LogFAQs > #930408932

The wardrobe door opens a crack. Val turns to you and clasps your shoulder. "Remember, you don't get down there without a convincing backstory. Coming up with a human character is the hardest work I've done since I got here." Leaving you to stew on his advice, Val strides inside the wardrobe department.

You weren't the most creative person when you were alive. Now that you've lost touch with humanity, getting down to Earth may be harder than you think. While Val is getting fitted for his Earth visit, you slump down to the floor and get to work. Who are you? Why are you in Pensacola, Florida? Are you 6'4? The answer to the last one if obviously yes. Even if Janice's prayer appeal is approved, you'll still be four inches taller than Brad Pitt, which you imagine is something that's important to a person who's forced to live in Florida.

After over an hour, the door cracks open again. You're frantically running the lines you've prepared through your head. Before you stands what seems like miles of clothing racks, all guarded by a portly man with a measuring tape around his neck. The wardrobe manager barely crests above five feet, has a cropped haircut and a thin mustache. Suspenders roll over his dress shirt and reconnect with his salmon pants. His jacket rests neatly on the back of a chair nearby. "Who are you?"
"Um... I'm Sam. I need to go to Earth," you mutter nervously.
The wardrobe manager shakes his head. "I do not care who you are now. Who will you be once you don my gifts?" He motions at the clothing racks.
"My... my name is Jacob Holloway."
"And what do you do, Jacob?" he asks rapidly.
"I work in accounts receivable at a wholesale grocery distributor," you reply.
"Tell me about the last check you received," he grumbles.
"We received a check from Viva Comida for twenty five thousand, three hundred, and eleven dollars. The payment was six days late, which Viva Comida blamed on postage. We understand if a check is delayed by a couple days due to the U.S. Postal Service, but almost a full week is ridiculous. We will keep an eye out for any late payments going forward," you start to sweat again.

The wardrobe manager motions for you to sit in a nearby stool. You comply. He rests his hands on your knees and leans in close to stare aggressively into your eyes. "How's your mother, Jacob?"
"Dead."
"And your father?"
"Dead."
"Any siblings?"
"Three."
"Names!"
"Henrietta, Christopher, and George."
"Professions!"
"Real estate agent, plumber, and failed entrepreneur, respectively."
"And how are they doing now?"
"Dead."
He applies pressure to the tops of your knees and growls, "That's a lot of dead relatives, Mr. Holloway! How did they all come to meet their maker? Natural causes? A series of unfortunate accidents, perhaps? Or something more sinister?"
"Mass shooting at a mall," you answer instantly. You prepared for this. "I was devastated by the news. I'm a gun control advocate now. Months after the attack, I gave an impassioned speech to Congress that helped pave the way for other grieving family members to make impassioned speeches to Congress after subsequent shootings. No reform was ever enacted."
"That's dark, Jacob. How have you been holding up?"
"About as well as can be expected. Although for obvious reasons I can never go to Cordova Mall again," you answer.
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You don't have to put my thighs in the microwave.