Scott Parker shakes his head in sorrow at the reporter’s question. “It’s a tragedy. The most horrific thing. But it’s inevitable, isn’t it. Couldn’t you see it coming the moment they released these things to market? I certainly did.”
“I don’t think anyone anticipated they would be hacked—” she starts in.
“But this is what happens when you try to fake intimacy. This is why we need monogamy. These lone wolves are lonely, they’re desperate, and society has turned its back on them. It’s made them the problem. They need wives. It’s about balance. The male energy needs the feminine to even it out, and vice versa. Think of all the people who could be saved from this terrible turn of events if one real human woman, just one, was willing to give one of these guys the chance. Don’t you think that’s worth the sacrifice?”
“I really don’t think—”
“Yes, that’s your problem. I don’t mean to be rude, but can we move on? Next question, please.”
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“Hi, you must be Natalie.” The guy with the shaved head and the printed shirt, white on white, comes strolling into the lobby of the recording studio, where she has been waiting and waiting. She stands up, in her best professional dress, the black one with the white collar, and he shakes her hand effusively. “I’m Jake, the creative director. Listen. I’m so sorry for all this. We’re not going to be able to record with you today. We love your work. We think you’re terrific. But the client is very conservative. South African banking industry, old boys’ club, and you know, right, that some old biddy from Pinelands is going to get her panties in a bunch about you being The Girl, the woman, who, you know, The Voice. And she’s going to write in to complain that she’s scandalized, and she’s going to close her account because she simply can’t be associated with porn and murder. I’m sorry. Don’t take it personally, okay? It’s not you, it’s them. Frankly, I disagree, but I’m not the one cutting the paycheck.