In a Pit of Despair with a Pitt in Despair
It was a surprisingly large basement. Large and dark, thought Fred Savage. There was a damp, musty smell in the air and the sound of dripping water coming from somewhere nearby. He shivered as a draft blew over him from the shadowy recesses. He and several others were huddled around the light of slowly dying cellphone, clinging to the last minutes of sight they would get before being plunged into total darkness.
“So,” said Fred, “How long have you guys been here?”
“Weeks?” said Brad Pitt, “Months? Years maybe. It's hard to say.”
“It can't have been too long.” Fred pointed to the cellphone (on 5%) “I've never had a phone that lasted more than a day or two without charging.”
Celine Dion shook her head slowly and spoke in a low and melodious voice. “We've been rationing the light. We only turn it on for an hour each day so that we don't go crazy.”
“Doesn't look like it helped him.” Fred said, nodding toward Matt Damon. The movie star was sitting with his knees folded up in front of him, rocking and murmuring unintelligibly.
“He's been like this since I got here.” Brad said with a shrug. “He's been down here longer than any of us.”
Matt Damon was almost unrecognizable. At first Fred had thought this was because of prosthetics, or make-up, but after a careful study had realized that it was because he had grown a beard. Fred had never seen or even imagined, Matt Damon with a beard. No, he thought, he might have had one in The Martian, I must have just blocked it out.
Fred heaved a deep sigh and rubbed his legs. The feeling was beginning to come back at last, painfully. Brad had graciously given Fred his pants, and was himself sitting quite comfortably in nothing but a speedo.
“You've tried the cellphone, right?” Fred asked.
Celine and Brad stared at him blankly for a full minute.
“Oh.” said Brad, “You mean to call for help?”
“Obviously I mean to call for help!” Fred exploded.
Brad looked hurt at the severity of his tone.
“There isn't any service.” Celine said, her voice husky and mournful.
“What about escape?” Fred asked, “We aren't chained up or anything. Has anyone tried just... leaving?”
“We've tried...” said Brad, “But he won't let us.”
“Guns...” murmured Matt, “guns, guns, guns, so many guns...”
“Oh give it a rest!” Brad snapped at him.
Celine put a gentle hand on Brad's shoulder.
“We're all a little on edge. None of us can remember the last time we ate.” she said in quiet and beautiful tones.
At that Fred felt a savage twist of fear in his gut. He was going to starve to death down here. He had been promised a cup of coffee, (That was how that red psychopath had lured him down here to begin with – not that he'd been in a position to put up much of a fight anyhow.) but he, like the others, had seen neither hide nor hair of anything resembling food or drink in a precious long time. He stared wide eyed into empty space for a long moment, trying to come to terms with the approaching end of his existence.
“This isn't happening...” he whispered. But unfortunately, it was.
A warning message popped up on the cell phone: 'battery at 2% cellphone will power off in 5 minutes.' Fred knew they had nowhere near that long. Those messages were never accurate. He could feel panic beginning to overtake him. Once the light was gone, they would all go the way of Matt Damon, slipping slowly into madness until they were all slobbering wrecks. They would shiver and mutter in the darkness until finally the darkness took them.
Suddenly, his survival instincts kicked in.
“No!” he said aloud. This was not how he was going to go out! He was not going to die in some lunatic's cellar, starving and insane. He was going to die like a man! Deadpool had guns? Well Fred had... had... nothing really, but that wasn't going to stop him! If he died trying to fight his way past that monster, well at least he would go out in a blaze of glory! He stood.
“I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm getting out of here!”