Danny Cater's "pop cultural potpourri" podcast, "A Catered Affair"—he was thoroughly pleased with himself for coming up with that name, to the degree that after having done so, for the rest of the day he referenced it in conversations with everyone from his "mentor," Oliver Dabb, to the NoshToss driver who'd delivered his "Loaded" Lettuce Curlers from Wingnut's Neighborhood Grille & Brew Pub—was a certified sensation. It was the seventh most-downloaded program of its kind in the "Nerdosphere" category, as tracked by the popular "pod catcher" app Nibblr. Cater's show didn't have the reach and "market penetration" of, say, "Spilling the Tea, with Samanda James (BIPOC, PhD)," but any way you sliced it—whether in the traditional, triangle fashion or in the "party" or "tavern" cut (i.e. in squares)—"the pod," as Cater now casually referred to the endeavor, was a rousing success.
Danny's "Come up" was in some respects an example of the shopworn maxim "good things come to those who wait"—he was, after all, a man pushing 50 who hosted a podcast and YouTube channel that revolved around superhero movies and associated culture war minutia that helped ensure their continued proliferation, and who’d spent much of the four-plus decades he'd been on the planet prior to his sudden and undoubtedly totally organic breakthrough doing what might sensibly be called "Sitting and rotting" (a modern-day Jorrocks he was not)—and now that his ship had come in, he meant to enjoy the ride, wherever it may take him.
"Where are we GOING, E.T.?" Cater whined in his strange nasal drawl, gripping the dash with both his preternaturally small, gnarled little ferret paw hands. Excessive speed gave him the vapors, and his friend, Emily Twiggs, was doing nearly 30 in a 25.
"I told you already, Danny," Emily said with a hint of exasperation creeping into her vaguely Southern accented and cadenced speech. "I have to do that interview."
"What interview?" Cater asked flatly, for whatever grab bags of tics, quirks, genes, maladies, and environmental factors had resulted in his singularly odd character—a subject of intense speculation and conjecture for all whom he encountered—had also rendered him astoundingly forgetful and inattentive to the lives of others.
Emily glared balefully at her friend, such that she forgot to announce the impending left they were to take, leading Cater to shriek, "Holy BUCKETS, woman! Are you trying to KILL us?"
"What? What are you…? Oh," she said, realizing the left—which it should be noted was signaled with the appropriate indicator well in advance and taken at conservative speed—had gone unremarked upon, and had occasioned in Cater something approaching a panic attack. "Sorry."
After a couple of moments of tense silence, Emily thought things had settled down enough to deliver the pitch for which she’d rehearsed mentally throughout much of the drive thus far.
"Danny," she began somewhat more sharply and loudly than she'd intended. He jolted slightly, having dozed off at some point during the quiet. "What if, instead of you joining me for the interview…"
"What interview?" he yawned, wiping sleep from his eyes.
She pressed on. "The one with Stone Gunsmith. For the magazine? Come on, Danny. I told you about this just this morning."
"Stone Gunsmith is... Bloodhard," Danny said in his "movie trailer" voice.
"Right. That…"
"'If you don't give me back my daughter, Mr. President... I'm afraid I'll have to vote to impeach,'" Cater now said in his thoroughly underwhelming and vaguely racist Stone Gunsmith impression.
"Danny…"
"Did you know he grew a beard for Bullet Season? He thought having a beard…"
"He doesn't have a beard in that one," Emily countered.
"They took it out. In 'post-prod.' He thought playing a beardless man as a bearded man would give him more rough-hewn charisma and rugged gravitas," he explained, now as thoroughly engaged as one might be when explaining his life's work to another.
"Is that true?" she asked, making a mental note to bring it up in the interview if possible.
"Yeah. He's started studying the Method."
"Wow. Is there anything he can't do?" Emily wondered aloud. "Well, anyway, I was thinking to drop you off at the movies while I talk to him, and then…"
"What? Come on, E.T.! This could be great for the pod. 'Top notch content, innit?'" he pleaded, finishing off in his wretched "Britspeak" voice, which he’d taken to using regularly after, he said, reading a comment in a Nibblr review of "A Catered Affair" that expressed a desire to hear more of it.
"No, Danny. I can't just... spring you on someone. Especially someone like Stone." She liked the way that the A-lister's first name sounded coming unaccompanied out of her own mouth… "who, you know... there are very strict guidelines I had to agree to for interacting with him just to GET this assignment."
Danny harumphed. "Well, I DON'T even know what's playing. Or if there's anything I'd like to see."
Several minutes later, Danny was seated at the very nexus of the multiplex's 3D, HDR "sensorium," an extra-large Splash between his thighs—the latest reminder that the cupholders could not accommodate the beverage cups sold at the theater had momentarily upset him, but this irritation was quickly assuaged by the dimming of the lights ahead of the coming attractions—and a tub of jalapeno cheese-infused hot dog bites clutched between his sweat-moistened hands, a ticket for The iPhone Movie in the pocket of his discolored mesh basketball shorts, a feeling of intense expectation rising in his breast as the white text-on-green background of the first preview flashed on the giant screen. Then, darkness.
"THIS SUMMER TIME HAS A NEW NAME" the screen promised in big block letters. Ninety seconds later, it told Danny and the rest of the awestruck moviegoers in attendance: "STONE GUNSMITH is... TIME MAN... vs.... THE DINOSAURS."
The theater was bathed in blue light emanating from the dozens of smartphones, the rest of those in the auditorium, like Danny, trying with all their might to fire off a take commensurate with the gravity of the situation despite their all being thoroughly mind-blown by what they'd just witnessed. Danny's thin lips curled upwards at the corners, forming upon his pale face a completely satisfied smile. To his nearly 10k followers on Z (formerly Chirp), he spake thusly: "Time Man vs. The Dinosaur [sic] lets goooooooooooo!"
And all was right with the world.