Brooks Marks was over it: Andy Cohen was frozen, stuck in a permanent state of faux excitement on Brooks’ screen. He was pretty sure of his own significance: in this week’s episode of Real Housewives of Salt Lake City, he became the first son to ever truly instigate conflict (and masterfully stir the shit) in the history of the entire Real Housewives franchise. And, Brooks thought, he was a fucking 21-year-old—if Bravo was being smart, they’d realize he was about to be their Gen Z prophet.

This interview was his first televised solo appearance—it was supposed to be his moment to own the narrative. To ascend.

And Andy Cohen was fucking frozen.

Brooks couldn’t believe his first Bravo Watch What Happens Live appearance would be tarnished by typical Zoom bullshit—he imagined one of the Salt Lake Mormon girls he hated going through a similar scenario as she attempted to conference with her mommy blogging book club, citing “hashtag work from home problems” as all her friends laughed, their brassy highlights shaking with the hilarity. Ugh.

This shitty Internet connection was making him feel so….unspecial: was a wifi extender not in the budget?

“You’re frozen,” he said, trying not to seem super annoyed.

Andy was moving again, all eyebrows: “Sorry about that, Brooks. You’re from chilly Salt Lake City though, so you know all about being frozen, right?”

Christ. Brooks restrained himself from eye rolling into another dimension: “Haha, yeah, it’s a cold world,” he said, wanting to fucking kill himself.

Andy went on: “So Brooks, we got to see you go head to head with Jen Shah this week. It’s kind of rare to have a son be so involved in the drama of the Real Housewives, right?”

“I’m pretty rare,” Brooks said coolly, imagining the GIF he would become. Marginal progress. His shoulders relaxed a bit.

Andy laughed in an almost snort-y way, which made Brooks blush in spite of himself. Sickening. But it would also read as authentic. Maybe he was on his way to becoming America’s sweetheart. Or at least Dakota Johnson.

He pointed his chin down, channeling Bella Hadid. The plan was in motion.

“You’re too much,” Andy winked. Disgusting. Brooks smiled. “Could you tell us about what the rest of the season has in store for you? What’s Brooks Marks’ future look like?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Brooks said, his vocal fry absolutely sizzling with glee.

He said some shit about launching his namesake tracksuit line, “getting my name out there as a designer,” and “looking forward to meeting all the housewives!” Andy totally bought it.

Inside, Brooks Marks just smiled, knowing the truth: the elders would be pleased.

Of course, there was some truth to the whole charade, he thought later as he donned his crimson velvet robes: this was time to shine, to capture the hearts of Bravo fans watching and listening everywhere. He was their prize after suffering through hours of ads for bipolar medication and Juvederm. And his prize? Well.

Much like Andy Cohen, Brooks knew he, too, was put on this earth to provide an escape from their shitty polyester-filled, Postmates-fueled lives. To do this, one must rip themselves apart, offering their flesh to the public in tiny shreds of dignity. But it was all for a larger purpose. It was about the mission.

Yes, it was about Brooks Marks’ namesake tracksuit line. On the surface, it was about supporting progressive causes, enraging his Mormon townie peers and sharing pastel infographics on Instagram. It was about getting to NYC Fashion Week 2022 and showing Christian Siriano he wasn’t actually that fucking innovative: it was about creating a brand that said, “it’s Brooks Marks time now, you sad haircut.”

But it was also about eternal life.

Brooks pulled his hood on. He smoothed its gold tassels and put on his mask: a KN95, for safety. Then, he put on his silver eye mask: he’d learned that it was customary garb for the blood sacrifice. Less so for safety, more for ambience. Priorities.

He climbed into the black SUV parked in front of the hotel: “for Brooks?” he asked the driver, who answered “we serve the highest power.” God, he’d forgotten himself.

“We do, yes, sorry, I—” Brooks fumbled. He was new at this. The driver winked. They remained silent until they reached the mansion in Franklin Lakes, New Jersey.

“Welcome,” Gia Giudice said, her melodic voice unmistakable in spite of her robes and masks and shit.

Together, they headed to the basement. It was kind of dark, but he could make out a few shadowy figures standing around….was that an air hockey table? Leaning against what appeared to be a shitty tiki bar, he spotted Avery Singer staring at him—he could tell it was her because of the way she’d inherited her mother Ramona Singer’s haunting eyes. Unblinking, observing. Bone chilling.

Avery shot daggers at Brooks from behind her gold mask, a mark of seniority. It signified her status as one of the elders—the children of Real Housewives who’d spent years toiling away to create the order, one that would offer them a place in the sun forever, a chance to literally become as famous as Kylie Jenner.

He realized he didn’t exactly know what they meant by “eternal life.” He only knew the broad strokes. He’d gotten a DM from Albie Manzo two weeks ago—”blood sacrifice, u down?”—and now it was all happening so fast. Really fucking fast. He took a deep breath. He could do this. Whatever “this” was. Maybe a goat or something? Maybe “blood” was a metaphor. Like Christ’s blood, right? Or whatever Christians and Mormons believed—his family was Jewish. “What the fuck am I doing around these fanatics?!” Brooks thought to himself. He took a deep breath: trust the process.

After what felt like ten years of silence, he heard a woman chanting like she was in a particularly pretentious hot yoga class: she was descending the carpeted stairs directly behind him. Brooks didn’t dare turn to look at her—years of being surrounded by Mormons taught him to remain calm and still during weird moments of unclear importance—but he felt like he knew her voice. It was….gravelly. Hoarse? No….just low. It was unmistakable. But who?

A hand touched his shoulder. He turned around to face his destiny: the woman took her hood down.

“It’s time,” Bella Hadid said, placing a knife in his hand.

And in that moment, Brooks Marks knew he was fucking ready.