during the upcoming scene.
2. Why he abstains from singing ‘From Now On’, a powerful number that kicks in during the redemptive third act of the movie. Doctors orders prohibit him from any strenuous vocal activity while the wound heals.

The scene begins with Hugh standing up front surrounded by the ensemble, hands on his hips as the opening notes of ‘From Now On’ begin and a young lad a fair bit shorter than Hugh with a pocket full of dreams serenades the opening bars:

“From now on/These eyes will not be blinded by the lights.”

Hugh nods, silent, and sways his head in passionate affirmation of the lyrics. He grows more restless with each sung line. He’s feeling it, by god, he’s FEELING it, and the cyst-imposed muteness is take its toll on this artist — his powers of expression reduced to nodding and some skyward finger-pointing. The bright-eyed Hugh-surrogate meanders towards the chorus, ecstatic in the approving presence of his idol. This is the kid’s Big Break. This is his golden opportunity to prove his melodic worth.

But wait, because here something miraculous happens. The youtube video cuts to a close-up of Hugh, presumably so we can watch his internal-struggle-cum-outpouring-of-passion unfold in algorithm-muddied HD. With flagrant disregard for doctors orders, Hugh begins crooning along to the piano strains. Quietly muttering at first, then with growing volume and conviction until by the time he hits the on-ramp of the next chorus, Hugh is in full headshaking, finger wagging, chest beating form. What an artist, what a talent.

“From now on!”, he expounds, suppressing (we imagine) the agony of eighty rupturing stitches. Whoops issue from cast and crew and the thing hits a fervor as everybody gets caught in the moment. The chorus of backup singers bob in harmony, and someone climbs on a table, I think.

Amid the raucous clapping and furor our cameraman pans out to reveal the kid, now absorbed into the chorus, all toe-tapping and teeth. Another voice in the din.

And one can’t help but feel for the boy: The Hugh-surrogate. From his scrappy opening bars to the ebbing and eventual silence that follows when Hugh decides to forego a medical expert’s advice, and all of a sudden the Opportunity Of A Lifetime is over for this diminutive lad who kind of stands there with a pained half-smile on his face, probably dying inside and willing Hugh’s exertions to do some lasting nasal damage.

He points repeatedly and energetically at Hugh, whether in mock imitation of Hugh’s own finger-pointing or in an accusing way as though indicting him among a police line-up of dream-destroyers it is unclear. They exchange a sloppy (Hugh-initiated) high-five as the music swells again.

The song ends and the kid takes up his music binder and exits stage right to take his unremarkable place in the ensemble, patting Hugh’s substantial shoulder as he passes. A gesture to which — to his credit — Hugh reciprocates with a conciliatory pat of his own.

Hugh’s back, and he’s ready for the next song.

Pox Party

I arrive at the house with Sarah and after a few moments the door opens. Patient Zero stands there with her face – a polka dot mask – buried in her mother’s thigh. The mother tried to extricate her and beckons us into a house thrumming with bassy music, punctuated by the occasional shriek of overstimulated children.

Next to the front door is an erected pasting table draped in a red cloth, covered in presents. The wrapping paper is nondescript, occasion-neutral. It doesn’t escape me that the paper on one of the presents, replete with bow, is polka in design. Nobody mentioned gift-giving.

Except, of course, the gift of exposure to a contagious disease.

I try to make my excuses but the mother insists and pushes a drink into my hand. I take a seat with the other hangers-on and get into discussion with a father. He gestures towards his son, a boy of about six years old, and tells me the boy has only recently stopped wetting the bed. I explain that because of a clashing hairdressing arrangement I’m here in my wife’s stead. He asks about my work. I keep an eye on Sarah through the patio door. She is now buried to the waist in the outdoor ball pool. Light glints off the dewey balls as they’re tossed around in frenzied armfuls.

The Pox Princess is sat in the middle of an armchair, her mottled legs out horizontal, teetering over the lip of the cushion. Her arms outstretched would be unable to reach those of the chair; she appears lost in it. In her lap a cat submits to long, languishing strokes from the girl, who – it has not gone unnoticed, by me or my conversation partner – is not interacting with anyone.

“And if she’s not interacting with the other kids,” my partner philosophises, “what, even, is the point?

The mother, wrestling her attention away from a buffet of breadsticks, celery, brainfood, notices this inaction and grasps the Princess by the wrist, navigating across the lounge-cum-dining room and releasing the girl into the epicentre of kids gathered around a Playmobil set. In hushed tones she reprimands the girl, who nods and squats down next to the Bedwetter to play.

I lapse back to the previous day, in the car park, picking up Sarah from school. A group of moms hold forth on the imminent party. One parent eschews on the morals of intentionally exposing a child to discomforting, infectious strains of chicken pox; to which another makes an argument for the Greater Good. A third contributes that it’s grossly selfish and pulls her vacant-looking son towards their car.

“I feel sorry for the kid,” Greater Good continues, “Being trotted out by her mother like that. Such a timid girl, too. Makes you wonder, if it wasn’t for the pox would anyone even go?

I’m snapped out of my reverie and find Sarah stood in front of me, an arm extended outwards, clutching a blue plastic ball. I take the ball with a smile, and my thumb glides in lazy circles over the glossy surface. I lean in, beckon Sarah closer with a conspiratorial smile.

“Why don’t you go and play with the girl over there?” I motion to the Princess, who has re-established herself in the armchair, sans cat. “I bet she’d like that.”

Sarah smiles as she skips off and I finish my drink.

I exchange final pleasantries with the mother at the door and turn to leave, confirming the pickup time over my shoulder as I make strides towards the car. Sat behind the wheel I look back to the house. Sarah and the Pox Princess are sat in the bay window at the front of the house, passing a sausage roll between them – alternating bites.

The Writer

The man thought he would like to become a writer, but didn’t think he was well read enough. He ordered some books. Some were from the Amazon best-seller list, others he picked from a forum post: 100 BOOKS TO READ BEFORE YOU DIE. He cherrypicked the shorter books with a page count of less than or around two hundred pages. This, he theorized, was the best way to get through as many books as possible in the shortest amount of time. He picked books from a variety of genres, but none too old.

He would read these books two at a time. He would balance a novel and a book of short stories, or a book of essays. He would read the biographies of great men. When a book was done he would tick it off on his GoodReads profile (which he would set up) and pick up another. He would use various items for bookmarks – receipts, playing cards, dollar bills – but never an actual bookmark. He would go to great pains to never fold a corner or crease a spine. He would line the completed books on a shelf and occasionally make a mental note of how many there were. Previously abandoned books, including a fat Wordworth Classics edition of The Brothers Karamazov sat in a stack on the coffee table.

After a time he would be ready to write, but what to write on? He had a laptop he used in his old job, but the screen was a whopping seventeen inches and when the graphics card was under duress the large fans would produce a steady drone. The laptop was full of messaging apps and games and other distractions. The weight hurt his knees after prolonged use. Not to mention the association with work. He didn’t want writing to be ‘work’. Best to find something smaller, less distracting. Something with no internet and a better battery (for long sessions in the coffee shop). He Googled for the most spartan notepad app, recalling an article he read about George R. R. Martin and how he used a DOS processor for all his work. The man made a mental note to keep a constant supply of backups, versions.

Then there was the problem of where to write. He cleared the miscellany of the study into the spare bedroom, armfuls at a time. He rotated the trinkets on the sills and shelves, dusting beneath each in turn. Lint listed lazily in the daylight as the man vigorously vacuum-cleaned right into the corners, sweat shimmering on his red neck. He filled garbage bags until there was no more room in the can outside. He wiped down the old school desk and arranged a lamp, an ipad dock, a coaster with ‘COFFEE IS THE GASOLINE OF LIFE’ recessed across it.

Then the problem of what to write. He bought a moleskin notebook with the intention of writing down minutia and trivia. Observations. He picked one that slipped easily into his jacket pocket, for rapid retrieval. He considered buying a hip-flask for the other pocket; after all, the best writers were also irresponsible drinkers. Maybe he could develop a habit and fast-track himself to Hemmingway status?

Or perhaps he should be more mindful of his intake? Healthy body, healthy mind. He stocked his fridge with vegetables and bought flax and chia seed from a health food store. He made a couple of smoothies but struggled getting the ratios right. Instead, blended apple and kale congealed over a lake of coconut water. He grimaced as he drank, and spent the afternoon sucking kale flecks out of his gums.

His wife comes home at around 5pm and he is already preparing dinner. She asks how his day was and he replies ‘productive’. An hour later, with the plates soaking in the sink, they collapse onto the sofa and watch TV. The show ends, and the great Netflix algorithm recommends another, then another. He dozes to the gentle tones of Bob Ross. As 11pm approaches they proceed up to bed, single file, turning the study light off as they pass.

As he slips into unconsciousness, the man thinks that maybe he would like to become a painter.