Simon Cowell plans to have his body frozen after he dies, on the presumption that he can be brought back to life in the future. While this is of no immediate consequence to anyone in the here and now, one can’t help but feel sorry for the people of the future. What makes Cowell so certain that those citizens of a world beyond our own comprehension have been agitating for the resurrection of a record producer turned reality television show judge? Then again, it may be Cowell who ends up feeling sorry.
If the technology exists and the act is possible (and Cowell is deemed worth the effort), being brought back will be the easy part. He will have to learn the universal language of the future – or they will have to learn his archaic jabberwocky. Even that arduous undertaking will seem effortless in retrospect, as after one or the other dialect is mastered, it will be explained to him that as a revived corpse, he has no rights under what was once the English-speaking West’s draconian legal system. He will be sold into slavery, to work in the salt mines of Rikkon 4 in the far reaches of space. Cowell will acidly insult the people who are only trying to do their jobs, lobbing such vile slanders against parents, country, appearance and, most bewildering of all, the tones of their voices, that they lose their composure.
Having alienated his handlers so, they will decide instead to send him to Alien Overlord Grothnak’s slave army, to fight on the front lines of his 200-years-and-counting war for trans-dimensional uranium against the Peace Locusts of Burzum. On the pock-marked surface of one of Burzum’s many moons, Simon Cowell will die a second time, blasted into messy chunks of meat by the Peace Locusts’ plasma grenades, his last moments in that life spent silently cursing the twenty-first century asshole who suggested he be frozen in the first place.
