David Kolbusz Enters the Seventh Cycle of Hell

In the world of advertising there are always bottom-drawer scripts and ideas that have, so far and for various reasons, remained unmade. There are also those scripts that started with great potential, but ended up as damp squibs. Then there are those that could not – indeed, should not – ever be made. In his ongoing series, David Kolbusz, CCO of Droga5 London, plays devil’s advocate with the imaginary scripts that taste forgot. 

Client: Soul Cycle / Title: The Deal  

We open on Sharon and a small group of her friends – Claire, Bobby J and Demetrius – meeting up for drinks at a pop-up bar that specialises in pre-Edwardian cocktails. As they sip their Sherry Cobblers, idle chit-chat gives way to a more heartfelt pronouncement from Claire, commenting on Sharon’s latest enterprise. 

Claire: Congratulations on your new blog, Sharon. 

Bobby J: It’s great.

Sharon: Thanks guys. Actually I prefer to call it an online zine.

Demetrius: That’s so retro – I love it.

Sharon: Well, the fact that all the pages have been hand-torn, photographed and then uploaded to give it an authentic, self-published feel make it more than just a website devoted to the appreciation of new jack swing and 90s club culture.

Bobby J: And have I heard correctly? You’re only using promoted tweets to drive people to your site?

Sharon: It’s all I need. My click-through rate is 90 per cent.

Bobby J: Fuck.

Sharon: Next month I’m hoping to stream video on the site. But it will be VHS video – with all of its imperfections. I’m having it converted. 

Demetrius: God, your parents must be really proud.

For some inexplicable reason, Demetrius’ words wrong-foot Sharon. She becomes aware of a feeling of pervasive emptiness inside but still she forces a smile and takes the compliment all the same. Then the room starts to spin and she excuses herself to go and freshen up. No sooner does she find herself in the stalls than she is on the floor, arms around the toilet bowl, alternating between fits of violent vomiting and weeping. 

The walls around her fade into darkness and a lone figure steps forward out of the black. It’s a woman wearing yoga pants and a “Namaste Bitches” t-shirt. Sharon notices that her skin is covered in red splotches and she has a vestigial tail poking out of the back of her lycra leggings. As she comes into full view, the red in her face deepens, her tail grows and two horns protrude from the crown of her head. The red-faced woman hands her a hand towel made from the finest Egyptian cotton as Sharon realises she is standing face-to-face with Satan.

Satan: What seems to be the problem, dear?

Sharon dabs her face and looks Satan up and down. She hesitates to speak, but the desire to talk about herself supersedes any concerns she might have about oversharing with God’s primary opponent.

Sharon: I’ve got a great career. I’m earning money as an influencer while growing a dedicated fanbase who celebrate my lifestyle choices through perfunctory gestures like tapping the heart icons next to my postings … and yet for some reason it doesn’t feel like enough. 

The Devil cackles to herself and casually swings her tail.

Satan: I’m not surprised. The metrics by which humans once measured personal achievement have changed. The corporate ladder has splintered. There is no longer a race to the top. With the dawn of the internet came a maker culture, which enabled anyone to achieve success without it having to be at the expense of someone else. But this left a void. People need to feel better than other people.

Sharon vomits again.

Satan: What if I told you that you could experience all those feelings of validation and positive reinforcement again but through an alternative vehicle?

Sharon: I… I’d give anything.

Satan: Anything?

Sharon nods. 

The fires of hell rage behind the devil and illuminate a spin class where attractive young professionals are queuing up to work out in what looks like a positive, friendly environment.

Satan: Sharon, I give you… Soul Cycle.

Sharon: Soul Cycle?

Satan: At face value it’s a group workout on stationary bikes. It’s billed as a powerful mind-body experience partaken of in candlelit studios, administered by supportive instructors, but in actual fact it is a brutally competitive exercise regime that establishes a new social order based around athletic prowess, physical beauty and perceived spirituality. From picking a locker to securing a space in a popular class, judgement is passed on you at every brand touchpoint.

Sharon’s lips quiver with excitement and she barely manages to get her tongue around the next sentence.

Sharon: And are there cliques?

Satan: Of course there are cliques. 

The Devil shrieks with laughter and holds up a new joiner’s contract in one hand and a feathered quill in the other. Sharon reaches for the writing implement and the Devil stabs her in the arm, drawing blood. Sharon winces slightly, but with a surprising amount of conviction takes the dripping quill and signs away. 

In a flash we cut to a montage of Sharon in full Soul Cycle swing. We see her taking class after class, starting as a beginner but working her way up the pecking order. She buys Soul Cycle-branded clothing, candles and gel packs. We watch her ascent as she curries favour with instructors and other popular members of the exercise community. She becomes fitter, more popular and, ultimately, happier. It overtakes her life to the point that she splinters off from her old friendship circle, shuts down her online zine and even disengages from all social media that’s unrelated to her new workout regimen. 

Finally, having reached the top of the high-intensity cardio food chain – a spin class celebrity in her own right – she partakes of a punishing 90-minute session. At the 89-minute mark, having bested everyone with 60 seconds left to go, everything goes black.

When she comes to, Sharon is back in a Soul Cycle class, still pedalling. She’s a little confused at first, but when she turns to her right she sees the Devil on a bike next to her.

Satan: Hello Sharon.

Sharon shushes her because it’s against the rules to talk in a Soul Cycle class, but the Devil assures her that in this case it’s okay.

Sharon: What are you doing here? This class is booked up days in advance.

Satan: You’ve suffered a massive coronary, Sharon. And I’ve come to collect your debt. Welcome to the afterlife.

Sharon looks around the room. It’s just a normal spin class. Candlelit. Thumping music. Instructor calling out messages of positivity. She laughs to herself.

Sharon: This is death? This is Hell? It’s just another spin class. There’s nothing bad about this. In fact it’s wonderful.

Her laughter grows in both volume and intensity. 

Sharon: I’ve won! I beat the Devil!

Just then the instructor calls out.

Instructor: Great form, Julie!

Followed by:

Instructor: Love your energy, Michael!

One after another, the instructor starts heaping praise on every single person taking the class, pointing out their individual merits. When she finally makes it through all 20 people in the room, she calls out:

Instructor: Each of you is special in your own right. There aren’t any winners here at Soul Cycle. None of us is as good as all of us!

Sharon’s eyes widen and her face twists and contorts. The horror is so complete that when she cries out, stretching her mouth as wide as it can go until her lips crack and bleed, all she is able to emit is a mute scream.

Tagline: Soul Cycle. 20 percent off for new joiners.