No Matter What I Do, I Feel the Pain

Rumors are flying that ’N Sync will be reuniting tonight at the MTV Video Music Awards at the Barclay’s Center in Brooklyn. It’s been a while since we’ve heard about most members of the band, so I wrote fan fiction about what they’ve been doing with their lives since Justin Timberlake broke up ’N Sync to sing duets with Timbaland.

Lance Bass awakens, crushed under a sea of naked women. He wonders how he will be able to hustle these nubile bitches out of his condo; if the paparazzi catches wind of their sleepover, they might catch on to the fact that he’s straight. Extracting himself with a yawn, he goes to the kitchen and sits down for a conference call with his management team. The topic, as always, is how they are going to gay up Lance's image when he is a beacon of masculinity. (All Lance wants to do is listen to the Dave Matthews Band and leave dishes “soaking” in the sink, but years ago it was decided that the only way to keep him relevant was if he pretended to be a homosexual.) His agent and publicist begin throwing out ideas:

“Lance, what if you bought an albino tiger? Gays love big cats.”

“I heard that Wentworth Miller just came out. We could arrange a photo op.”

“We need to get you back on Andy Cohen's show. We could have Diana Ross come out to surprise you, and you could cry.”

Lance sighs, scrolling through the previous night's basketball scores on his case-less iPhone. His hairdresser is going to be over soon to bleach his roots, and he knows he’s going to be in a world of pain.

Joey Fatone’s wife and children have left him. They were driven away by his singular focus, a ray gun he had bought from an aging Soviet physicist and had installed in the basement of their Orlando, Florida, mansion. When fully functional, the gun can be loaded with a variety of dangerous chemicals, which can be shot at targeted populations around the globe. Yuri, the Soviet physicist, gave Joey a list of possible substances he use: radium, mercury, Agent Orange, mustard gas—the list went on and on. But Joey has different ideas. He plans to shoot animal fat at the population of the entire world, causing a global epidemic of extreme obesity. He will be the only living man spared. Staring at the hundreds of drums of hamburger patties he’s stockpiled for his master plan, Joey mutters to himself, “We'll see who's the fat one now…”

JC Chasez is checking out at the supermarket, waiting to scan his savings card on a six-pack of yogurt and a carton of strawberries when the cashier looks up at him, a startled look of recognition dawning on her face. “Wait a minute, aren't you…” He blushes, waving his hands in false modesty. “You're that guy from Trishelle’s party who drank all the pickle juice. Dude, you were totally wasted.” He yanks his groceries out of her hands, dropping cash on the counter. He rushes to the parking lot.

As he approaches his car, a gaggle of teenage girls run towards him. He puts up his arms, ready to submit to their tween adoration.

The tallest girl begins to scream, “You! It’s really you! The guy who’s been parked in that handicapped space without a sticker for two hours! Shame on you!”

The others nod in approval and spit on his leather shoes. He breaks away and manages to make it to his SUV. He’s on the brink of tears when he hears a voice behind him.

“Excuse me, are you JC Chasez?”

He spins around excitedly, facing a balding fan in a brown suit. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Great!” The fan looks excited, pushing a pack of papers into JC's hands. “You’ve been served.”

In a quiet moment, Justin Timberlake breaks away from his bland wife Jessica and heads toward his library—the only room he trusts that Jessica will never visit. He approaches a bookshelf and pulls back a copy of Spinoza’s Ethics (again, Jessica) and the shelf swings away from the wall, revealing a glowing shrine to his one true love—Britney Spears. A life-size oil painting of the fallen child star wearing a denim dress hangs above two eternally burning Yankee Candles; Justin checks the candles' wax levels, crumbles a few Cheetos onto an offering dish, and then pours a libation of Starbucks frappuccino on the floor. He looks up at the painting, and Britney’s crusty, mascara-lined eyes stare back. Justin turns away. When Britney was held on a 5150 at UCLA Medical Center several years ago, Justin asked her father if he could control her conservatorship, but Papa Spears just laughed at the suggestion until cheese grits came out of his nose. For now, Justin has to wait to be reunited with his love. He cries softly, singing out in a perfect falsetto, “I guess I need you, baby.”

Chris Kirkpatrick’s burner phone rings. He’s been scavenging in a dumpster behind the Barclay’s Center, hoping to find a discarded Joe Johnson jersey to sell. This dumpster is his “apartment,” which is technically just another dumpster that he’s outfitted with a few Persian rugs, and the phone is just for his agent, who hasn’t called him in more than six years save for the one time he butt-dialed Chris from a movie theater, ruining the ending of I Am Legend. But this morning, Chris phone finally rings. “Hello?” Chris says. “A reunion at the VMA’s? In Brooklyn? Yeah, I think I can make it. I’m gonna need a plane ticket, though. Send me some cash in an envelope and I’ll book it on Expedia myself.”

@The_Sample_Life

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