I, JanayBot : The Prologue
It was said that in 2002, a phenomenon was born. American Idol took the nation by storm, as it continues to do to this day.
For one girl, however, it served as a perpetual reminder of her failure...
Tah-mee-ka sat sat cloaked in her dark chamber, adjusting the screws to her ultimate creation. The other bots had been flawed... but this one... it was perfect in every way, shape and form. Her revenge would not be denied... Sighing wearily, she grimly recalled the failures of years past. HeltonBot had been her first creation, borne at the last minute when the producers invited her to Hollywood for her "insightful" "commentary." All it had taken was some fudging on one of the contestants' driver's license, and she'd inserted her transplant with no trouble at all. It had been a close one, too, but her little monster had barely squeaked through the wildcard round. From there, though, things went horribly wrong. He developed... she shuddered to even think... a conscience! Of all things! She suspected that it was the fall off the stage that had jostled his screws loose. And HeltonBot had begun to question... he came in fifth place, and went on to a career in Christian music.
Then there had been CaldwellBot. She improved over the original in every way -- attractive chassis, high-powered talent chip, and heat-seeking sensors that detected the nearest camera, and, through a complicated system of magnets, drew her inexplicably toward it. And to keep this one from figuring it out, she had created StageMomBot v1.0. This one, however, faired even worse than the last -- a series of unearthly noises had ruined her inner workings. Tah-mee-ka never figured out what it was that caused the disturbances, only that the disruptions occurred whenever that blonde Mormon bitch was performing onstage.
Finally, DianaBot. Complete with a total lack of emotions, perky pageant-girl demeanour, awkward dance moves, the ability to belt out any song mechanically and devoid of feeling, and the further-improved StageMomBot v.2.0, DianaBot was the closest Tah-mee-ka could achieve to perfection given her supplies, which were mostly stolen off the backs of trucks and purchased second-hand from her cousin's sister's baby daddy's parole officer's niece, LaQuayQuay. And DianaBot has come the closest yet to the crown... to have her minion make it all the way to the final two, only to have the glory snatched away by that stank ho Fantasia...
Tah-mee-kah had to give Fantasia one thing, though: the bitch knew klazz.
The bespectacled girl's train of thought was disrupted by a loud bellow from above. "Tah-mee-ka!" the voice called. "Get yo ass out da basement! Chris Rock be hostin' da Oscars!" Tah-mee-ka recognized the voice as belonging to Nasheka Siddall, her fellow Deadly Diva Assassin. It was the Idol off-season, and the Squad was relaxing in front of the t.v., with the exception of Juanita, who was down at Planned Parenthood getting checked for VD and educating people about having chill'run out of wedlock.
"Bitch, can't you see I'm busy?" Tah-mee-ka hollered back.
"What we s'posed to do with all dis extra chicken and Red Bull?" axed Nasheka. "You betta eat it later! And pay da damn bills! Lights been out in dat damn cellar since I popped out li'l DeAndriqua!"
"Yeah, yeah! I'ma kick yo buh-lack ass you ride me one mo' time!" Tah-mee-ka warned before returning to her life's work. They didn't understand... none of them understood. Smiling contentedly, the hoodrat flipped the on switch on the back of the unit.
"Greetings," it creaked in an unsteady voice. "I am JanayBot 2005. Input data command now." Tah-mee-ka didn't think it possible, but this droid was even more perfect than DianaBot. And, StageMomBot v.3.0 was just as powerful as the others. She was sure to take the victory for sure.
And when the robot began her coronation song, it would trigger the timer attached to the self-destruct detonation sequence. Everyone in the Kodak Theater would be destroyed, American Idol would be no more, and Tah-mee-ka would just watch from the side, orange glow reflected in her glasses, and bask in her own genius.
Quickly pulling a tablecloth over her robot, Tah-mee-ka joined the rest of the D.D.A.S. upstairs, where Thylvia's pig ass had already finished off all the wonderbread.
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Seven months later, Janay Castine was none the wiser.
She'd gone through all of the hard parts by this point -- she'd breezed through the auditions with a minimum of difficult, weaved through the scary stage parents of the group round, and finally made it through the dreaded Four Rooms. All that was left was the announcement of which people exactly were in the final twenty-four. Janay had heard it would be brutal, though -- she'd already seen a sobbing Donnie Williams emerge from the room of judgment, wobble his unbalanced way into a boom mic, then walk in a drunken daze into oncoming traffic. After the ambulance arrived to pick up Donnie, Jaclyn Crum's mother, and Jaclyn Crum's dog, Janay had been all the more apprehensive.
It didn't help that she was having doubts in her self image. It was nothing, her mother insisted -- "all girls your age have to oil their joints and put on their breastplates in the morning. It's part of becoming a lady." Still, she hadn't seen her friends doing it. Or at least, she wouldn't have if she had any friends. Her life was devoted to one thing -- singing. When she sang well, she was rewarded with fresh oil and lube. When she sang poorly, she was punished by a trip to the smelter, where the pain would be so bad that she often cried until her cheeks rusted. Janay shook the thoughts out of her head as she glanced over to her mother, who was currently defaming her in a confessional interview. She had to stay focused. It was difficult, though, especially with all the people crying around her. One woman, in particular, seemed very distraught.
The day hadn't been very kind to Faith Gatewood. She'd been rejected by the judges, got lost on the way to the elevator, and got off on the wrong floor. She then wandered down a dark hallway until accidentally walking into a janitor's closet, where she wept into a wet mop for the better part of forty-five minutes. Steeling her resolve for the cameras, she reentered the elevator, where she again pushed the wrong button and ended up in the hotel room of a large Greek man, where she spent a half hour or so contemplating diving off the balcony and ending her suffering. Finally, she'd managed to push the correct button and dismounted on the proper floor, where she promptly walked out of the fire exit and triggered the sprinkler system.
The host, Ryan Seacrest, had finally managed to track the crazy bitch down, where she was currently wailing in what might have Tongues. "I'm tired of havin' doors closed in mah face!" the disillusioned diva wailed. "This keeps happ'n'in! Why does this keep happ'n'in? I'm betta than all y'all! Now I gotta call mah momma! I did my best -- my BEST! I can't go back to da nail salon! I wuz born to be a singer! The judges just di'n't listen! Randy, you fat! Dammit!" Her vocabulary then degenerated into a series of wails and shrieks that were indiscernable to the human ear (the next morning, the San Diego Zoo would announce that all of it's pregnant whales gave birth simultaneously in a bizarre coincidence).
Janay felt bad interrupting the broad, but the seventeen year old was curious. "Excuse me, human designate Gatewood," Janay interrupted breathily, in a wavering voice. "I notice that your tear ducts have not oxidized. Can you provide an explanation for this phenomenon?"
Faith gave her a funny look. "Bitch, you crazier than I am!" The reject stormed by in an angry huff, her too-tight denim mini-skirt nearly exploding from the pressure of her ass as she tore into the Pasadena streets. Audible were the noises of cars screeching to a halt and an unearthly wail.
As the ambulance arrived to collect Faith, Janay analyzed the data she had just collected, which showed up on her display screen for handy reference. Faith's outer shell had been soft and submissive, and with the exception of her press-on nails, completely organic. The teen tapped her own chest and contemplated the hollow echo. Yes, this would definitely require further analysis.
The data swept away from her computer screen, replaced by the tally of eliminated contestants -- Tammy Wynette Nash, who had nearly short-circuited Janay during a sobbing jag; the ambiguous Aa'aa'szhi'ya, whose hippobeast mother had tripped Janay's power course and forced her to return to her back-generator; Boomshida Johnson, who had attempted to infect Janay with the foreign virus infect_influenza.zip (thank God for her strong immune system and anti-virus program); and Shunta Warthen with the gigantic face. Still, there was no time for compution. The camera crew announced Janay's name next.
The elevator ride up was a tense one, despite her having nearly been bowled over by it's outgoing patron, an over-enthusiatic Aloha Mischeaux, who demanded a donut, a roast, a tin of Spam, several ears of corn on the cob, a twelve-pack of V8, and three small children over forty pounds apiece, respectively. Janay watched the red light change as she finally made it to the top floor.
The room in and of itself was unremarkable. It was large, usually used for banquets, she suspected -- with the installation of a few buttresses and some grease on the walls for lubrication, it could probably fit both Lashundra and Leandra, the sisters Janay had met at the auditions. At the end of the ballroom was a small table covered in Coca-Cola cups and a red and white tablecloth, behind which sat the judges. Randy, clad in a very fetching Old Navy tarp, had gained back most of the weight lost from his stomach-stapling surgery when he roasted and ate Jon Peter Lewis at the finale of the third season. Paula wore a low-cut white Subway t-shirt that showed off every inch of her fake knockers, and took a sip from her red Coke cup, which contained a mixture of vodka and apple wine, with some Vicodin stirred in, as well as Prozac and some Quaaludes for balance. It helped get the notoriously vicious pop-star in the mood for the show, but sadly made her prone to mood swings. It wasn't the first time Paula had accidentally turned to look at the set and screamed in horror at what she believe was a giant Kelly Clarkson sent by God to claim her soul, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. On the far end, clutching his Cingular Wireless cellphone, was Simon Cowell. The Brit tried his best to steel his face and not betray the fact that Amanda Avila was under the desk giving him some free lip service.
Janay could only hear the pulsing whir of her modem and the mechanical clank of her feet as she approached the judges' table and sat down in the wooden chair facing them. It was time to hear the news. "Janay..." Paula slurred. "This is always the hardest part of a mother's life... But sometimes you have to let go. I'm not trying to stop you from going to college, but I'll miss you, and let's just say that if you stay at home, it's FREE MARGARITAS EVERY NIGHT!" She hurled up her hands as if she was on a roller coaster. "Woooooo...oo..ohhhhh..." the judge began to moan and sob. "My life is horrible. I just cry and cry every night until some brushes my hair and puts my head in their lap so I can sleep."
As Paula flopped out of her chair and onto the ground in a semi-comatose state, Simon just gave a grand, overdramatic sigh and announced, "Congratulations, whatever your name is, you're through to the next round."
Janay could believe it. She was ecstatic! She was elated! And suddenly... her screen went black, and her visage still.
Janay's battery had run out. She needed to be recharged.
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Anyone can feel free to add to this if they like -- there are far better writers out there than I, and besides, I can't take this whole thing on myself anyways. Just thought I'd get the ball rolling.
