Everyone, a round of applause for a god among us, the image of our salvation . . .No need to bow, Tom. That was more like sarcasm than actual praise. Please unfold yourself and have a seat.

We just have to ask: are you happy now? How many times have we told you not to just go ahead and do whatever feels good without consulting us first? Well?

What can we say? You’ve really fucked things up, Tom. Years and years of careful plotting, planning, and forecasting, and in one single year you shove all that hard work right up our ass. We can taste it right here, Tom, right behind the hangy-thing.

Seriously, you don’t want to know. Damage Control is an inadequate plan for this situation. No, we have to knock down what’s left and just start over. More on that later.

Sure. Let’s pretend the Tom Cruise Industry is the Titanic, and we’re your loyal captain and crew, the ones who keep this ship sliding through the icy water, which we will liken to public opinion. Here’s the situation: you’ve played chicken with a floating mountain of ice and we’re scrambling all over fuck, ringing bells, sounding alarms, shouting into telephones, trying to find out how big the hole is and how fast this thing is sinking.

Yes, lots of fun. Except the magnificent cruise liner that God Himself could not sink is listing under our feet and a lot of people are jumping ship, saying to hell with the life boats. They’d rather hop into the frothy frigid water and get it over with. You know, “Give me everything or give me death.” Meanwhile some asshole is on the bow screaming that he’s king of the world, Lord of the Universe, delusional shit like that.

We’ll just say he looks and sounds a lot like you.

So, you see what we’re saying-

We’re saying the institution of Tom Cruise is pandemonium right now. We’re saying there isn’t enough hot air in hell to keep top-heavy “Titanic” Cruise from slipping into the bile-black waters without anyone giving two shits. Dig?

What do you mean, What’s with all the swearing? Are you fucking serious? You’ve blipped off the screen and no one cares.

Before we even get into the what-next, let’s get a few things on the table, as it were. We’re going to be honest here, Tom, all delusions aside. Somewhere along the line you went from Titanic to Carnival Cruise, and what we really need to work on, before anything else, is to keep you from making people sick all the time.

But that’s not the way to do it. Please take off the sunglasses. And put your pants back on.

We’ll show you the fucking money when you get control of yourself and do as we say. Now sit.

Yes, it’s great to get nostalgic and remember how your movies have changed the world, but it’s important to move forward at the same time.

Here’s the deal. We’re going to kill you.

Now wait a minute, sit down. Let us finish before you freak out.

It’s like this: the 911 call will go something like on this script here.

That’s right, it says you’re dead . . . well, unconscious at that point, but that’s where it’s headed. Good work. We have a drug that will make you seem as good as dead for the live funeral scene. Talk about changing the world! Lenin and Mao and Princess Di could hardly have fathomed the throngs massing around your memory! And, so, you’re going the way of Anna Nicole and then some.

Yes, she really is dead, but the “and then some” is that you’ll only seem to be dead, and after three days The Cruise will rise again. Come on, don’t tell us you didn’t see this for yourself anyway.

Sure, you’ll just wake up and walk out.

No, no, you’ll wake up. Don’t worry. Seriously. You’ll wake up. Promise.

***

Josh Maday lives a few miles outside of New York City, in Saginaw, Michigan. His writing has appeared in Rivet Magazine, Opium, NANO Fiction, Thieves Jargon,
Haggard and Halloo, Johnny America, and elsewhere.