Sayid flipped to another channel. Ever since the season finale of Misplaced, it just seemed as if there wasn't anything worth watching anymore. There was nothing but a vast ocean of reality television programs.

He lingered a moment on So You Think You Can Crochet? As alluring as that Afghan was--she had long, slender fingers that glided effortlessly through the work, and the judges clearly loved her, though Sayid wondered whether there wasn't a hint of political correctness involved; had she been a native of Texas instead, would they have raved so adamantly about her full-size, shell triangle pattern?— she only made him think of Nadia, and he switched the channel quickly.

With Nadia dead and gone, and a short respite between assassinations—he needed to clean that 9mm, didn’t he? maybe he could get started on that during the commercials--Sayid was really struggling to fill the empty void of time. At least Kate had dumped Jack, which meant he now had a T.V. companion.

Pop, hiss. Jack stretched his hand out to Sayid, a cold beer lodged in his palm. Sayid noted the dirt beneath his fingernails. The doctor could obviously benefit from a sports manicure. "Beer?" Jack asked.

"No thank you. I don't drink," Sayid replied with condescension.

"Why not?"

Sayid turned his wary eyes upon the doctor. "Muslim," he said, in a voice that told Jack the answer should have been obvious.

"Ah. But you will have sex with blonde infidels who are 16 years younger than you on the beach, right?"

Sayid took the beer. "Very well, if you insist."

Jack used the opportunity to steal the remote control, and he soon settled on Last Fanfiction Writer Standing. "This just isn't as good this season," he said. "It's like all the fanfic writers keep rehashing the same old material they were using in the first show. You'd think they didn't have any inspiration at all."

Sayid tilted his head slightly in quiet consideration. He turned to Jack. Jack turned to him. "Are you contemplating what I am contemplating?" Sayid asked.

"Hell yes," said Jack. "Joint effort. The best piece of fanfiction ever."

Sayid rose from the couch and ran to get a writing instrument. Jack settled back into the cushions.

They would need Hurley for this monumental effort. Oh, yes, they would need Hurley, but then they would create a masterpiece, and all their misery would be temporarily forgotten.

--

Hurley sat in the Thinker's pose, his chubby chin resting ponderously on his fingertips, as his soft eyes ruminated. "Well…dudes…then…how about X-files?"

Sayid shook his head slowly—and ever so slightly—refusing to raise too obvious a protest, but nevertheless making his displeasure apparent.

"Come on!" exclaimed Jack. "Are you going to shoot down every idea?"

Sayid shrugged the bronze shoulders that were only partially covered by the wife beater that had come to be like a close friend to him. He leaned back into the leather cushions of the couch. "My preferences do not tend toward redheads."

Hurley laughed.

Jack sighed with world-weary breath and defeated, puppy dog eyes. "This isn't the Dating Game," he said. "It's Last Fanfiction Writer Standing, and we have to agree on a T.V. show before we can write a story. How about Buffy? You like dumb blondes who run around at night, right?"

"Dude!" exclaimed Hurley, now lifting his bulk to a standing position. "Dude!" he repeated to draw attention to his brilliant revelation. "Dude!"

"Yes, Hurley," Sayid interrupted his litany with resigned condescension, "what is it?"

"That's it! The Dating Game! We can write an episode of the Dating Game, with everyone from the island."

"You've got to be kidding." Jack threw an arm on the back of the sofa and half-smiled. "The Dating Game? No one writes gameshow fanfiction."

"Exactly, dude. Can you imagine how original it would be? We could like, launch a totally new genre!"

"Rad," intoned Sayid sarcastically, rolling his eyes almost imperceptibly. "Yet, I think I might find it necessary to indulge in a few more beers before I join your efforts."

Jack let one arm fall down to the cooler near his feet. He tossed Sayid a Budweiser.

"You're a doctor. Is this really the best you can afford?" Sayid asked, cracking open the can.

"You have nothing to compare it to. Why are you complaining? Now get drinking so we can start writing."

"Oh yeah," said Hurley, nodding his head with excited anticipation, "best episode of the Dating Game – E-V-E-R!"

--

And now, welcome your host of the Dating Game…" drum roll sounds "Benjamin Linus!"

Sayid, who had been taking dictation because, between the doctor and the 20-something chubby-fingered kid, he had the neatest handwriting, dropped his pen with exasperation on the spiraled, college-ruled notebook. (Jack had originally supplied him with a wide ruled notebook, but Sayid had raised his eyes with disdain. "What am I?" he had asked. "A grammar school student?") "Hurley," he now said, "Surely you are not in earnest. You do not intend to write that draconian, manipulative, little jinn of a man into our work of fanfiction. Do you? He's already been controlling our lives in the real world; do you really want to allow him authority in the fanfiction world as well?"

"Okay, dude, think about it. He'd make a great Dating Game show host. He totally likes being in charge, playing games, knowing stuff the contestants don't know, using women as bait…I mean, think about it, man. If only someone had given him a job on the Dating Game, he could have used his powers for good instead of evil."

Sayid sighed.

"He has a point," Jack reasoned, rubbing his grizzled beard. He was going to have to shave it. He was beginning to look like a cave man. But if he shaved it, for a couple of days he would be completely clean shaven, and he would look like an unmanly, simpering little boy child. It was a lot of work to maintain that three-day stubble. He glanced at Sayid. It wasn't fair. The man looked good whether he had a beard or cheeks as smooth as a baby's bottom. He didn't have to work meticulously to cultivate that five o'clock shadow the way Jack did. He could just shave it all off or grow it out. It didn't matter. It was unjust, really, the way fate had saddled the doctor with such a dismal facial hair dilemma.

"Uh…dude…" Hurley began to shift uncomfortably in the arm chair where he was wedged, "Why do you keep stroking your cheek like that? It's kind of creepy."

"Oh, ummm…" Jack lowered his hand. "Sorry. Didn't notice."

Sayid stared straight ahead, as though he had observed nothing. He'd learned how to do that in the Republican Guard when people were being strapped to battery wires, so it was really very easy to do in the case of Jack's behavior. "Shall we continue writing then?" he asked. He picked up his pen and pressed it's point against the page.