Jim squints down at the engraved words imprinted on Nevada's collar, then reads aloud, "Siron Systems Patent Number FT Four Five Three Two Made in the United States of America."
"That's not good," Sophia says.
Lloyd returns from the container. "What isn't?"
"The collars—American made."
He shrugs off Sophia's concern. "Advertising."
"Horse shit," Matt snorts.
"Hey, buddy, it's called TV placement. Besides, looks like quality merchandise to me," Lloyd says.
"Phew—and I thought it was some imported Asian Walmart crap. You know, you pay your ten dollars, take it home, and it craps out on you," Matt says.
Nevada speaks up. "I once bought me one of those Chinese hairdryers. It was 'cause the color was pink and red. I liked it. It broke after two days—they replaced it for a yellow one. I guess they'd sold out of all the pink ones."
"What the fuck are we talking about yellow and pink hairdryers for? This is fucking unbelievable," Lloyd says.
"You guys are really not helping." Sophia looks around. "Anyone else have any other ideas?"
There is a slight pause.
Rita throws a curveball. "I'm thinking Salt Pan Survivor."
Sophia rolls her eyes.
"You're thinking what?" Matt asks.
"Salt Pan Survivor—it's the name of the TV show that we're probably on."
"Hey, I was joking about the TV show thing." Matt sweeps his arm around the endless vista, then ends with a sarcastic, "But I get your salt angle pitch—inspired."
"It's just an example, you moron. If we're on a TV show, it's gonna be one of those survivor TV shows." Rita taps her collar. "That's why these make sense."
"Hey, I've seen those shows. You can win a million dollars," Nevada says.
"For sure." Rita agrees. "Big money afterwards too. Opening supermarkets, endorsements, Oprah. Fifteen minutes of fame, here we come."
"I'll take fame over money every time," Nevada says. "When the money's gone, you've still got fans out there somewhere."
"Not Mel Gibson," Matt quips.
Jedi laughs. "Funny, dude."
Lloyd ignores Matt and Jedi. "Yeah—yes—it's making sense now. The ten-hour countdown digital clocks—that's ten one-hour TV shows."
"Son, that makes as much sense as square wheels," Jim says. "We're somewhere we shouldn't be, and I don't like it."
Lloyd turns back to the container and shouts towards it, "You're not dealing with some dumb two-bit reality actor on your trash TV show here. I must warn you, I am a LAWYER!"
"What's the difference?" Matt asks.
Jedi laughs again. Matt appreciates his new audience of one. He winks at Jedi.
"Hey, leave it alone," Lloyd says. "I'm opening up dialogue between them and us."
"No, you're shouting at a large, inanimate piece of steel."
"Well, at least I'm trying something here."
"There's trying and there's acting like a complete dick."
"I'm negotiating."
"No, you're . . . nauseating."
Matt and Lloyd glare at each other. Their differences are interrupted by a loud clank, clank, thunk coming from the hidden far side of the container.
