After the ancient alien mystic chak Chel merges with supacree, she leads her on a wild adventure though space and time as the worlds newest superhero, helping supacree to master her powers and abilities, and helping her to escape the clutches of the evil and largely unknown evils of the multiverse—
Meeting worlds and Banding together witb characters from infinite multidimensional worlds and realms…
OWSLA CONFIDENTIAL: THE INFINITE SKRILLIFILES
THE SECRET LIFE OF SUNNÏ BLŪ
SCARY MONSTERS & SUPACREE
Clique, Cruel Summer Kanye West, JAY-Z & Big Sean
EXT. DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES. BROAD ASS DAYLIGHT
SUPACREE has unlocked 100% Of her ABILITIES
SUPACREE EXITS EQUINOX FITNESS CLUB AT LIGHTSPEED, Hitting the pavement with swift force, splitting into three dimensional selves; SUNNI BLŪ to her left and A MYSTERIOUS, unknown ALTER EGO to her right, she shifts quickly to the beat of the music, morphing into and out of parallels of the outer world, opening and closing portals, and encapsulating anything and everything within her force field—which happens to be the whole of GREATER LOS ANGELES.
If I put my heart inside a box;
Maybe I'd forget how cold it was
stop at the alter and scoff a bit
I left my heart on the rooftop,
God, I woke up in a coffin once
The rest or the song wrote itself,
No, I can't stop and talk
I've never belonged in the world
Everything's a construct!
Get ahold of—you know what?
You think you're fuckin' clever.
Yeah, well—you made it my business.
C'mon, Butters. We gotta get lost in the sauce before we try this out.
JUST— DON'T LET IT BE SKRILL
THE A TRAIN, or the B TRAIN?!
WHAT, you motherfucking idiot?
JIMMY FALLON THE COSMIC AVENGER has been kidnapped—
He's into some dark shit.
He has been tied to a chair, which sits under a single spotlight in a shabby, dark room in NEW JERSEY.
I'm gonna kill you, Jimmy.
If I give you a serious role, how are you gonna handle it?
My body, heart, mind, and soul was being attacked—
I had 15 minutes to vacate the property and couldn't even focus—I had to use the bathroom so badly it hurt my soul. I was pacing back and forth, choking back ugly tears—the rude man in the room across the way still occupying the bathroom which I needed, both to clean and relieve myself—but it had been hell, after all, and needs like these had been proven to be in short supply.
This is a gun to your head.
[he moves the pistol into her mouth]
[she unhinges her jaw to open it wider, never breaking eye contact and relaxes; he studies his hand on the grip of the tripper, ready to lill]
[A comfort; as she relaxes, he as well changes—this seems to take the fun of killing away from him, he exacts the gun from her mouth]
I don't think, I just shoot;
Then kill me with your hands.
This is probably the worst thing I've ever written.
Maybe it's just bad on paper.
It's bad no matter how you —
Christopher Walken was one of my professors in fame school
For music? That doesn't make any sense.
Please, don't make me explain this.
You know where this is going.
We all know where this is going.
THE BAMPHERAMPS, MOTHERFUCKING BAMPHERAMPHS, and THE ASCENDED MASTERY has assembled in NEW YORK CITY to stage a coup.
There sure is a lot of French shit over here.
Who the fuck are they chasing in New York.
you got anyplace else to be?
Coming undone at the whole;
I make sense of it all at the alter,
To have fought in the war,
And then lost, or to suffer at all
The frost and the stardust,
I haven't once wondered or thought
Since I stopped throwing rocks at the church
Or got off on the wrong stop;
Never wanted a daughter so much
To carry a crutch or a cross—
So unbothered, untouched,
You're in the clear, hero.
This is an absolute outrage.
My palms grew numb as my throbbing heartache welled up into the back of my throat and sat perched up against my growling stomach, stuffed with beans and rice, perhaps to fill the sadness or satiate my need for protein, either one.
If you're going to vomit, step away from me.
Actually, step out of my house.
What did you think it was?
I meant, from here. You should go.
No more waiting; you were uninvited.
Trust me—this visitation is more necessary than voluntary.
FARO leads GÍAN towards the back of his quarters.
Nevermind. You're useless.
FARO opens a SECRET PASSAGEWAY into a FUTURISTIC CORIDOR, leading GÍAN into a vast FORTRESS.
And my heart, on the border of hurt—
Promises, scars and the art was devoured
Ah—she must have lost her mind
Was to get lost in the lobby,
Before the whole ball dropped
—and watch the false phropet
I lost God at the crosswalk,
Doesn't really matter now,
No God for a mother, who walks on her own.
I locked up my heart with the piñata.
How curse words turn to mantras.
I thought Illuminati wanted hotties and Caucasians.
Well, I guess that'll explain,
Why you've been stuck inside a cage, then.
NICK CAGE is an extremely skilled time traveler.
WHOOPI GOLDBERG has freed herself from the cage in which SUPACREE had skillfully trapped the OWL OF THE GOLDEN EYE.
All I wanted was to shamelessly watch the man's balls swing like a pendulum...
Well, here's this instead.
—now I have to watch this.
Cause I've already seen that.
SOLD, to the lady in red.
Now that attractions been well established
Fixin my holes up with patches
I told you he could dance.
If she throws up, I get a pickle.
And if she cries, I get a French poodle named Angelina Jolie.
A GIANT DRAGON FLIES OVERHEAD, SWEEPING THE SKIES WITH FIRE AND LIGHTNING.
DILLON FRANCIS I (CONT'D)
Yeah, we're definitely fucked.
Why are you dressed like Froto.
FROTO (in background, dressed exactly alike)
It's the end of the world!
I'll give you one million dollars.
That's not enough. This card is priceless.
What is this. Like a Pokémon game?!
This whoops Pokémon's ass.
First of all, how is it all of a sudden CLEANER THAN LA?!
New York's like: here —we sent all the nasty people to LA. All better.
The trains are nice —shit—
All the trash is in BAGS.
“Whaaaaaaat” this is nice.
What the fuck. This shit different!
they exported all the nasty, crazy motherfuxkers to LA. On GOD.
Cause every other psychologically twisted individual I talk to in LA is like:
I was going on a little European adventure;
“You know, you never stay long…”
“There's a reason for that…welp, gotta go.”
The whole universe fucked around and was like—
“You know what? We like you here. Stay. “
I'm used to LA where people are fake nice
For fuckin tips and shit, you know?
Everybody's trying to get famous for something,
Or something. Idk. Fake as fuck.
Fake nice. Fake happy. Fake titties. Fake lips.
Just fucking fake. fake everything. Everything is plastic.
—and it's not tied up in garbage bags, either. It's just plastic, and trash, and piss everywhere. It's so gross.
You see Venice Beach on the movies:
It's all clean and beautiful, and picturesque.
You get there, it's like Skid Row +
LA has millions of homeless people everywhere.
In cars, in tents. Under bridges. Everywhere.
And I love LA! I really do. But it's fake. Everything is fake.
New York is real as fuck.
You don't have to fuckin fake shit.
People don't say “excuse me—“
You're never forced to say “good morning “ before you had your coffee! Yuh!
New York is doing it right.
People sleep on the train—
But nobody lives on that motherfucker!
I was in New York like a week before the shock wore off that there were not hundreds of individuals on every train wreaking of piss and smoking crack openly—YES—illicit drug use on trains in LA is extremely casual.
Everything in LA is casual. People wear pajamas to work. Yeah—that.
Everyone in New York looks like they're going to eat at a five-star restaurant. Like all the time.
No socks-with-slides. EW.
I swore to God socks with slides was a sign of the apocalypse; I get to New York, none of that—but the cringy thing in New York is Crocs With Socs.
Now mmmm we're bi-coastal.
Knock that shit off. TACKY.
NY is cool. It's chic. It's fun.
You gotta be careful though.
I thought LA drivers were crazy.
New York drivers are fucking psychotic.
Pedestrians don't have the right of way.
If you're in a crosswalk in LA even if the light is red, people will stop and let you go.
In New York you better wait for the fuckin walk sign.
6 millions ways to die: choose one!
Just kidding. That's some west coast shit.
But I did see a whole ass mural of Snoop Dogg in Brooklyn and get slightly confused—
Till I realized everything on it was the color blue, and I was deadass in the middle of Brooklyn going
“What? Ohhhhh! Wait! The Crips!”
“Those guys are everywhere!”
Its a nation wide disorganization.
Doing my best not to love it,
So the universe doesn't balance me out by showing me what to hate about it
New York drivers don't play.
I never seen a school bus drift before!
Almost got hit by a short bus.
I saw a dude do a whole ass wheelie on an electric scooter.
BEDFORD AVENUE, BROOKLYN, NY.
THE BAMPHERAMPHS have initiated SEQUENCE C
I like New York. I gotta say.
It IS like LA In the way that I know I can't live in New York if I'm not just filthy fucking rich.
Cause, you know—there's still homelessness;
But unlike in LA, where you just wander around, smelling like piss, begging for change—
(It's not funny.) but whatever. America.
I thought I was leaving; I got trapped in the matrix.
They're like: “stay! We need slaves!”
So I got stuck in New York.
At least it's a “free state”
Not exactly the safest place to get stuck with no money, either, is it?
Really nowhere is safe with no money.
I mean, I know of some places south of the border you can live, basically free and just, you know—sleep in a hammock, sing for change and shit. Roam the beach. I know people that do that— it's just-
Cause then, I'm sure God would find a way to take that away, too.
I don't love anything anymore.
Once you love something—it either goes away, or it burns you.
Just—like—things, you know?
Speaking of suicidal tendencies.
You know what else is cool about New York?
The trains actually come into the station fast enough to kill you.
Like—you've had enough? Okay: here it is.
Just to save you a trip to the Empire State Building.
This train is coming in at 304 miles an hour and is somehow gonna stop in 3 seconds.
—maybe 2 seconds, if you do jump—
They almost come too fast, for suicide.
The trains in LA stopped going suicide-fast like, a couple years ago—maybe, just before the pandemic—I think.
“You know what! This is happening too often. I am ALWAYS late to my other two jobs ‘cause someone killed themselves on my train! Fuck!”
“Well fuck this, all the slaves are killing themselves on the trains.”
“Yeah, okay so: here's what we do; we'll put up signs for a suicide hotline at the popular jumping points”
“And—we'll tell the train operators they gotta slow down coming into the station—“
“—that way, If they still do decide to jump, they'll just get paralyzed, and contribute to the opioid crisis: more funding for big pharma!”
“—unless they're black, or on Medicaid, then: we'll send em home with some ibuprofen and make sure they collect disability, so that they can become addicted to crack, or something like that —you know.”
“YO, WHERE THE FUCK AM I AT?”
You know what else is weird about New York?
Personal space is not a thing.
I mean, “space” is not a thing at all, anyway.
People will not only sit by you;
I had just got to New York—
I had all my luggage with me—
And this lady gets on the train;
She looks around, and I guess she decides she wants the seat next to me.
So like I said, I have all my stuff l so I'm a little spread out, but there's room—
But you know what she does?
She looks me straight in the eye
And then just hits me with her broom.
“Okay is she racist or is that just a New York thing?”
Like, “you can just hit people with shit!? damn!”
What's funny is, I kinda respected her for that. She was old. Didn't say a word, just “bam”
Like—- ‘move!' I'm like “okay!”
Girls wear panty hose, and stockings.
I'm like “wow, that's actually nice. That's so wholesome! Tights?! Yeah!”
I don't think girls in LA even wear regular panties.
You know what else is cool about New York.
There's so much diversity, there's almost no room to be racist.
So many people. So many colors. So much culture. So many languages!
I hear languages I can't even place.
I thought I was good. I'm in LA, I'm like,
Nothing like a real, New York delicatessen.
That's what “deli” is short for, by the way, everyone not from New York.
I'm standing in the Deli and I hear some shit that—I'm not gonna lie— was actually quite alarming, as a native English speaker.
I'm standing there, and this guy behind me literally over my shoulder says,
“Blooppnsmabhoan ammaoakb amansbaiL aannaoka snkaoakmnlblblblnlnl!!!!”
The girls aren't all evil soulless heart eating demons.
I have to run back to LA and tell all my guy friends, they're like
“Nooo, that's just out here.”
I bet it's wonderful when it's warm.
Maybe that's when shit hits the fan!
EVERYBODY DIES IN THE SUMMER—
Chance the Rapper, I think.
“slap-dick-suck”…okay… hmm..
Why is it called the “Slap-Dicksuck”
I was about to explain that.
The world is gross. Get over it.
GET OVER IT, DILLON FRANCIS.
Your piñata set your house on fire.
He sets—everything on fire—
Have you ever stopped to think—
You look like a bloated chicken nugget.
—I used to like chicken nuggets.
This is sick. This is a sick bitch we're dealing with.
I'm not dealing with anything, I quit.
Goddammit, this is not a GAME.
It is a game, though—and I'm a damn good marksman.
Do you want to do a half, or a whole thing
Do you want to do a half, or a whole thing?
I powered on my phone to find the digital clock exactly at 1:15, which had seemed to be creeping up again as a recurring theme, along with some other unsettling figurines—if it was a race against time, I was losing—and If, perhaps, a Holy War, I must have been some sort of Holy, as it had seemed the world's good graces had turned her back on me, and that faith dwindled more quickly in the cold than any other condition.
Lay your head on my shoulder,
Wrap your arm round my waist,
You can think what I think
You can skate on thin ice
Do you want to do a half, or a whole thing
Do you want to do a half, or a whole thing?
It had been strange waves of everything—more than I was ready for and much more than intentionally took on, all things considered. I burned my tongue on piping hot oatmeal, trying to eat rather than write, as it seemed the time had come that I could no longer skip meals and properly function. Nearing thirty like a bullet—and at least metaphorically bleeding as if I had actually been shot, my heart and soul throbbing and gushing into a paralyzing twist or fears and woes, trapped in a foreign city with almost nothing to my name, lugging around my music equipment and very few belongings, which—when put away neatly even in the smallest room— seemed like almost nothing, but was certainly too much to carry around, especially alone. And I was, so very alone.
Drake Bell and the Hollywood Spell
My newest and strangest muse yet had again insisted on appearing into my dream world, for the third time, anyway—which seemed a cruel and almost disturbing subconscious attempt to conjur up what might have been the entirety of my energy to complete the 6th Season of Enter The Multiverse, at this point which had even interested me, reinvigorating my senses and at least partially restoring my faith in something, even if it was just Hollywood being Hollywood. But now, even miles away from Hollywoodland, and stranded far, far away with no conceivable way to find my way back, even if I did have a home there waiting for me—and there wasn't—there didn't seem to be a home anywhere for me at all, and with my money running well towards dry I had spent most the week dry heaving into panic attacks about where I would go, or what I would do/—especially dragging around all of my luggage and equipment, and while it was true my equipment could have easily found it's way into a pawn shop, to at least offset the impending homelessness by maybe a couple days, and a couple hundred dollars—it didn't seem quite worth it to sell my dream again, especially for the miserable existence of sharing a hostel room with whoever decided to snore or cough their way into my hellish realm of corporate slavery, lovelessness, and lack of privacy.
Yes, my conciousness had summoned up this man into my dreamworld now three times, and for whatever reason, if there was one — I could consider it a charm. Had I not been working at the smokeshop what now seemed like ages ago, I might have forgotten entirely that such a person had ever existed—which I had, since the experience, for the record, at least tried to—but for some reason, disasterously couldnt; it had all awakened something serious and spiritual within my outer world, piquing my ultra conscious into a rare and bewildering curiosity that had done well to slay and murder the cat in all of its nine lives, and then some. It wasn't entirely on purpose, or without guilt that my mind seemed to inquisitively structure an entire hidden world and to form a strange and illicit bond with this fragile man creature, not that my social status or overwhelmingly average, unattractive, stranded and abandoned wastebasket of a demon, or diety whatever I was in whatever kind of light, would have much at all to do but suffer the result of having missed the bar by far, stumbling into the lower realms of the world by mere circumstance, on occasion, without notice.
I was certainly thinking about it too much, and hating myself for it, a certain spark or inspiration for the Timmy Turner timelines met with the sudden flash of what may have even been a lost memory of not for all this Hollywood trauma, or dogma, whichever made sense—because none of it did, at all, besides to reverse what time had done by allowing me to forget my turbulent childhood, which couldn't matter anymore in this moment as it ever had; and though I was producing a fruitful workout at Equinox, squatting deeply into the Smith Machine and breathing deeply into my lower back, where the tension from the weight of my leftover skin met the pain in the whole of my torso, an apparent rush sent a splash of slobber out of the side of my mouth, my third eye a gaping and burning hole streaking heat across the middle of my forehead—all of a sudden the high of Nitrous Oxide filled my mind, if only for a moment—flung back into a memory nearly two decades old.
“That's it.” I remembered thinking.
I sat down the can of keyboard cleaner on the bathroom floor. I had scared myself straight, long before I even knew what I was doing—and I didn't know at all, having been nine, or maybe 10–long before I would ever *want* to get high, not understanding that or why I needed to, anyway—or that getting “high” was what I was doing at all.
No, at the time, it simply ‘felt really good', until it didn't—the particular memory which struck me in the dead center of the Equinox floor—and snapping back into my body, shaking myself out of it and leaning into the bar to stretch, taking in a deep breath and choking back an ocean of tears.
I'm still lost in your eyes
I'll be in love with you forever
Since departing LA, all my dreams had been strange, and I found myself growing more distant from myself, or from anything real at all, my dreams skewing into a horrid soundscape of rampant memories and false hopes of love. Finally able to seek refuge in meditation, I had been bombarded with images of Dillon Francis balancing some pretty little white girl in his lap—and though I couldn't quite unhinge the Amethyst from my possession, I had been giving it the distance I needed for something like peace of mind, without the actual peace itself at play. There had been quite the spell to break, and though it hadn't even been moderately broken—I at least knew now what magic I was dealing with. Dillon Hart Francis was a powerful magician—perhaps too powerful, and with that I took my strides into gatekeeping at the very least, since no peace could be made. I could love with a wholesome heart, but a tarnished mind and a gated soul would simply not outlast the infinite journey. Though I had been illicitly carfeful not to look him in the eye last we did meet, there was a remarkable force in place far beyond control—or at least my control— which kept such power from being apprehended; I had done my best to let go, knowing it was indeed a spell at play, and rather than a curse no need to worry or fear it's users intentions. Magic was a give-and-take, and so much had been at this point taken from me that the bruises of jealousy for whatever it was being waved about my psyche as ‘better than' could do no more than to rip the rest of my heart from its crevice as I pondered on what I might have done right, or might have done wrong—if there were such things.
‘White girls get all the love.'
It was only true in my heart and my mind, and so it must have sat in my soul a certain way. I had never intended really to fall into what I had fallen into with Dillon Francis—not that it couldn't or wouldn't be undone, eventually, as I was inraveling myself into an unremarkable, unastonishing whisp — a fracture in time to do much less than even be though of, or forgotten.
I'm still lost in your eyes
I'll be in love with you forever
A piece of my rock had shattered on the floor of the shower at Equinox—the only stone I kept for myself, and often forgotten about, as I did myself, not that i mattered much. It shattered unevenly into three pieces, one of which I left in the sauna, quickly before departing—and the other which I had dropped in Times Square, begrudgingly under the LCD American flag by which I felt betrayed: How could our nation not only allow, but create homelessness as a scare tactic to keep the working poor working as slaves, to saciate the wealthy's wants and needs?
I'm not going to hurt you,
You can't hurt me anymore than I can hurt myself.
It might be time for me to go
But I just want to let you know
I still got love for you;
—and it's a long way home,
It's home at the end of a long, lond road
But at least now I know you
It seems that I still have a soul, somewhere
I'm still lost in your eyes
I'll be in love with you forever
EDDIE MURPHY opens the heavy Victorian style door, after three solid knocks from under the GLOVED HAND which lifts the golden-brass door knocker.
To what do I owe the pleasure?
[She gestures to pass through the doorway.]
Drake Bell, you son of a bitch.
Oh, so you do know my name.
I've always been in this.
See you on the other side.
Someone once told me, the grass is much greener— on the other side.
—and when I paid a visit,
(It's possible I missed it)
Seemed different, yet exactly the same.
I didn't want it to end this way.
You're fucking impossible.
Nothing is “impossible” you said that.
This here will keep slowly unwinding until there's no more.
The actor and the actress.
But the work's real good –
His lines are smooth and his days are long,
For a whole lot of wrongs
Like he's fresh out the box
That's a real big nugget,
With a whole lot of sauce.
Damn, Oreos AND Ben & Jerry's?!
Tf kind o f Oreos is that.
Sunni, get a hold of yourself.
YOU GET A HOLD OF YOUR SELF.
Stop yelling from across the room.
I'M GONNA RIP YOUR HEART OUT.
The inspiration to music hit at just the right and the wrong time—I had finally found my way to the butt machine, only after visiting every other floor and guessing incorrectly—only to make it to the machine in just enough time to realize that I was for some reason exhausted—perhaps having just blown my last fuse, realizing I was literally down to my last, few pennies— and, unknowing of how to escape the hole I had dug myself into, falling into a carful and unsecured ‘lust' with New York, surely never to fall in love with another city as I had LA, learning my lessons well, and knowing all too well that nowhere and no one like me was safe from homelessness in the US—now having proven itself to be a hostile entity, in a full police state. It didn't seem to matter, though, as I had narrowly missed my escape nearly on purpose, but not— it seemed something entirely outward was keeping me at bay and in the US, not that I had wanted to leave out of fear for my life as much as I wanted adventure and exploration—but either way was going nowhere at all fast, and running out or money even faster.
I had probably over caffeinated, at least half the reason I couldn't budge to top speed, even blasting bangarang into my eardrums at nearly top volume—this day, it only emotionally weakened me, having demoted myself entirely from any sort of elite status, back into the realm of obsessive fandom, and perhaps even schizophrenia, per Dane Cook's shenanigans.
Yeah, I'm tired and I need to take like ten shits.
If I leave early I have to come back early.
Psyche completely shattered
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