(Talking into my tape recorder) I’m going to hide this tape when I’m finished. (Panting against the plastic, keeping the viewer focused on my mouth) I dunno what the hell’s in there, but it’s weird and pissed off, whatever it is. It’s like the Thing, and it’s not because it’s ugly and unpredictable. It’d be a good thing to see it before it sees you, though. (Pausing for breath) At least we know it must come into contact with its host to start replicating before eventually taking over the entire body. It’s because…um…I find it equally disappointing, somehow too deliberate to be taken seriously. What I meant to say is (sweating buckets like an ape) it’s like the Thing, this ice station of ours—all about suspense where everyone’s a potential threat in disguise, and (raising my voice) it’s not like we didn’t have a chance to rewrite the gore scenes and low-key characterization, or at least overcome the stereotype of the loser, or psycho, or hero. (Looking deep in thought, nail-biting scene with a wide shot) No, that didn’t happen (resignation song playing)…it’s not likely to happen, like ever. Turns out we’re nothing but setups for an attack by the Thing, our primary goal being to get jumped on from behind, which leads us to the second problem, and the third—plausibility, the loss of it. (Taking off my glasses, can’t see a thing, putting them back on) We know it has a thing for waiting—that much is clear—or until you’re alone so it can digest, copy, repeat. It’s just that (biting through my lip, adding to a high tension climax) by the time we see Doc, is he still Doc or is he the Thing? And when it’s gone, how the fuck do we know there’s not something left crawling around the Norwegian outpost?
The tape recorder slides out of my hand and falls through the floor. (Through cracks, knotholes or as a result of shrinkage of floor? Think about it.) Those who wandered off alone have gotten back with silly grins on their faces, some still claiming this is pure nonsense—doesn’t prove a thing, others screaming cut me loose, dammit, having lost count of who was infected and who wasn’t. Clearly, this takes the fun away but no one said the Thing was fun. (Facing the camera) I dare you to watch the screen.
(Turning my back)
I thought you’d feel that way, the Thing’s lip curls into a sneer.
(Throwing dynamite at the Thing, prolonging the reveal as long as possible) Yeah, fuck you too!
Deleted scenes: the greenhouse’s roof ripped away, causing the marijuana crop to freeze (too difficult to pull off), more Norwegian corpses (lack of time/ budget), ship looking more sophisticated (leaves too many unaddressed implications behind), scotch in hand, smiling my Thingy smile. (No need to start the whole “perhaps the Thing will bring back more of its kind” crap—it’s nihilistic enough.)
Bojana Stojcic comes from Serbia / lived in Canada / lives in Germany, where she writes flash, cnf and (prose) poetry. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Versification, Brave Voices Magazine, Punk Noir Magazine and Sledgehammer Lit. In her opinion, if we all do the thing, we may just stand a chance.