ARK? PLEASE! SCRIPT EXCERPT

SCENE 4: THE REVELATION

(The stage is dimly lit. A simple desk with a laptop sits stage right. A podium stands centre stage. MICHAEL ROW enters wearing a tech entrepreneur’s uniform: expensive sneakers, jeans, and a black turtleneck. His hair is wild and white. He addresses the audience directly.)

MICHAEL:
(energetically, with the confidence of a TED Talk presenter)
Do you know what keeps billionaires up at night? It's not taxes. It's not competition. It’s not even which space rocket company has the biggest... thrust capacity.

(Pauses for laugh)

It’s extinction. The end of everything. Because what’s the point of having all the money in the world if there’s no world left to spend it in?

(Moves to laptop, type dramatically)

I made eleven billion dollars selling a synthetic womb. Eleven BILLION. That’s enough money to buy everyone in this room a house. A nice house. Not in Toronto, obviously. I’m not THAT rich.

(Laughs at his own joke)

But here’s the thing about money: it’s just paper. Or digital ones and zeros. When the apocalypse comes, those ones and zeros disappear like—

(Snaps fingers)

That. And the paper? Kindling.

(Darkens tone, moves to podium)

I was eleven years old when my mother died. Her last words to me were...

(Switches to thick Indian accent)

“Rajiv, you have a ferocious heart. You must be like Narasimha and be the solution to the earth’s destruction.”

(Returns to normal voice)

At least that’s what I tell everyone. Truth is, her last words were “Turn off that damn television and take out the trash.” But that doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?

(Climbs onto desk)

The point is, I had a VISION. A vision of fire! Of brimstone! Of nuclear winter and volcanic summer! The skies opening up, raining death! The oceans boiling like a pot of ramen noodles!

(Standing fully on desk now)

FIRE FROM THE SKY! EARTH SPLITTING OPEN! BILLIONAIRES SELLING TICKETS TO MARS WHILE THE REST OF US BURN! THE ULTIMATE DISRUPTION OF THE ULTIMATE MARKET!

(Throws arms wide)

I AM THE KING OF THE WORLD!

(Holds pose for several beats, then slowly lowers arms and speaks quietly)

And I can save you. For a price.

(Jumps down from desk, moves downstage)

What’s the price, you ask? Oh, it’s not money. Money will be worthless. The price is... consent.

(Moves to audience, makes eye contact with specific audience members)

You just have to say “yes.” Sign up for my newsletter. Drink the Kool-Aid.

(Pulls out several small cups from pocket)

Speaking of which...

(Begins distributing Jello shots to audience members in the front row)

Go ahead. It’s just sugar and food colouring. Maybe a tiny tracking device that buries itself in your stomach lining. But mainly sugar!

(Returns to centre stage while audience tries the Jello)

Why build synthetic wombs when I could build a synthetic world? A bubble. A dome. An Eden.

(Lowers voice, becomes intimate)

You know what’s fascinating about doomsday predictions? Statistically, one of them eventually has to be right.

(Beat)

And when it happens, everyone will say, “That crazy Noah guy was right all along! Why didn’t we listen?”

(Begins removing his expensive tech entrepreneur outfit to reveal tattered, dirty clothes underneath)

You know what’s interesting about my algorithm? It’s supposedly blind to wealth. “Money doesn’t matter in the apocalypse,” I tell everyone.

(Now fully transformed into a homeless person, hunched over)

But if I showed up at my own gates looking like this?

(Mimes knocking on a door, then switches to playing a guard)

“Sorry sir, the algorithm says you’re not qualified for salvation.”

(Back to homeless character, dejected)

“But I invented the algorithm!”

(Back to guard, laughing)

“Sure you did, buddy. Move along.”

(Straightens up, begins pulling clean, expensive clothes from a hidden place and putting them on over the rags)

Everybody wants a Cinderella story. Nobody wants a beggar at the ball.

(Now transforming back into wealthy tech guru)

When I say the algorithm chooses based on “merit,” what I really mean is...

(Fully back in expensive attire, adjusts collar)

People who look like they belong in my world. People who won’t make me uncomfortable at dinner.

(Deadly serious)

Everyone else can burn.

(Lights dim except for a spotlight on MICHAEL)

When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child. But when I became a man, I built a really big bubble.

(Music begins - an instrumental version of “Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore”)

Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to sing for your salvation!

(Begins to conduct audience)

Michael, row your boat ashore, Hallelujah! Michael, row your boat ashore, Hallelujah!

(As audience sings, lights change to blue wash. MICHAEL transforms, removing turtleneck to reveal prophet-like robes underneath)

Sister, help to trim the sail, Hallelujah! Sister, help to trim the sail, Hallelujah!

(Music swells, MICHAEL spins in place)

The river is deep and the river is wide, Hallelujah! Milk and honey on the other side, Hallelujah!

(On the final “Hallelujah,” MICHAEL raises his hands to the sky as the lighting shifts to a blinding white light. He freezes in silhouette.)

(Blackout)

SCENE 5: THE ALGORITHM

(Lights up on MICHAEL, now dressed in a lab coat, standing next to a whiteboard filled with incomprehensible equations.)

MICHAEL:
Now... let's talk about how I decide which of you gets to live.

(Taps whiteboard with marker)

It’s not about beauty, though that helps.
It’s not about intelligence, though that matters.
It’s not about wealth, though, let’s be honest, it totally is.

(Begins writing on board)

It’s about ALGORITHMS!

((Writes “ALGORHYTHM” in huge letters, misspelled)

You know what an algorithm is? It’s math that decides your fate! Like when Netflix suggests you watch documentaries about serial killers after you’ve spent one weekend binging “Making a Murderer.”

(Suspicious look at audience)

I see you. I know what you’ve watched.

(An audience member might point out the spelling error)

What? Oh, the spelling?

(Defensive, then confident)

That’s not a mistake. That’s a DISRUPTION! I’ve added “rhythm” to "algo" because my algorithm has a beat, a pulse! Your conventional algorithms are just cold, lifeless code, but mine... mine DANCES! It has SOUL!

(Does an awkward dance move)

Besides, do you think Steve Jobs knew how to spell “iPhone” before he invented it? Exactly! Visionaries don't need spelling! We CREATE the spelling!

(Back to board, writing furiously)

My algorithm considers everything about you. Your DNA. Your skillset. Your Netflix history.

(Looks at specific audience member)

Sir, I’m sorry, but Emily in Paris isn’t doing you any favours.

(Back to writing)

Your medical records, credit score, dating history, Google searches, Instagram posts, the contents of your recycling bin...

(Pauses, looks at audience)

You DO recycle, don’t you? Because the algorithm REALLY cares about that.

(Continues writing frantically)

It even analyzes how many times you’ve used the laughing-crying emoji. Use it more than three times a day? Instant disqualification.

(Steps back from board, which is now covered in gibberish)

And after all that calculation, you know what we get?

(Dramatic pause)

Two hundred people. Out of eight billion. That’s a...

(Pretends to calculate)

0.0000025% acceptance rate. Harvard’s got nothing on my dome!

(Moves downstage, confidential tone)

But I’ll let you in on a little secret.

(Whispers)

It’s completely random.

(Normal voice)

I just tell people it’s an algorithm because it sounds science-y and important. In reality, I just pick people I think would be fun at dinner parties.

(Shrugs)

If the world is ending, I want to be surrounded by good conversationalists. Not people who talk about crypto.

(Uses sleeve to smear whiteboard)

The real miracle isn’t the algorithm. The real miracle is that somehow, marketing works so well that when I tell people “Hey, drink this mystery powder and maybe I’ll save you from the apocalypse,” people actually do it!

(Laughs, then becomes serious)

But why? Why do we do it?

(Tears off lab coat, revealing casual clothes underneath)

Because deep down, we all want to be chosen. To be special. To be saved.

(Soft, genuine)

Even me.

(Lights begin to dim)

So let me ask you one question before we finish...

(Pulls out one last Jello shot, holds it up)

Are you in or are you out?

(Blackout)