WHAT IF WE’RE ALONE?
A One-Act Sci-Fi Farce
By Benjamin Gavarre
WHAT IF WE’RE ALONE? A One-Act Sci-Fi Farce. © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0
gavarreunam@gmail.com
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
- SINUHE: A veteran, cynical astronaut who has seen it all. An improvised teacher of the cosmos with zero patience for modern stupidity. He wears an impeccable space suit that contrasts sharply with floral aprons and beach chairs. He is the voice of cold (and highly sarcastic) scientific reason.
- TYLER: 16 years old. An average teenager, hopelessly addicted to dopamine, with the attention span of a goldfish, and self-diagnosed with "TikTok anxiety." He represents the immaturity, fragility, and digital hysteria of humanity when faced with the vastness of the universe.
PROLOGUE: THE DOPAMINE SERMON
(House lights go completely black. On the dark stage, the signature sound of a WhatsApp notification blares at maximum volume, followed by the chaotic, saturated noise of infinite TikTok scrolling. Suddenly, a single, harsh white spotlight hits the center of the stage. Standing under the light is SINUHE. He wears an impeccable space suit, holding a mug of coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other. He stares intently at the audience with narrowed eyes and an expression of profound disappointment. He stands in absolute silence for three seconds, deeply judging the crowd).
SINUHE:
Look at yourselves. Just look at yourselves. What a depressing spectacle.
(He walks slowly to the edge of the stage, pointing with the tablet)
I bet whatever you want that, at this exact moment, at least forty percent of the brains in this room are suffering a micro-infarction because we asked you to turn off your phones. You feel that emptiness in your pocket, don’t you? That itch in your thumb. Your mind is begging you: "Please, just open Instagram, only five seconds, maybe someone already liked that stale meme you posted before walking in."
Relax, I don’t blame you. Evolution took four billion years to drag us out of the ocean, give us opposable thumbs, and build civilization, just so you could use that biological miracle to watch a Korean guy dancing in a supermarket at 2x speed. What a proud moment for science! If Albert Einstein came back to life and saw that humanity's greatest invention, the internet, is being used to argue with strangers in the comments of a video of a cat going "meow," he’d drop dead all over again out of pure embarrassment.
(He takes a slow sip of his coffee)
I know that if I don’t flash colored lights in your face, or play a video of kinetic sand being sliced with a knife right next to my head, your brains are going to enter hibernation mode in the next thirty seconds.
So let’s make a digital survival pact. I will try to make this farce dynamic enough so you don't fall asleep, and you will try to keep your eyes up here without me needing to project yellow captions on my chest. We are going to talk about the big question. The one you ask yourselves at night when the Wi-Fi goes down and you're left alone with your own dysfunctional thoughts: Is there anyone out there? Do aliens exist? And if they do... why the hell haven’t they sent us so much as a "hello"?
(Sinuhe slides the tablet into a pocket of his space suit, places the coffee mug on the floor, and looks up at the stage ceiling, preparing himself)
Brace yourselves. Because for an average teenager to understand the Big Bang and cosmic probability... first, I have to grab the most immature specimen of your generation and drag him through the mud of science.
(Sinuhe claps his hands loudly three times. An EXTREME SONIC WHISTLE BLOWS! Neon strobe lights begin flashing wildly, kicking off Class 1 with Tyler’s spectacular fall).
ACT I
Class 1: The Cosmic Cake (Introduction to Chaos)
(The stage is in absolute void. Neon strobe lights flash wildly, simulating a buffering stream. In the center floats a rustic kitchen island. On it: a giant glass bowl, a wooden spoon the size of a broom, and various prop ingredients. SINUHE, wearing his space suit and a brightly colored floral kitchen apron, stirs the air slowly. Suddenly, the sonic whistle blows and TYLER falls from the rafters, bouncing off a hidden mat and landing face-down, sprawled on the floor).
TYLER:
(Groaning, spitting dust onto the floor). Ow, my septum! I just felt my brain shift into a place it definitely wasn't before! Why is it that every time I travel inter-dimensionally, I land on my face? And why does this cosmic void smell like cinnamon mixed with chocolate Axe body spray from a middle school locker room?
SINUHE:
(Without looking at him, wiping the counter with a rag). Welcome to the first lesson, Tyler. You spend twenty-four hours a day complaining on your X threads that the universe is an unfathomable, cold, and depressing mystery. So today, I’m going to explain it to you the way they explain things to your deplorable generation: with a cooking tutorial you probably won’t finish watching because it’ll give you anxiety by minute two.
TYLER:
(Standing up, dusting off his knees, hysterical). Hey, respect my anxiety, it was officially diagnosed by a TikTok quiz! Besides, I don’t even know how to make a sandwich, Sinuhe. The last time I tried to boil water for instant ramen, I burned the pot, flooded the downstairs apartment, and got an eviction notice. Cooking is dangerous!
SINUHE:
Cooking is elementary physics, you slacker. Keep quiet and look at the holographic board.
(A mathematical formula appears at the back of the stage, projected in giant, flashing neon letters).
TYLER:
(Covering his eyes dramatically). No, please! Not math! I came to the theater to escape school! My eyes, my poor liberal arts eyes! What is that hieroglyphic? Is that the barcode to buy crypto or what?
SINUHE:
It’s the Drake Equation. The only real scientific tool we have to calculate how many intelligent alien neighbors we have in our galaxy. And to help your tiny frontal lobe process it, we are going to bake it live. The recipe for life starts with the first ingredient: The violent birth of stars in our galaxy. So, we crack three eggs and add a splash of milk.
(With feline agility, Sinuhe grabs a real raw egg from the counter and smashes it directly onto Tyler’s forehead. The yolk drips down disgustingly).
TYLER:
(Frozen from the impact). Hey! Holy Planck’s constant! I got yolk in my left eye! I’m gonna get space pink-eye, Sinuhe! This is school violence, I’m reporting you to the principal!
SINUHE:
(Calmly). Shut up. That feeling is the violent rate of star formation in the galaxy (
). Pure, disastrous, viscous energy. Now we move to the second factor: 
. How many of those stars have planets orbiting them? For that, the recipe calls for apples.
(Sinuhe pulls out three giant prop apples and drops them heavily into the bowl).
TYLER:
(Wiping his eye with his sleeve). And that’s it? Putting giant apples in a bowl counts as astrophysics? What a scam.
SINUHE:
(Ignoring him, walking to the edge of the stage, breaking the fourth wall. He points directly at a teenager in the audience). You! Yeah, you in the hoodie checking your phone under your jacket! Put that damn thing away! I’m not standing up here for my health, man. What are you watching? A video of a guy cutting soap with background music just to keep a grip on reality?
TYLER:
(Looking at the audience with genuine panic). Wait, Sinuhe... are those people down there real? I thought they were NPCs or a cheap simulation of my schizophrenia. (He yells at the front rows). Come on, move! Blink! If you guys don’t have a Snapchat dog filter on your faces, I don’t know where to look, direct eye contact gives me anxiety!
SINUHE:
They aren't holograms, Tyler. They are average teenagers. Their combined attention span is equivalent to that of a goldfish that drank too much coffee. But let’s continue with the recipe before they fade away. Factor 
: How many planets have the ideal climate for life? Not too hot that they fry you, and not as cold as your ex's heart who left you on read for three weeks just to run off with Chad. They need the perfect texture... let’s say, Greek yogurt.
(Sinuhe elegantly pours an entire tub of yogurt into the bowl, without touching Tyler).
TYLER:
(Peering into the bowl). Mmm, thick, cold, and deeply disappointing. Exactly like the vibe in the classroom when the physics teacher says the final exam is in pairs, you look around excitedly... and realize nobody wants to partner up with you.
SINUHE:
That’s natural selection for you. Next factor: 
. On how many of those planets does life actually emerge? We add oats and walnuts. (He tosses the grains into the bowl). Because organic life is unpredictable, rough, full of bumps, pimples, hair in places you didn't know hair could grow, and terrible romantic decisions that you’ll remember at three in the morning while staring at the ceiling. And now, the big step of the tutorial: 
. How much of that life develops real intelligence? For that we use... monk fruit powder.
(He pulls out a jar of white powder and blows a dense cloud straight into Tyler’s face).
TYLER:
(Coughing desperately, covered in white powder). Cough, cough! Dude, you’re insane! This looks like an illegal beach rave!
SINUHE:
The powder of false maturity. It makes you believe you are a superior being, a super intellectual, that "you think outside the system" and society just doesn’t understand you, but deep down you’re still just pure chemical instability, raging hormones, and a worrying addiction to watermelon-mint vapes.
TYLER:
So can the extraterrestrials send us a text message now, an Instagram DM, or what?
SINUHE:
We’re missing factor 
: The ability to communicate into space. How many civilizations develop radio technology before going extinct? Cinnamon powder.
(He throws a handful of cinnamon into the bowl dramatically, creating a small brown cloud).
TYLER:
(Sneezing). ACHOO! Son of a—! So it does work! If we send radio waves, it means we’re not alone! There’s someone out there in the stars who’s gonna come down in a flying saucer and rescue me from taking my math makeup exam!
SINUHE:
You’re forgetting the big final "L" of the equation, my esteemed zoomer. Factor L. Time. The average lifespan of a technological civilization.
(He opens a tiny microwave that magically appears on the counter and shoves the bowl inside, slamming the door shut).
How long does a supposedly intelligent species survive before inventing a social network that turns them into complete idiots, getting into political fights with anime profile pictures, or burning down their own planet just to get three likes from strangers?
Class 2: Telescopes, Size, and Gas Giants
(Flickering blue and violet lights. Sound of space crickets. We are in a nocturnal astronomy camp. In the background, a massive and majestic image of Saturn with its bright rings is projected. In the center of the stage is a giant prop telescope, exaggeratedly long and mounted on a tripod. TYLER is half-crouched, hugging the metal tube of the telescope in a very compromising manner, rubbing it vigorously up and down with both hands. The tube emits a rhythmic, highly uncomfortable squeaking plastic sound).
SINUHE:
(Sitting in a beach chair, reading a star map, without looking at him). Don't rub it so fast and with such intensity, Tyler. You’re going to uncalibrate it... or cause the primary mirror to suffer a thermal ejection. Or worse, you’ll go blind, like your grandma always used to say.
TYLER:
(Panting from the scenic effort). You just don't understand the scientific method, Sinuhe! If I don't yank the lever hard, the thing won’t focus! It’s like stuck, the lens needs some lubrication!
(Tyler gives a lateral knob a massive yank with all his strength. The telescope forcefully unlocks, the tube swings down at full speed and delivers a sharp, devastating blow exactly to his crotch. Tyler freezes. His eyes widen like saucers. He slowly falls to his knees, crossing his hands over his pelvis. He speaks in an ultra-high-pitched, cartoon squirrel voice).
Holy... mother of... entropy...! My orbits... just got shoved up... into my hypothalamus!
SINUHE:
(Stands up, walks over, and looks down at him with absolute indifference). Lesson number two of the universe: The clumsiness of the adolescent male and involuntary erections during class presentations are the only two universal constants that don't change with Einstein's relativity.
TYLER:
(Standing up by millimeters, making faces of supreme pain. He walks across the stage sideways, bow-legged). Anything... anything for the sake of scientific outreach... Ow, my protons... By the way, look at Saturn on the screen. Its rings are massive, that size is crazy.
SINUHE:
It’s simple atmospheric refraction combined with cosmic ice dust. The universe doesn't perform visual miracles just to impress your microscopic primate ego.
TYLER:
And what if we point the telescope to another quadrant? I don’t know, maybe if we move the lens a little bit deeper to the left... we can capture the orbit of... Uranus... (Tyler turns to the audience, breaking the fourth wall. He looks at the middle rows with a sleazy smile of complicity). Hey guys... did you know Uranus is absolutely massive? Scientists say we need to send a really long, thick, heavily-armored probe to explore the depths of Uranus and see what weird gases we find inside... Let me know if the folks in the back row need an interactive demonstration...
SINUHE:
(Approaches from behind, grabs his ear tightly, and pulls him back to the center of the stage). Grow up, you functionally illiterate piece of work. Everyone on this planet, since the telescope was invented, wants to make the exact same stupid joke about probing Uranus. But nobody in your generation wants to deal with the fact that it is a gas giant. Do you know what that means in simple scientific terms? It means it’s a giant ball of frozen farts floating in the void. Basically, Uranus is identical to you after eating three sketchy street tacos at 3 AM.
TYLER:
Hey, don't mess with my digestive health, an influencer recommended those tacos! At least I have dignity, not like Pluto. They kicked that poor guy out of the VIP Solar System without water or power. It’s the exact equivalent of the class nerd getting kicked out of the group chat because he kept sending cringe, outdated memes. "You no longer meet the planetary requirements, bro, hit the road." That’s messed up!
SINUHE:
Pluto is a bitter, frozen, dwarf rock that didn't have enough gravitational mass to clean its own orbit of debris. In the laws of the universe, if you don't have the capacity to clean your own room, your planetary title is revoked immediately. Your mother applies the exact same cosmic law on Sunday mornings when she throws your dirty underwear at your face. Next lesson... and don't even think about clapping, you haven't understood a thing.
(Blackout).
ACT II
Class 3: Browsing History and Doomsday
(The lights snap on in a blood-red, apocalyptic, and alarming tone. On the back screen, an animation of a gigantic comet with a blue tail of fire barreling straight toward Earth is projected. The sound of civil evacuation sirens blares. TYLER runs onto the stage at top speed from one side, crosses to the other, hits the wall, runs back in circles, pulling his hair and breathing into a paper bag, completely unhinged).
TYLER:
Lesson three! Judgment Day is here, Sinuhe! It’s the end of the world, the Apocalypse, the collapse of civilization! That space rock is gonna extinguish us like the dinosaurs! I’m gonna die a virgin, damn it! I’m gonna leave this existential plane completely undefeated, having never debuted in the major leagues of hormones! You already look like a living fossil, you’ve lived your life, but I’m in my Prime! It’s not fair!
SINUHE:
(Sitting calmly on a stool, breaking the fourth wall, speaking directly to the audience). You see this, right? The entire planet could be sliced in half by cosmic fire, and this specimen's biggest concern is that he hasn't gotten laid once in his sixteen years of miserable existence. (To Tyler, yelling). Celestial mechanics doesn't improvise, you hysterical brat! Relax. Comet Frushtuk follows a predictable elliptical orbit.
TYLER:
(Drops to his knees in front of the front row of the audience, clasping his hands as if praying in church). Look at it on the screen, it’s barreling down on us, no brakes, and full of hate! Please, God of Wi-Fi, I’m not ready to transcend! I haven't even had time to do the most important thing in my digital life! I haven't deleted my browsing history in incognito mode!
SINUHE:
(Pauses, confused). Your what? Why would you want to delete a history that supposedly isn't saved in incognito mode, you digital ignoramus?
TYLER:
(Stands up, grabbing Sinuhe by the shoulders, shaking him). Because it does save on the router, Sinuhe! If the comet kills me and my mom survives and grabs my laptop to sell at the pawn shop, she’s gonna see my searches! She’ll resurrect me with her shoe just to murder me all over again with her bare hands! There are things on that computer, existential doubts at four in the morning, hidden folders called "Advanced Geography Homework Part 4" that modern science cannot explain! If my mom sees my internet fetishes, she’ll drop dead from the shock!
SINUHE:
Calm down, you degenerate. The comet comes from the Kuiper Belt, it doesn't have a built-in Wi-Fi repeater. And I can assure you with total scientific certainty that the aliens observing our planet couldn't care less about your strange and disturbing fixation with anime schoolgirl waifus or your searches on "how to tell if my second cousin likes me." Your secret as a degenerate zoomer is safe in the cosmic dust.
TYLER:
But the giant rock is gonna crush us! It’s gonna kick up a dust cloud that will block out the sun for a hundred years! What do we do? We have to run!
SINUHE:
Well, put on that cheap Styrofoam bicycle helmet you bought at the supermarket, because our budget for this theatrical farce does not include premium medical insurance against impacts from dirty ice rocks three hundred kilometers in diameter. If it hits you head-on, I promise I’ll ask the audience to give you a big round of applause as a send-off. Now, stand up straight, we’re moving to the next humiliation.
(Blackout).
Class 4: Phallic Rockets and the Ego of the Species
(Sound of an official NASA countdown over the loudspeakers: “Five, four, three...”. The lights turn bright white, simulating launchpad spotlights. The silhouette of a next-generation space rocket is projected in the background. The design is, without a doubt, a giant prop male member: an extremely long cylinder, a rounded bulbous tip, and two gigantic, perfectly symmetrical spherical fuel tanks located at the base).
SINUHE:
Lesson four: Space Cinematography, Inferiority Complexes, and the Ego of the Species.
TYLER:
(Stares at the screen in the background, tilting his head to the left, then to the right. He tries to hold back laughter, covers his mouth, and gets an attack of silly high-school giggles). Pffff... hahaha... Hey, Sinuhe... not to be immature, seriously... I know space exploration is a serious and respectable topic... but that Prometheus mission rocket... it looks like... like it needs a good pubic hair trim at the base, don't you think?
SINUHE:
Phallic? Is that all your single active neuron managed to process?
TYLER:
I was gonna say it looks exactly like the purple plastic toy my older sister hides all the way under her bed that she says is a "back massager"! But yeah! So much aerospace engineering, billions of government dollars, so many advanced thermodynamics formulas... all to prove that the astrophysicists at NASA are lacking in size and need to overcompensate on an interplanetary scale! Look at it, it’s a three-hundred-meter monument to humanity’s fragile masculinity! It’s a giant space dong!
SINUHE:
It’s basic fluid aerodynamics, Tyler. To exit the atmosphere, you need a design that breaks air resistance with the least possible friction. Although... knowing the history of our species, which has been secularly governed by insecure older men who behave like grade-schoolers competing to see who has the longest one in the bathroom, I don't entirely rule out your giant metal member theory. Human ego is truly massive.
TYLER:
But wait, explain one thing to me. Why spend so much money to go back to the Moon or try to reach Mars with the Prometheus? Why go to a bald wasteland with no internet?
SINUHE:
Because our species is destructive and childish, Tyler. This whole circus with the billionaire rockets is just to pretend that humanity has a country house or a weekend apartment to run off to once we finish destroying, overheating, and polluting this planet with our factories and microplastics. It’s the exact equivalent of when your class looks for an empty room on the third floor because yours already smells like feet, confinement, stale egg sandwiches, and accumulated sweat after gym class. Instead of cleaning up their mess, they prefer to switch rooms. They want to run away from their own stupidity. Next class.
(Blackout).
Class 5: Our Cosmic OnlyFans (The Voyager Record)
(Flickering golden lights. Sound of old radio interference. TYLER runs onto the stage carrying a giant, shiny golden record prop. He is thrilled, almost running, holding it as if it were a sacred treasure).
TYLER:
No way, Sinuhe! Forget the classes! We got a message from deep outer space! I intercepted it on the roof antenna! Here, read it, it’s in a secret code!
SINUHE:
(Snatches the golden record from him with disdain, wiping it on his apron). You are an imbecile of monumental proportions, Tyler. We didn't receive anything. Turn the record over. Use your eyes, the ones that are only good for looking at memes. Read the fine print NASA engraved on it.
TYLER:
(Leans in, squinting). Let’s see... let me check the label... "Sounds of Earth? Voyager 1 Mission? NASA, year 1977." (Tyler falls completely silent for three seconds. He slowly turns to the audience with a face of absolute disappointment). Are you kidding me?! This can't be happening! I just discovered our own garbage that we threw away fifty years ago! Story of my life!
SINUHE:
Congratulations, Christopher Columbus of space junk. You just intercepted the greatest hits cassette and the romantic mixtape that our grandparents sent to the universe in the seventies to see if they could hook up with a Martian or a resident of Alpha Centauri.
TYLER:
But wait... we sent a gold vinyl record into deep space? What were we expecting? That the Martians were a bunch of Brooklyn hipsters with thick-rimmed glasses, beards, and a portable record player to listen to alternative indie music? Please tell me we didn't have the audacity to send our family photos on that record.
SINUHE:
We did something much worse, my oblivious friend. On that record, we engraved millimeter-perfect, detailed maps on how to reach Earth from anywhere in the galaxy, the sounds of humpback whales in heat, awkward greetings in fifty-five languages nobody speaks anymore, and to top it all off: vector drawings of a completely naked man and woman, standing front-and-center, waving at the camera looking like absolute morons.
TYLER:
(Grabs his head, running to the edge of the stage, speaking directly to the audience in real panic). Nooo! Tell me this is a joke! You mean humanity sent its own Cosmic OnlyFans, completely free, with no subscription, and our exact IP address attached, to a galaxy that could be crawling with inter-dimensional alien predators?! What a terrible military survival strategy! That is the exact equivalent of a fourteen-year-old girl posting an Instagram Story with her real-time GPS location with the caption: "Parents went out of town, home alone, afraid of the dark, come pick me up"! They’re gonna come harvest our intergalactic organs just because we were acting thirsty!
SINUHE:
Exactly. We wanted to scream into the void: "Look at us, we exist, we are special and unique!" The massive irony of the cosmos is that if an extraterrestrial civilization actually finds that piece of trash floating in their sector, they will travel to Earth, but not to cure cancer, simply to hand us a multi-billion-dollar fine for littering in the Milky Way’s sidewalk.
TYLER:
Hey, Sinuhe... what if they already saw it? What if the aliens intercepted the record, checked what we do on this planet, saw that we are a species dedicated to doing stupid TikTok dances while the world burns on a livestream... (Looks at Sinuhe knowingly) ...just like the stupid dance you and I had to rehearse for three hours so these kids in the audience wouldn't fall asleep in the first act... and that’s why they decided to block us from the galactic network?
SINUHE:
They left us on read permanently, Tyler. The entire universe ghosted us for being tacky. Let’s move to the final lesson.
(Blackout).
Final Exam: The Awakening and Bad Neighbors
(Sound of ultra-saturated air raid sirens. Red lights and strobes flash with extreme violence. TYLER and SINUHE are sitting in the center of the stage on a mound that simulates dirt and rubble. Both are wearing giant, comical, disproportionate welder's goggles. On the back screen, a looping animation of a giant nuclear mushroom slowly blooming on the horizon is projected).
SINUHE:
And in this disastrous manner, we arrive at the final exam of the course, Tyler. Our sublime, historic, and unique human ability to press the big red button of massive self-destruction every time we get a little bit of geopolitical "anxiety."
TYLER:
(Scared by the noise, he grabs a tennis ball from the prop counter and throws it hard into the darkness of the audience. Exactly one second later, via a hidden spring mechanism in the wings, the ball flies back out of nowhere and hits him with a sharp thud right on the back of his neck. Tyler falls flat on his face, groaning). Ow, my cerebellum! Hey, Sinuhe... jokes aside, seriously... this whole massive universe, trillions of galaxies, billions of light-years... are we really completely alone in this void? Are we just a really bad joke of destiny? Is there no one else to keep us company on this rock?
SINUHE:
That is the real punchline of the exam, Tyler. Congratulations, you just passed the course with the bare minimum grade. You’ve just realized the absolute truth: All of this... all this theater, space, the planets... it’s all just a dream of yours.
TYLER:
(Laughing hysterically, sitting on the floor). Yeah, right! What would you know, you bitter old man! You’re the frustrated teacher, the dream is yours, I am real, I exist!
SINUHE:
No, Tyler. You desperately create this simulation of reality in your mind to avoid accepting the fact that you are completely alone in your room, in the dark, with your phone screen glued to your face. The stars we saw, the rocket shaped like a male member, the golden record, the burnt cosmic cake... and myself... we are just cheap scenographic manifestations of your pubescent mind, which is clogged with hormones, cheap internet dopamine, and glowing screens. I do not exist.
TYLER:
(Psychological terror completely takes over him, he begins to shake scenically, hugging his knees). But... but if all this is a dream in my mind... if I decide to wake up once and for all... out there in real life... are we also going to be completely alone in the universe? Is there no hope for neighbors?
SINUHE:
(Adjusts his welder's goggles, with a macabre and twisted smile). That is the universe's great final joke, my sweet and innocent zoomer. Imagine you wake up in reality. You open your eyes in the true universe. And you discover that science fiction fell short: Outer space is absolutely packed with intelligent life. Millions of super-advanced alien civilizations...
TYLER:
(With eyes lighting up with nerdy, childlike hope). Really? Like in the movies? With cool spaceships and hot blue-skinned alien girls?
SINUHE:
Yes, just like those. But it turns out reality is cruel: All those advanced civilizations are the absolute worst neighbors in recorded existence. The entire solar system is filled to the brim with their neighborhood trash. Intergalactic diapers floating around Earth's orbit, crashed spaceships because Martians drink and drive, useless extraterrestrial geometry manuals falling like heavy hail on your tin roof every day at six in the morning. A deafening roar of out-of-tune flying saucer engines at three A.M. that won't let you sleep. And there you are, standing in your backyard, sick of existence, looking up at the starry sky and thinking with all the pain in your soul: "Please, God... I would give my entire life and my TikTok account if it meant we were completely alone in this damn universe."
TYLER:
(Screaming with all his might, covering his ears dramatically). Nooo! Shut up! Turn off this simulation! Wake me up now! Get me out of this cosmic dumpster fire, Sinuhe! Wake up!
(SINUHE’s face instantly freezes in a rigid grimace and a twisted smile. The stage lights turn off completely in one single blow. Absolute darkness in the theater).
(Immediately following, an enveloping, terrible stereophonic sound effect begins to play in the deepest darkness: The metallic crash of tons of scrap metal, aluminum cans, old iron, and heavy garbage slamming down on a thin tin roof. The noise is deafening. Then, the annoying and out-of-tune sound of an alien car alarm that won't turn off is activated, accompanied by the distorted and ghostly meow of a cat in the distance, closing the play).
THE END
