Pistol cocked, and pointed towards my head
You'll only want me when you have no options left,
End this life, and be devoured
By the miester and the misters of the hour
I said “That's clever” or
What do you want from me?
don't eat turkey on thanksgiving
I'm the worthless word for
Surface level thinking on this Earth, or
Picking hearses with my cursor,
Mercenary, Mercury, or Just a Mercer–
But not a Mercedes;
I'm paid, but I hate paying;
Made the game, but I hate playing
I remember making hate to be created
But she's laced with Masonry;
But she just wants a family,
I woul rather kill myself than stay alive
I'd rather die than fight
Don't want to write this:
I'm just a diamond pressurized
And i might never see the light
There's no honor in suicide
But i've devided my mind a million times
And now like dynamite in a mine;
Collapsed, collided, ad defined by
You'll never see me shine,
But that's beside the point
More than just one, is it?
Rather die than listen to Skrillex
Or take pills just to chill with it
For real? this shit again?
It wasn't real, all to begin with
It's only mental illness cause i'm penniless
Now i've got so much to deal with
I'll make another million in a year,
Which part of this, would you want—
Pondered before in a vision,
Outfitted in hooded drapery,
A rosary hung from his neck
But can't recall the connection
The high priest of asencion,
Was burned in her memory—
But a friend of the enemy;
Who she loved and protected,
A fictional figment of imagination
Would I want, if I wanted
As Mary, Joseph, and Jesus
On the front lines of the war,
Not to be started, but ended, as in
Preparation, a blood sacrifice I've prepared
In a premonition that I'd
Give my whole heart again
And honestly slain in the eyes,
But didn't, when it mattered—
Then did, right in front of him
As time's running out again
She sighed, eyeing from over the rims of the glasses she purchased only earlier to assure she had hidden the tears that she cried for Him—
Neither a friend or an enemy, rather
The ghost of a shadow she hadn't yet met with again, since he entered her presence
Now, ripped from the pages of a book she cherished,
A page which she promised to never diminish or tarnish would go up in ashes,
Wishes would become granted
gave the man honorary doctorate,
and then reneged it, nigga thought he was actually bigger than big sister
sick spitter, rip n dip listening to anything but Skrillex
gimmie a synth, something gritty, I'll make it pretty
I been dead for centuries, Unsolved like a mystery
This image don't mean shit to me,
I sit to think, I wait to speak,
I leak some information on the interwebs just to see
how fast it comes back to me
At best you're looking like a slob
I will tell you what you are, to me
By now, you should know, or see
Just a name on my computer screen
A friendly neighbor on Easy Street
A misalignment, so its seems
So let me tell you what you are to me:
I'll tell you what I've seen, and what I see
Don't let my anything deceive you
I'm the fire and gnashing teeth they preached to you
May everything I've written one day reach you
Now let me tell you what I see;
When I wash up on the beach,
From blazing fires of burning seas,
Let me sing you all to sleep
For every tear I often weep
Just fucking make believe;
And I can make believe we fucked
Just so I can get to sleep
That's…not a coincidence.
That's definitely not a coincidence.
So, you dropped this totem…
That came off on the moped.
When I came off the moped.
SO! He only let me ride it cause he wanted to ride ME!
Here's every song I've ever written about
You look serious–I'm just saying.
What the fuck are you into?
You're not going to help us?
I have other things to do.
Don't get all religious on me, now, not after that.
I hate being stuck in your head.
Nevermind. I've been up for 6 days straight.
Ah-huh. Uhh. Can I take a shower in your–
I came in late to the office, so to speak; it had been an off day, after an off night, plagued by what I was sure to be some sort of demonic magic—I was moving slowly, off beat, and irritated—nevermind the lack of energy, as I moved about as steadily as I could—making arrangements for the next trials to come, as it seemed nearly impossible to move ahead, and yet—somehow, I had been given what seemed like one final chance to survive, or not. I had spent the first part of my day, somehow waking with a gust of light, and ready to take on the tasks at hand—then quickly wiped of anything holy in me by the outrageously disgusting hacking and howling of the seemingly-programmed man-or-something-alike, and into a manic-semi-conscious desperation to piece together what was left of my life—seemingly nothing, but somehow still pieced and patched together by music, the overriding theme being that I would be quickly booted out of any position unsuitable for me; and by now, I was just about unsuitable for everything, besides gym crawling and throwing together pieces of literature unlike any I had before seen, as I was, assuredly beginning to look in every direction for other writers which may have matched my style of the then-present day and age, and to my shagrin had found nearly nothing to gawk about, but at the very least had picked up some novels noteworthy in nature, as they had made me laugh, or somehow otherwise caught my attention.
Now in my Arsenal, I had one novel, each respectively written by a woman, a white man, and a black man—every book I had otherwise been drawn to written by black women were, upon cracking to open, too-stereotypically black, or about being a black-girl in some kind of way I knew too much about and had absolutely no interest in reading.
I had no idea what caused me to look into a world I had all but shut out of my mind—this someone and something had haunted me for months and even growing into years now, first affectionately, but now growing into an uneasy and painstaking, critical list for something deeper. I hated my ex husband for bringing me to this, and, as I looked at the clock at 5:55 exactly, nearly vomited in disgust at the sprawling obsession I would have to somehow quiet—as there really was no halting the plague of tragic recouping thoughts of Dillon Francis at random—now, daily, for quite some time, even as the automatic writing had nearly stopped entirely; I had become entrapped with daily reminders of things I had written, now welling up with spite and anger, that I had even allowed myself the obsession to begin with—especially after what had happened—or what had not happened—with Sonny, whatever way you wanted to look at it.
Now; just left with a burning lust and motion sickness beyond my wildest control upon approaching the matter if it all, nonetheless with peaking curisosity, as he had walked in and out if my dreamscape like a picturesque bandit, even hijacking my own sexuality—now almost didn't want or dream of anything else, and with the un presidented amount of ‘decoys' life had thrown at me—Bruno, the bird speaking man from Belgium with the eyes that burned in striking similarity to Dillon's—and then again with Gabriel, the man who had hired me to DJ in the small cerveceria in Mazunte, who could have been his brother'; a dazzlingly handsome, if not perfect near-replica of Dillon Francis, who, by that point, i couldn't even bear to look at, let alone conjure the spark or touch of romance—even after multiple suggestions that he and his girlfriend had just broken up. I never allowed myself for a moment to believe or think that Dillon—or any of the men I fawned after, for that matter, in reality, a very short list—would ever be settled with the idea of me as a perfect fit; no, I sat in the certain reality that I was cursed, living in the opposite exact of the Allison Wonderland archetype—a woman who I theorized may have been Skrillexed and Dillon Francis'd herself—it seemed to be a pattern of hypnotism I was finally wrapping my head around, and even had learned to respect if not envy: I wanted the codes to create my own version of the worlds I had been spun into—and while I would more than likely never be a light skinned, light eyed beauty Queen; perhaps my own kingdom was meant to be of wit and wealth, rather than vanity.
Still, headed back into the desert, I found myself scrolling through open guest lists, excited to take my longtime best friend turned literal goddess club crawling, looking for industry and network connections, if not at least a sex partner that could keep up with my needs, now furiously tearing at me from the inside out—as I scrolled, RSVPing for any acts I hadn't yet seen but had heard of, I found myself trailing off in thought and perhaps looking for something I hadn't realized I would stray into; I knew specifically that Dillon had a residency at the Wynn, and —though I also knew I wouldn't be caught dead at this point anywhere I knew he was, or especially stupid enough to pay for it. Now it was torturous, knowing how regretfully physical my attraction had become—understsnding from my interactions with the aforementioned that I was drawn to Dillon for his features—his eyes, his hair, and everything in his silhouette from his jawline, to his lips and brow drove me absolutely wild—however, I had learned about my very fragile psychiatry from my obsession with Skrillex, or with Sonny—neither of which I wished existed, adding Dillon Francis to the list of fictional characters I pushed further into my imaginary incineration box, where I put everything that not need affect my actual emotions or actions; Dillon Francis, a wealthy and talented, very handsome man—could not exist.
I wished more than ever that I wasn't dark skinned, that I wasn't heavy set, that I didn't come with a flaming dumpster full of trauma and baggage that no man wanted or needed, but especially not the wealthy and handsome individuals I had spent very much of the last passing years writing about and fantasizing over, finding it respectably impossible to even have flings or sexual experiences without either of the two most rampant figures of my infatuation crossing into my mind and shrouding me with guilt and shame—and yet, here they were, so out of my element that I continued to agree with myself and the universe that it would be dillusinal to think myself a match for anyone so high-achieving. Nothing I could do or say could shake the fact that despite all my efforts to break through, all it had seemed to do was create a broken down individual, ready for enslavement in the working class just to stay housed—my music aspirations both hanging above me, and somehow fading away into the distance behind me. I hated myself.
But more importantly, hated Skrillex and Dillon Francis for living the life I somehow thought I wanted and needed.
What is the definitive definition of the word Skrillex?
I know! It's...a noun...right?
Could also be, an adjective, I guess--i?
A loud, abrupt cough disrupted my focus; I was 5-sets-of-8 out of 8 and just feeling my heart begin to pump, as sweat poured from my temples and my sunglasses steamed
Whoever she was, even if it was just one of my infinite inward selves, this was some satanic shit. Now I hated Skrillex—not that it mattered, and as he was a living legend in computer animated music, or whatever voodoo shit he was responsible for that had sparked an entire uprising of revolutionary artists and producers spanning a generation or more—and I was damned-if-I-did, and damned-if-I-didn't love, like, or listen to him; all of which I did, besides the latter
higher love by Whitney Houston, God rest her soul, blared over the gym's loud speakers, as I, more than likely looking just as superficially occupied as any basic broad, scrolling away on Instagram or texting her replicas, jotted down the rest of the thoughts that had nestled themselves in my mind's eye, as the coughing, which had followed me everywhere for nearly four years, beckoned to something—searching for purpose if not means to an end. He had Kayla Lauren, a plastic, streamlined representation of the all-American-deem girl, not to mention a “collective” of other broad women of sorts, probably all inwardly clawing just as I had at one time, for a piece of Sonny's heart, or whatever was left of it, after what I could have only assumed to have been a blood sacrifice of sorts, for his placement atop such a steep pyramid of success.
What if, every time someone coughed—someone took a picture?
I thought about the millions of hacking imbeciles and inbred, backwards savages who had crowded my ears with the putrid sounds of Satan's show choir, a coughing and excessive hellish representation of how the human race had gone awry; If I had been famous, or on my way to it, I would be burgeoned with photographs, as I had been in Mexico without knowing why or how—people sometimes slinking behind their phones as if to secretly capture a candid photo, I myself, pretending not to be aware of it.
If every cough represented a fan or something of the sorts taking a picture, I almost reveled in the thought—I would have rather had a million flashing cameras at once than to hear another ingrate hacking up a lung in Satan's honor.
I was horrified at whatever Skrillex was, and whatever OWSLA meant, though I broadly showcased the tattoo on my inner-right forearm, opposite of Sonny's—the boy I was sure was murdered by the fame monster itself, as Lady Gaga, though admirable, had blatently called it, or herself, or whatever “we” all were or had been once, or would be, collectively at the beginning-and-end of it all. I had seen broadly into the realms of infinity the night previous, and had settled on one, astonishing fact: all of infinitely combined shared a concéntrical center at which at any point could be accessed.
Even typing such a concept, I knew it to be life-altering…if I was even alive.
To think, I used to hate deadmau5–
You know—after that spat with Skrillex.
who the fuck is deadmau5, anyway.
But here I am, decades later.
I needed something to help offset the damage that was done.
[someone coughing loudly]
[trying on small clothes]
—well how was I supposed to know he was a—
Technically, If I do this every day, I can eat whatever I want—
[C.C. Arrives in the parking lot to find her car has been vandalized...again.]
Alright, then, kid—it's your dollar.
I'll take “Skrillex Did It” for one dollar.
But he's halfway across the world!
What—! He's a shapeshifter, for real.
We know! Just don't say it!
As SUPACREE walks down the street, a man in the passenger's seat is seen to be the Egyptian God ANUBIS, before shifting back into hidden human form.
Whatever it is, that's not what I was looking for.
What are you looking for?
Flashback to Kite at Bass–
That's it. That's what it is.
It's gonna destroy something.
Fuck you, Skrillex! Stay over there and be Skrillex with your fucking–models–and you coughs piece of fucking–peice of fucking shit, peice of shit.
Yeah, but who let him near SUPACREE?
Where did you come from?!
I just did. Fuck Skrillex.
Go ahead, the worst he can do is cough at me and make me homeless.
*loud obnoxious coughing*
Then neither is Skrillex. Amen.
(Cult Followers, In unison.) Amen.
[SUPACREE exits furiously.]
Wait, is this marketable?
Cause its Skrillex. Skrillex is clickbait.
Fucking–motherfucker. Fuck.
Now, nothing. I'mma go get a regular job and see what the industry wants with Jessica.
(((Oh, I think you know what they want.)))
I thought we weren't doing that bit.
We're doing all the bits.
C'esme't sighs heavily, unamused.
There are hardly any things left you would never do.
If not only because I had done them all; But to be coy, with you, my Queen is neither desire or pleasure.
I began to wonder if I may have looked as miserable as I was, as even though I could not see my own self, walking about in my day-to-day nothingness, the expression protruding from my face felt as if it might look as lifeless as I was beginning to feel, no longer wholly choking back tears but still moving and barely breathing in the awful circumstance of doing and being–I had felt the light itself slowly draining from my eyes, and even things I loved with all my heart could not in any sense brighten this dullness. I felt Godless, and at the very least loveless, lightless, and without my magic, somehow having lost my soul and my singing voice at once. Yes, it was terrible–something was wrong, and I, without becoming the star I had so wanted, was already washing up. Homelessness drained all of what would have been a magnificent energy all together, left to become someone I wasn't sure I even liked, and seemingly cursed, as most recently, no one else seemed to like me either--still, I almost let myself believe something bigger was at play, or perhaps in the works; I had been relocated just perfect walking distance to the gym, where of course rather than look for work which would only urge me closer to suicide than I had been, I elected instead to spend a majority of my time, crafting my days around getting there for the bare minimum of three hours, but ideally closer to 5 or 6, always aiming for 8 and almost-always giving up not because I was too tired, but because I was drenched in sweat, and something like the discomfort of a wet diaper, just wanted to be fresh and dry.
Help me with this affliction
I'm stressin, wet and undressin
This sexual tension is serious
I'm the lady in the red dress, and yes
I write blank checks, so when I go to Heck,
No pressure, It's my pleasure;
I'd rather be in leather than in latex, lathered up
Just give this to Marshall Mathers,
After we say hanuss shit, okay?
Today, I'm Eminem, so I can finally find Skrillex,
My mission is to introduce a new religion to humans, called
-__- SUPACREE wakes up from a coma; In a very
...Where's Dillon Francis?
Don't be sorry. Be Dillon Francis.
The Coma--You know---must've--
ALRIGHT, WHERE'S DILLON FRANCIS?
DILLON FRANCIS is in THE VOID, trying to beat THE LEGEND of SUPACREE.
“It's a really good game!”
It is, a really good game.
So good, in fact, that when SUPACREE herself arrives, S/He pays her almost entirely no mind.
She gestures that she is about to unplug the TV
SUPACREE Unplugs the Set.
DILLON IS SHATTERED, as at the last moment (before the determination of the outcome of the battle, it entirely ceases to exist.
Moments of silence pass in infinite tension, before DILLON, looking much like an uncomfortable, overheated, skinless (live) chicken, meets a soon to be boiled crab.
That's... what they call me.
3 heads are better than one;
This is a a game based on truth;
The more you ask, the more you know;
The more you know about me—
The more you know about yourself—
The more you know about yourself,
the more you know about the world
Goddammit! You son of a bitch.
Goddammit, Dillon Francis!
Oh she– she knows what the code is.
I get it, I get it, it's—
THE BAMPHERAMPH BALANCING ACT
...ohhh, wave dash, I get it…
This is the part where you don't sleep.
You've been ‘Don't Eating' for like, 8 months now. Now it's time to Don't Sleep.
You can bet we'll have it done by the beginning of next semester.
Next semester's set to not even be in a classroom.
Even better. Remote binge worthy media.
...Having found the fallen owl, he glances up at the sky, just as another shooting star flies by.
In awe, he stands at the giant animal, who pants in a tragically cry in pain. He sorrowfully glances into the bird's giant eye, crying as his tears spill into the trail of blood, a sparkling dark purple river, streaked with the silver streams of moonlit tears and the golden gleam of a lucid dream; her dilated pupils reflect all the cosmos, sparkling through the three round dials; some sound, which has never heard or even fathomed to be made, a vibration ringing as it aligns with his light, which also shines now through his dark brown eyes; He is hypnotized, nearly full of light in a state of trance as he begins to float upward, levitating just slightly--A SUDDEN FLASH OF COSMIC LIGHT, as the wounded bird, morphs into a matching [humanoid] being, abruptly changing the frequency from a hypnotising lull, to an ear-shattering, soul startling and painstaking frequency. As they both hover above the ground-- still in levitation, he quickly looks down worriedly, then back up at the being--now matching in age, as The Princess, a pretty poised and painted warrior, adorned with the royally decadent white and purple trimmed fashion, crystals and gemstones of the galaxies imbedded into her sashes.
He's enamoured and intrigued, less terrified than excited; however her eyes, now changing a through colors of neon light, reflect her terrified and painful confusion, having been wounded with the weapon of ‘man'--he falls toward the ground, suddenly, groaning in pain, then turning into a fetal position from which he cowers in fear under her.
A tear, which has formed in her eye, nearly falls; she forcefully reabsorbs it back into her eyes, as she calms herself down, lowering gracefully to the ground.
She crouches over him, thinking twice quite literally, before angrily kneeling over him, yielding a ball of fire out of one hand, holding him by his shirt with the other--he cowers in fear, now--his awestruck chased away by the apparent power of this being; she quickly throws her fireball at a nearby bush, lighting it as he glares at the sight slightly stupified by the fire light, which he likes.
A splash of water drenches him from head to toe, blasting off his pink glasses and shattering playful spry outlook with a very grumpy pout, as he stands up, dripping from head to toe.
She stands, one leg crossed over the other, another dream of water floating in her hand; as he stands dripping, she blasts him again, with the intensity of a firehose pushing him back.
Taking awhile to get back, she waits, meditating by the bush as a campfire, as he, still dripping approaches. She looks out of one eye, unassumingly continuing to meditate as he approaches the fire, which he sits by, as closely and cautiously on the other side, trying to get dry.
She looks at him from the other eye, calmly sighing as she blasts him with the surprise of an almost blow dry, which she provides by colliding her hands stretched outwardly towards him; the heated gust leaves him looking somewhat like a freshly groomed poodle--his dark brown hair to match his sweet and gentle eyes, by which, his glasses having been blasted off a third time, he notices as he pushes up on the bridge of his nose, realizing he's lost them again--before he can even (literally) think to retrieve them, they float, guided by her telekinetic twisting of her index finger.
Still unable to form words, she just gazes at him from over the firelight, sternly searching perhaps, for the way to create a translation between her native telepathic ways of communication, or any of the alien languages--she is unfamiliar with this, though captioned in (several, actually) alien languages, we, as the audience can perceive any of the dialogue just to be "english".
Why would you ‘shoot' an Owl!?
An ‘owl?' I'm sorry! I didn't!
[She appears, even still, to be wounded.]
I've never seen an ‘owl' before…
What were you attempting to do?
[She appears to be bleeding through the sheath of her bodice.]
This is my planet we're on
This is is my plan, I got lost in it
Maybe I'm wrong, but I'm not
You just want a nut with a butt
[Sample, Dillon Francis: Hey Buddy! (The Coffee Run)]
I'm on a coffee run at McDonald's
It's like putting gas in my car,
Call Jimmy Fallon to borrow a dollar.
The west was won by everything under the Sun,
(A concept unbeknownst the the dark and evil underlords of Satan's realm, which has expanded far beyond hell, into the upper reaches of our world, consuming in darkness everything it can.)
Something powerful. It is...beyond words.
That is, yet to be understood.
INT. SOMEWHERE IN ALASKA. DAY.
[Before the initial collision... ]
Is Dillon Francis going to be there?
Uh. I don't know. And I don't care.
Why not? This guy is awesome.
Since when do you listen to EDM?
I don't. Just Dillon Francis. He's fuckin hilarious. Look at this.
VIDEO: NEED YOU, NGHTMRE & DILLON FRANCIS
DILLON FRANCIS arrives through a portal onto Venice beach, just moments before SUPACREE arrives; Where he is ‘kidnapped' into an Egyptian crystal shop.
What the FUCK! Dillon Francis isn't the answer to anything, even if someone is pointing at him, asking "Who the fuck is that?"
Wvell that's because ze answer is "DJ Dillon Francis"
INT. THE GREAT SALTAIR. SALT LAKE CITY, UT.
[SŪP∆ is on the lineup; she prepares for her set. She lurks down into the dancefloor, hiding in the risers, looking over the crowd to read the room.
As she peers into the corner nearest to the bar, she suddenly stops, tipping down the rims of her glasses and squinting sternly, scanning over the large group...she intensely scopes a tall, and lanky brunette hunched drunkenly in the corner, one sleeve of her I'll fitting oversized jacket hanging off her shoulder unevenly. Even from afar, she looks tequila toasted.]
[She looks down at her [watch, which appears to be a early version of the Synesthesia Panel] it is 7:35.]
Annnnnd--the night is young…
[She peers once more into the corner, to see the girl stumbling towards the restroom sloppily, hunched shoulders and struggling to keep her oversized jacket "on", over her high waisted shorts, accompanied by black fishnets and babydoll crop top, stomping in her stupor towards the restroom.
She thinks for a moment, then exits downstairs intently.
Downstairs, She is greeted by one of the stagehands. They PLUR and hug. ]
Heeeeey. Happy Rave Dayyy.
Don't waste a wish on a wish. They all come true.
Know so. Like--know-know…
so…don't wish for stupid shit;
you don't know how many wishes you
actually get, so just...be...specific.
[He is starry eyed, gazing at her in a dreamlike trance.]
[DIMITRI nods happily, bouncing to the upbeat bass house music coming from the mainstage.]
(shaking head in agreement) Yuh.
[She produces a bottled water out of "nowhere" (the void in her energy field which manifests items most needed/useful immediately
[DIMITRI takes the water, amazed that she literally pulled it out of nowhere right in front of him; however, his Befuddled expression suggests curiosity that he is "tripping", which he quickly shrugs off, still bouncing happily to the music as he takes a drink (nearly the entire bottle), giving him life. (As he catches his breath, he looks up to see a tricolor of gumstucks fanned before him, his eyes light up.]
Spearmint, peppermint, winter fresh.
...ohhhh shittttt, winter fresh…!
[He happily takes a stick, as the DJ loops [live sampling] the word "fresh", and they share a dance breakdown; Dimitri finishes his water and starts on his stick of gum.
She produces a trash bag out of thin air, gesturing vanna white style, again as DIMITRI 'checks' himself, clearly unaware of Supa's Powers.]
[He enters his trash into the bag, after which, it immediately collapses, as it vanishes.]
...what was...what was that.
That...was...trash...magic…bags…brand...bags.
DILLON FRANCIS(in the next dimension over)
Telepathy wasn't invented for "personal space"
Telepathy wasn't invented at all.
Exactly. It's--Magic. Hence.
This has been previously established.
I'm reinforcing the foundations...established...previously.
Uh, Don't you have half an album to finish?
Uh, Don't you have a rave frozen
in an unstable time warp, just
so we can have this conversation--?
I'm pretty sure does not comply
with aforementioned...reinforced foundations,
Previously...established…
So what's the other half of thAt…
was it even an album. Is it an EP?
Nice view from the dancefloor, by the way,
Jeez--JEEZ! I mean, I guess once
from the stage, behind--you know
--where the actual DJs...DJ.
Behind the decks. In the DJ booth. For the DJ.
No. You're just...Dillusionally,
probably permanently and terminally...not a DJ.
Maybe, mildly, weirdly magic--definitely not a DJ. Ever.
I'm glad you finally understand.
We so, so appreciate the FANS, though.
BIG fan. BIG Dillon Francis fan.
I know. I have…I'm telepathic.
I'm also a DJ. Like, a real DJ. With...fans. AND albums.
And albums. Like, tracks.
Right. Tracks. Got That Track Magic.
I just got that, fan magic.
And you know, actual magic.
Right. DJ Dillon Francis. So many fans.
[Posing for a selfie, she uses one of her rave weapons (which is, actually just a regular iPhone) spitefully flashes him into a cross parallel dimension, outside of Bampheramph jurisdiction, trapping him in an intractable dimension; the photo created a time warp and intersectable checkpoint in time. She unfreezes the rave.]
Uh--no! ‘magic'. The music is magic,
Just trash bags...brand...yeah.
[They continue to dance; she nervously looks over her shoulder for possible alternate versions of DILLON FRANCIS At the end of the break, an immediate change of tone--she readjusts her outfit and hair, collecting herself in a snap--grabbing DIMITRI by his shoulder and pulling him closer, crouching lower into a "gameplay" position.)
[She nods adamantly. DIMITRI tries to straighten up, and "get serious, still bouncing along to the beat, adjusting his sunglasses.]
[In a nearby dimension, As SKRILLEX and *alt* DILLON FRANCIS continue to battle, they cross paths at sea.]
It's...not a dinghy. It's a miniature yacht, and you're talking a lot, for someone that's more of a prop, than the dialogue.
Prop. Plot device. Main character. Oh shit dude--I might even star of the show.
She's the star of the show.
[A BAMPHERAMPH teleportals onto SKRILLEX'S boat, tagging him,
[He disappears into another portal.]
Nah, you're just “Skrillex.”
[A MOTHERFUCKER portals onto SKRILLEX'S boat, via another portal, handing him an *object*]
...I made the HUMBLE remix.
[THE MOTHERFUCKER disappears into a portal; SKRILLEX unwraps the object; It is a pie, labeled ‘HUMBLE PIE.']
FLASHBACK: BASS DROP, HUMBLE (Skrillex Remix)
As the bass drops, the pie explodes; This leaves him covered in a very fruity mess, and a *bass face*
I don't think it's good for you, If you do this movie.
Movies. It's like a series. Or a saga, oh--god, I don't know.
[DILLON FRANCIS shows up, out of nowhere.]
Yeah. She is. Like a God, and you're not, man. So you know...I mean…
Actually heh. First of all, you tell me what the price of ‘Everliving Skrillex' is, I'll wait.
My pants are currently selling for 69.99 right now.
My left sock was 69.99 this morning.
Why are you buying individual socks--???
Why are you buying socks in the mornings?
You're up late, how are you even up in the morning?!
Do you ever sleep? Does a Skrillex sleep?
I'm Dillon Francis. DJ- Dillon Francis.
Does a Dillon Francis DJ?
Or wear proper fitting pants? Or do anything? Anything cool at all?
Yeah actually--He pushed Skrillex off a miniature yacht!
[DILLON FRANCIS portals them back onto the YACHT SCENE.]
*alt* SKRILLEX and *alt* DILLON FRANCIS are still fighting; They are now both on the deck of SKRILLEX's boat, DILLON FRANCIS's mini yacht burning/ devastated by what appears to be a giant kraken in the background.]
FUCK YOUR MINIATURE YACHT.
You're a miniature yacht!
You're not a good villain.
You're just…'Dillon Francis. ‘
And you're just stranded in the ocean.
It's okay, it's hella refreshing!
[DILLON FRANCIS blasts ALT/SKRILLEX into a portal, which whirlpools him into an alternate dimension; SKRILLEX and the MANAGER look on in horror.]
[DILLON FRANCIS rolls his eyes and hands his alternate self a small object*.]
[He opens up another portal, reaching out just to jump into it, exclaiming:]
ALT/DILLON FRANCIS (CONT'D)
[He disappears into the portal.]
COMEUPOUTDAWAHTA, S U P A C R E E M I X X
Get off my Alien Planet! Don't touch it!
It's my alien planet, nobody land on it.
No! Don't land on that planet!
I can't do that. You know I can't do that.
It's a whole planet just--give it time.
I gave it spacetime! I am time!
I know you are, dear. Just be patient.
Be patient? He went and put his DILLON FRANCIS all over it.
Let Dillon Francis play with your planet, yeah?
What?? No, can't have it, it's my planet. No.
But he already put his Dillon on it, you know how that goes.
I do know how it goes. I wrote it.
--No--No--Dillon Francis, go home.
No planet for Dillon Francis.
This isn't Dillon Francis Land, it's closed.
And also Not. Your. Planet. Go. Home.
That had a lot of heart, hun.
Actually, it had a lot of that, too.
--Aha, well it's about to have a lot of not-that, I'm about to knock the not-that-hot-sauce off his--
--sock-rocking-planet-blocking-motherfacker!!!! RAAGGHHH…!!
Whew. Did you just eat a McFury?
MAYBEITWASAFUCKISDILLONFRANCISDOINGONMYPLANETSANWHICH.
sounds like a lot. / Sounds Like A Mouthful.
It wasn't. Ever. Never. / It's not.
Hey. This is a nice planet.
Past Flabbergasted. Did he see you land?
Good. Lol. Did he get the coupon?
[Dillon Lurks In The Background with the SupaCreepers (binoculars). SKRILLEX finds the coupon.]
...oh, shit. Mm! Yeah-yeah!
EXT. AN ‘ALIEN' PLANET. SPACE
THE SKRILLEX Enters The Atmosphere.
S- Sunnï Blū, Ninja Guru Singer/Songwriter
Ū- The Anti-Anti-Hero, the Superhero Persona, Ninja Assassin, and Mothafuckin' Bampheramph
P-PEACE (Piece, Piece of the Puzzle, Piece of Pie, etc.) Problemo (Exists when too many plot holes and complexities arrive, also “The Pretender”, who just ignores when crazy shit happens, questions all realities (?)
Alt+J- SUPACREE, The DIvine Trinity
C- (Copyright Symbol) The Original Cree, Alternately Chak Chel, the ancient spirit guide ‘trapped' inside of the Physical Body to Accompany and Assist through magic, rituals, and energy manipulation through music, time space, and all reality which exists within the fathomable and expanding infinite consciousness. (thought to be ancient, however actually originating from hyper intelligent and extraterrestrial existence in the outer realms.
Caricatures (“Characters” Based On Various Entertainment Artists Personas, To Be Played (As themselves)
E-(Fictional Dillon) Francis/Is Pasquale
-N(E)RD (Pronounced” NED”)
-Hereby referenced to as SS, there exists “Infinite Skrillex” variably throughout the Multiverse, however, Skrillex himself is (secretly) the singular (and seemingly random apparent “phenomenon”) of his kind. A rare and shiny seemingly shapeshifting sorcerer, the concept and use of “Fictional Skrillex” is separated into a multitude of characters, uses and ambiguities explained throughout the series. *Spoiler*, Tying into the Theme of an Ever Expanding (and alternately, Collapsing/Compressing) Infinite Multidimensional, The Term Skrillex can refer the the Persona, or Person as Himself, but alternately is used as a noun, pronoun, verb, or adjective--even sometimes as a profanity, or to be referred to as a “race”.
-Sam I Am (Festival Trip Alter Ego)
-I Am Sam (Festival Trip Second Alter Ego)
A nameless, untranslatable into spoken or written language symbol, to be decided. An Ultra-Omnipitent giant (predominately purple, but emanating all colors of the cosmos) Galaxy of Ultra Concious Light Waves, SoundFrequencies, and Own Planetary Solar System, Boasting Stars which rival our own sun. A brilliant Collection of Space Dust (A relative of “Fart”, from Rick and Morty)
Pasqualle Is Dillon Francis
Mr. Rager (Underground Pasqualle)
A No-Named Burner and Ultimate Raver, whose domain is the kingdom of the underground rave scene--he detests the mainstream, traveling (across time, as an undercover Bampheramph),
Wally (Never started Insomniac, Works At Walmart as Greeter. Never Raved.)
In a homage to the second back to the future, U has traveled back to 1993 to create a reality where Google and Insomniac, etc. are owned and operated by SupaCree, skewing into an adjacent timeline in the future where her superstardom and rise to fame begins as a child star on Disney Channel, crossing multiple timelines interdimensionally intersected on the Infinite Grid so complex, it begins to create a disastrous series of knots, loops, and voids, tangled now permanently into the fabric of time.
Wally is asked to fill in for his coworker in the photography section, where he develops photos from a disposable camera and is enamoured by the dazzling magic of EDC captured on camera. His eyes widen as he glimpses into the photos; it is love at first sight. He makes doubles of the photos, later creating a vision board (used as a totem, easter egg throughout series) Wally's World lol
The Bampheramphs (& Mothafuckin' Bampheramphs, Respectively)
The Insomniacs (& Pasquallians, a secret sect of magicians, sorcerers and alchemists, seers and mystics carefully selected as keyholders to ‘The Secret Gates', a secret interdimensional transit system hidden beyond VIP (VIP+, VIP++, VIP+++, and VIP (+/-) which actually contains an underground city, a massive classified compound which exists between cross dimensions, allowing for shifts in the timespace continuums and temporary constructs of reality adjust by a mastery of manipulative conception, a complete control of energy--even allowing for such things as matter to appear, disappear,
The Toxic Avengers, Traveling across the Multiverse to Avenge the annihilation, assassinations, and massacre of The Infinite Skrillex
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