Audition

The number of auditioners is larger than I expected, but they are all built low to the ground. We all fasted for the weeks prior to the audition in order to reduce our gelatin to a proportion similar to the starting point of the previous Blobs in the previous Blob films. I myself passed up devouring some of the most tempting sheep and a most bewitching cow on a farm road not far from where my meteorite landed. Even now, I avoid the buffet which is lavishly composed of some of the most delectable exhumed remains of B-horror film extras who have succumbed to the years, to alcoholism, to various cancers caused by the excessive smoking of cigarettes. The centerpiece is the hardest to resist: the well-garnished head and torso of the whithered old man who mysteriously warned the lackadaisical teens of their impending doom. So far, no one has touched the centerpiece, though I can tell that The Blot and The Ploop are watching it quite avaricly.

When I read the ad in the paper calling for gelatinous masses to audition for the lead role in yet another remake of the Blob, my protoplasm jiggled with excitement. Since the remake in 1988 when I was freshly crashed to the earth, I had long given up any hope of acting stardom, instead religating my aspirations to the possibility of a one-day remake of The Return of the Blob or even the Son of the Blob. I must admit that the Son of the Blob confuses me considerably since I have yet to ascertain any means by which us gelatinous masses can procreate. If anything, I could see two gelatinous masses merging into one before I can see any act of replication. Perhaps one of us could be divided in two by a large falling object during one of our rampages, but even then I'd still be uncertain as to whether or not the two "new" blobs would constitute offspring or just two of the same blob. Really, it's pretty hard to differentiate between gelatinous masses to begin with, so we've all taken to ingesting placards with our names on them that are made of materials impervious to our digestive processes.

In this way, I can tell that it is The Wad who jiggles in the corner by the plastic ficas tree, gelatinous tentacles rhythmically plucking leaves from the branches and drawing them into its central mass. The Heap and The Goop linger near the doorway patiently dissolving the fabric of one of the Producers coats from the rack. If they get caught, it will likely reduce their chances of being cast. Producers are kind of particular about their clothing being devoured. Perhaps it makes them afraid that they themselves might be devoured if they upset the gelatinous mass in question. And one thing is certain: with the number of gelatinous masses who have showed up to this audition, there is significant likelihood that several of us will depart quite upset. It's not like they remake the Blob every day. In fact, the possibility of rejection motivated rampage may be the reason why so few Blob films are made. Funny that Friday the 13th and Nightmare on Elm Street Films never ran into such obstacles. Then again, the amount of deaths accountable to either Freddy or Jason has nothing on the number of deaths a determined gelatinous mass can rack up on a good day.

So I mosey over towards the buffet table and pulsate next to a cytoplasmic lump named The Lump. Gelatinous masses don't speak, but we can cause cellular composites within us to glow in phospherescent patterns something akin to morse code.

"So how long since you descended from space?" I asked.

The Lump pulled an ankle bone from one of the spreads on the buffet and said, "Oh quite a few years now. I was an alternate for the original Return of the Blob, so I'm hoping someone will remember me and give me a break."

"Wow," I said, "so you worked with The Clot? What was that like?"

The Lump puffed up its gelatin and said, "Clot's a primadona. Thought its plasmic membrane was shinier than everyone else's."

"I guess that's not suprising, getting to play the actual Blob and all," I said.

"Yeah, I might have thought different of the Clot if I'd met it before it got famous."

"I know one thing," I said, "if I get the part, I'm going to remember all the little gelatinous masses who were kept me on my protoplasm since I crashed to the earth."

"I'm sure they all say that," The Lump said and turned its attention to a scrumptious shoulder blade.

I myself plucked down a full leg to ensure that I would dissolve enough calories to be at peak pulsation during my audition. Good pulsation was something that the producers would certainly look for. I wished their was a mirror so I could check the shine on my own protoplasmic membrane. Through under the table I saw the Wad blink to the Heap that the original, THE ORIGINAL, Blob, the one and the only true BLOB was signed as acting advisor to the lead part, and my cytoplasm mass nearly expanded into rampage growth state as I imagined myself working under the mentorship of the real Blob. It took a supreme act of well and the expulsion of the leg I'd been eating from my central mass to prevent making a bad scene.

All I can do is pulsate and wait. I glance from the Heap to the Wad to the Ploop to the Lump. Suddenly it occured to me that we all shared the same roots. Encased in our respective meteors, we all crashed to the earth trailing fire. All of us caused an explosion of rock and rubble and thrust our feeding tentacles through our cosmic encasements and dragged ourselves through the forests and valleys. I realized that even if I didn't get the part, that if I didn't get to work with The Blob, I was just as valid of a gelatinous mass as the Blob itself.

Success didn't matter if one devoured and rampaged as any good gelatinous mass should be expected. Was all our cytoplasm not red? If we were shot, did we not chase down our assailants and break down the molecular structure of their component parts? If we were deposited on the North Pole did we not Freeze? I needed to become my own Blob before I could portray The Blob.

As the secratarial gelatinous mass entered the room through the door to the place where the producers awaited, a clipboard floating within its membrane, I decided that I would depart from the audition. I would let the other gelatinous masses attempt to find their identities and validation through the identity of another gelatinous mass. I would make myself a name out in the city. In the streets. My rampage would be the greatest rampage ever known, and the next film staring a gelatinous mass would be about me. It would have no title because I had swallowed no placard. It would be truth. It would be me.

Before I left, as The Wad disappeared into the audition space, I did swipe the entire corpse of the doomsaying old man.