[ENTER THE MULTIVERSE]

DIPLO/THOMAS

YOU THINK THIS IS A FUCKING GAME?!

SUPACREE

THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT IT IS.

DIPLO/THOMAS

MAYBE TO YOU!

SUPACREE

I AM YOU!!'

DIPLO Reveals The Seer's Stone.

Oh, SHIT, Dude.

Where'd you get that?!

What's this story.

No, don't go in there.

Oh, look, a story—

I told you this was going to be a long night.

I was knocking back preworkout at 8 PM exactly, far out of sight from Travis Apple but not entirely out of mind, it was a personal feat to walk into the gym anymore, let alone by his desk—my spirit seemed to have other ideas at an occupation than I myself had formerly thought, but I was at clever best being dissociative now as I was ever, something springing from within me to be let loose, and though it could be, I thought my best to tame it.

Professor Zimmerman

It's you again…

It's always me.

So it is.

I found something peculiar in a playback of last night's stream of the observatory—

(But) How peculiar?

Peculiar enough that I thought you might actually take interest.

Touché.

—

I am dead.

Oh fuck—he's dead too?! How'd he die?

Let me guess—a drag race.

Good guess, but no.

Was it murder?

It's always murder.

Now, now, what's this?

Don't touch it?

What is it?

—touch it and see.

Ewhe.

That's what I thought.

Ketamine.

Ketamine?

Ketamine?

Damn; are those two still doing drugs?

They're alwYs doing drugs.

That's semi-believable.

Anyway.

Was it a heart attack?

Bingo!

This is a heart attack!

GODDAMMIT, YOU TWO—KNOCK IT OFF.

Sorry—

—sorry, mom.

PROFESSOR ZIMMERMAN is looking through a telescope.

Professor Zimmerman!

What? What do you want?

—my name in the history books; particularly and more specifically for discovering a previously unknown planet and it's inhabitant species.

Fair. I meant—

—professor Zimmerman—

What do you want, from me?

It's not entirely unrelated, I promise.

Don't make promises you can't keep.

Why would I do that?

I don't know why women do what they do.

That's sexist.

It's honest.

—no, to just—assume that I'm a woman.

[an awkward silence; professor Zimmerman looks up from his studies to examine the short, rather stout, and particularly androgynous student before him]

Oh, uh—

[beat]

I'm a woman.

[in relief]

Oh!

—It's okay. Still,

[disgruntled sigh]

—it was sexist.

Ugh!

Anyway—

1.00 mile

10:17

Deadmau5, album title goes here

I felt horrible for Brandon, who was eagerly giving his all—but by now physical attraction meant far more than too much to me, my sex drive climbing seemingly by the minute, and my own physique shrinking down into an admirable average, if not above average, by American standards—excluding of course, the Californians, by which standard I was still morbidly obsese as ever, and might as well just pair up with the likes of Brandon, who may have been equally gifted, were it not for his massive weight—then, it was also a selection of genetic particularities that my drive seemed to be fed by—and between the overall unremarkable appearance, it was the bad housekeeping and general disability to take the four otherwise well-mannered children into habitable people—not entirely his fault, and my own arrogance, failing to mention that by now I had become estranged from my own offspring, giving myself a self-entitled badge of abandonment.

So I might as well be nothing.

If not a mother, I thoughttrapped to myself—but I didn't think much of myself, besides being In some sort of hell, encapsulated and in my own body.

What about him?

No, that's—that's deadmau5.

Well, he's a man, isn't he?!

I wish you would leave me alone.

—

This is scary.

You can't just—back up like that—

This is too much light.

It's not “too much”

It is “too much”

So that's it?

…

(Cont'd)

That's it?

Oh, I know this one.

This one's so good

What's this one?

“The Liight Bringers”

Are you sure that was it?

Something like that.

No.

Something like that.

NO.

Ugh. I hate this.

I hate him.

I hate this.

You always say that.

I always hate it.

That's not true. Look.

I'm not looking.

[she walks away]

So that's it?!

The Cosmic Owl soars in overhead; He is old, he is wise, and now—he is tired.

HE?! I thought it was a ‘she'

This is the other sides

THE OTHER SIDE?

[EDC .5]

OH.

Fuck. This is going to take forever to explain.

Yeah.

Where's Pasquale?

Where isn't Pasquale?

Touche.

I felt about a hundred feet tall standing next to Pasquale Rotella, and though I would never admit or mentioned it aflojdfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff

There he is.

—and though I never would admit or mention it aloud, I liked that he was short, overall—as it made him seem less intimidating; I was, after all, rather morbidly afraid of him, as I was of anything at all, for that matter—anything that could or did have the power to make or break me. And he did.

I found him.

Where was he?

Aha.

What?

I mean, it's a place, but it doesn't have a name, really.

Oh really? What place is that?

If I knew, I'd tell you.

Tell me anyway.

No, let him.

Where have you been?

Again, an outstanding diecotomy;

If I could say the words to weave the space and time between us,

Then would have, or even,

Rather smittenly, I'd sing them

With the Melodies I'm making

(Like excuses for the work that I'm not doing)

Or the worlds I'm still not moving with the winds beneath my wings—

The wind beneath my wings.

What the fuck is this?

I don't know.

In the end, we are nowhere

Sleepless and still and tight

Maybe we shouldn't fall asleep

Saving what was left behind

Standing outside the chalk outline

Beside ourselves in time

The only thing I want, is the last thing I need

Awake and sleepless as stars shine

What the fuck is that?

You know what?! Stop asking me!

WHATTHEFUCK IS THAT?

I STILL DON'T KNOW.

Let me see.

It's a—

Let me see!

It's a planet.

No…

It's a planet, and I'm telling you it's a planet, and it's orbiting a star that's bigger than ours.

That's a lot of speculation.

That's a good eye—

It was annoying but it unwelcome how often I had to stop and write, I knew by now if I didn't write what was in my head right then, it might take such a long time to come back around, even if it was good, that by the time it did, it would be out of context. There was nothing I could do to really save myself, or stop myself—and so I let it happen, and while most people were stopping to text, I was in a way, talking to myself—or even, my highest self. It was too late to find anything good to eat until the next morning, but my appetite had been a ravenous and unstoppable force, swapping out hat should have been a healthy amount of sex with a questionable amount of food.

Lest not I forget

How deep in love I would be, or

How deep in love I was, once,

Or will be, once I depart this

In the wake of wonder,

Dreaming,

Slipping not into a silence—

There I was, at the end of it,

Remembering;

Never had I once thought

What was just a long lost song

Becomes none,

Or all of my cut cloth

Fuck this nonsense.

It's not—nonsense.

It's a lot of nonsense.

It's definitely a lot of something.

—

Don't shapeshift into my cat anymore—

—don't tell me what to do.

Don't do that. It's gross!

How is it “gross”

It's—my cat!

I love cats.

Stay away from my cat.

DON'T TOUCH THAT CAT.

is that a euphemism?

NO—just—

Lol. It is not possible that meowingtons is still alive.

I mean, it's possible, just not probable.

—

Damn!

Fuxk!

This is a long ass story!

So tell it then.

I mean—how?!

What is that thing, even?!

Ku//Ka

Well, that's it.

What.

I quit.

You can't quit.

I most certainly can quit.

—

You're going to risk your entire career on this thesis,

My entire career is this thesis.

Listen to me.

You know I valbue your opinion.

Well, then listen—

—but I value your scientific contributions more. Just trust me.

I don't trust you.

Then you don't trust yourself.

[she leaves the professor in a hollow silence; he lights a cigarette]

I hate that she does that.

—

We probably shouldn't be using this equipment, guys.

What?! Why not?!

I don't care.

Its—really old.

10

26

I don't care.

What the Fuxk is this

I think they're coordinates.

To fuckin—where?!

—

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?

What the fuck is wrong with you!?

Nobody quite knows.

You're so clever.

You're an idiot!

I'm not an idiot. I'm a doctor.

You're a fucking idiot.

I'm Dr. Idiot.

Your entire career

It's a job.

It's your career

It's a profession.

But, professor Zimmerman

Doctor, Zimmerman, now, technically.

You're an idiot.

I'm running out of synonyms.

I had tenure.

—

9h my God, just PLEASE stop writing!

But if ibstop writint l, you dont exist.

Qcrually, i exist either way.

Not 5o me.

Ita a conceprtional universe. It you can think of it, it exists somewhere!

Oh, damn.

Yeah. Like damn damn. And the more you write rigut now, the worse it gets

For me?

For me!

The Evers,

Who

What

When

Where

Why and

How.

WOW.

I know! I just now mafe that connection.

These guys are my favorites.

Who are they?

Cut to:

A young, brown skinned girl points to the top of a bunch of pinnaples, and shouts,

My brothers!

Her mother, pulls her in another direction, explaining sweetly and softly,

No silly girl, those are pinapples!

She picks up the girl, who latches on around the womans neck and sets ger head down over her sjoulder, staring at tge pinapples as she is carried away. She stares longingly.

__

Sit down.

Is there any Chinese left?

A fortune cookie.

Ah, that's good.

I walked in locked in;

Pistol cocked, and pointed towards my head

You'll only want me when you have no options left,

Or when I'm dead

“It's clever”

They all said

An ambitious endevour

End this life, and be devoured

By the miester and the misters of the hour

How about now?

(Or–)

How about Now, or

How about Now, or

How about Now?

Or,

How about now, or

How about now, or

How about now?

Or,

How about Now, or

How about Now, or

How about Now?

Now or Never

I said “That's clever” or

“How about Now”

What do you want from me?

I lie for a living;

A literal drama queen,

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

Just for entertainment–

A belated invitation,

Now i'll face it,

Back to Basic–

But she's laced with Masonry;

A tastemaker, maybe

But she just wants a family,

Whatever that means

Wow.

How about now?

Fuck this.

Homelssness.

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

I'll never see the lght

I 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

All divine;

You'll never see me shine,

But deep inside

I'd blind you;

Guided by the tide,

I've come to find you

Down, I dive

I'm not alive, you know

I'm always misaligned

But that's beside the point

Another suicide attempt

Is in the midst–

But just what is it;

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

Another wound to heal,

Another deal, perhaps

I'll make another million in a year,

If i'm still here–

And i”m still here–

And i'm still–

Who are you now, and—

Who were you then;

And—

Which part of this, would you want—

Or did want,

Or just wanted

Pondered before in a vision,

Outfitted in hooded drapery,

The heaviest fabric;

A rosary hung from his neck

But can't recall the connection

In this ressurection

I can recall him,

But never remember

The calling

Let's call him

Oh, fuck man.

‘Friar Tuck'

THAT WAS IT.

The high priest of asencion,

Was burned in her memory—

Not as a friend,

But a friend of the enemy;

Who she loved and protected,

Despite all the envy,

She felt for Persephone—

Just an unjust figure,

A fictional figment of imagination

But—

Who was I then

And who am I now;

And what part of him,

Would I want, if I wanted

Or wished for,

Or honored

A friend, long forgotten

Not a high priest,

But a Friar

That was it—

But before,

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

Honest,

And honestly slain in the eyes,

Of a man I remember,

But didn't, when it mattered—

Then did, right in front of him

Who are we now, and—

Who were we then;

Let's find out,

As time's running out again

“Yes, I know him.”

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

Shifting into a tent

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,

As totems would fall,

Wishes would become granted

The PyRAmiD Spell

(For Pasquale Rotella)

gave

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

that shit is for kids

‘Check it'

I hate midi

gimmie a synth, something gritty, I'll make it pretty

Come and try to get me,

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

I'm actually a master

“Untitled 07”

It's like a 24/7 job,

can't get no rest in,

At best you're looking like a slob

I kamikaze ‘em all,

I am your mom,

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 wish, A lucid dream,

A misalignment, so its seems

So let me tell you what you are to me:

Just make believe

(Just make believe)

Just make believe

(Just make believe)

It may be evil

(Make believe)

Just make believe

(Just make believe)

A lucid dream

I'll tell you what I've seen, and what I see

(and What I see)

I dare to dream

(I dare to dream)

But please believe me,

I'm as evil as can be

Don't let my anything deceive you

I'm a fleeting, bleeding

Beaten bride to be

No, don't believe me

I'm the fire and gnashing teeth they preached to you

May everything I've written one day reach you

And beseech you,

Just like you did to me

Now let me tell you what I see;

Just make believe

(Just make believe)

It may be evil

(Make believe)

Just make believe

(Just make believe)

A lucid dream

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

To dream of you

A lucid dream

Just fucking make believe;

And I can make believe we fucked

Just so I can get to sleep

(Are you proud of me?)

Hey.

(Sarcastically)

Oh, Come In.

(Sighs heavily)

I fucked up.

I'm not surprised.

I'm not surprised.

Don't copy me.

I need help.

No arguments there.

Dude, I'm serious.

__

So first of all

oh God, now what–

I'm not racist

You're extremely racist

Racist By Proxy

I'm not Racist

They do look alike.

Check this out:

WOAH.

That's…not a coincidence.

That's definitely not a coincidence.

Fuck. This. Shit.

Here, take this.

So, you dropped this totem…

Uh-huh.

In the ocean.

Yes I did.

And that one

Ooof.

What about–

That came off on the moped.

How?

When I came off the moped.

So you admit it.

SO! He only let me ride it cause he wanted to ride ME!

Nice.

Did you sing to him?

Uh, I sang for him?

What's the difference?

Here's every song I've ever written about

X.X

Just kill yourself.

Should I then?

I mean, perHAPS.

I mean, maaaayyyybeee.

You know what?

I do know.

Fuckthisshit.

Fuck it, then.

I'm out. I quit.

Go find SupaCree.

This…is impossible.

Nothing is impossible.

Except for that.

Oh.

“Oh.”

No, i'm serious.

You look serious–I'm just saying.

What is this?

Don't touch that–

What is it?

It's–

[a tiny explosion]

–ugh.

Volatile.

What the fuck are you into?

I told you.

You said “music.”

What is “Music”

[very deep pondering]

I hate you.

We have to find her.

You have to.

What!

You're not going to help us?

I have other things to do.

Like what, dude?

Like what, broh.

Feed My cat;

Your cat died.

Walk my dog–

You don't have a dog.

I'm getting one.

Oh, Jesus Christ

Don't get all religious on me, now, not after that.

Not after what?

Yeah, which thing?

___

Man. Get me out of here.

[shrugs]

I hate being stuck in your head.

What is THIS.

Uh. play dead.

What's up with your dog.

Ruff.

Good boy.

I'm a girl.

Uhhh–good girl.

Wait.

Hm.

Did that dog just–

[???]

Nevermind. I've been up for 6 days straight.

Tour life, buddy.

Ah-huh. Uhh. Can I take a shower in your–

Take a sho–?

[dog grumphs]

Uh, yeah, sure.

Thanks.

*Shapeshifts*

Wow, that's cool.

It's so stupid.

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 Ibto 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?

Skrillex: noun...right?

What, you don't know?

I know! It's...a noun...right?

Right.

Right---

---Right!

Could also be, an adjective, I guess--i?

You guess?!

You have to know.

I mean---

Coughs ain't shit

Skrillex ain't *coughs

Satan ain't shit

Bitch suck a dick

Slit ya wrists

On ya pissed off

Little ass nigga.

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

“Man, fuck Coughs.”

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.

Cough cough.

Ugh.

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–

I hate deadmau5–

You know—after that spat with Skrillex.

GO TEAM SKRILLEX!!!

SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!

who the fuck is deadmau5, anyway.

But here I am, decades later.

[skrillex]

FUCK THIS NIGGA.

I needed something to help offset the damage that was done.

[someone coughing loudly]

Fuck this coughs bitch!

[trying on small clothes]

Ohh.

[kayla Lauren]

[sadness]

Aww.

[dillon Francis]

—well how was I supposed to know he was a—

STOP RIGHT THERE!

I'm...not moving.

Yeah, you're not.

Uh, okay?

You know why?

I didn't ask—

You need THIS:

What is this.

I'll tell you what it is

[beat]

…

Okay—what is it?'

ILL TELL YOU WHAT IT IS.

—

Technically, If I do this every day, I can eat whatever I want—

Just eat it.

No.

But I won't.

Well, why not?

Too Fat For Skrillex.

—

[C.C. Arrives in the parking lot to find her car has been vandalized...again.]

...Skrillex did this.

On Jimmy Fallon.

On Jimmy Fallon.

Alright, then, kid—it's your dollar.

I'll take “Skrillex Did It” for one dollar.

But he's halfway across the world!

He can shapeshift!

Don't be stupid.

What—! He's a shapeshifter, for real.

We know! Just don't say it!

I saw it.

We all have.

What the fuck, bro—

Where did you come from?

I've been here.

Haven't we all?

That's the spirit.

What's a spirit?

I'm glad you asked.

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.

Which one's that?

Anubis, right?

Googles 'deities'

Oh, there he is:

Anubis.

Good.

What's he want?

Whatever it is, that's not what I was looking for.

What are you looking for?

That dark thing.

Which “dark thing”?

Flashback:

That's inside me?!

Flashback to Kite at Bass–

UGH!

Canyon.

That's it. That's what it is.

LET ME OUT.

It's gonna destroy something.

She.

She–yes–apparently so.

CUT BACK TO

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.

Oh SHIT, who let him in?

I mean, it's Skrillex.

Yeah, but who let him near SUPACREE?

He does what he wants.

I heard that.

Fuck you, Skrillex.

That sounds deep.

I guess so.

What even happened?

Nobody seems to know.

Oh.

–Except these guys.

Who the fuck are you?

Where did you come from?!

CULT FOLLOWERS

Yes–”WHO”

Yes–”WHERE”

Uh, okay.

SUPACREE

Fuck this shit. I quit.

You can't quit.

I just did. Fuck Skrillex.

Ah, shit, here it comes.

Go ahead, the worst he can do is cough at me and make me homeless.

*loud obnoxious coughing*

Do your worst.

*more loud coughing*

Fuckin'. Satan's pet.

Satan's not real!

Then neither is Skrillex. Amen.

(Cult Followers, In unison.) Amen.

[SUPACREE exits furiously.]

What…the fuck.

Pause.

Wait, is this marketable?

Yes.

How?

Cause its Skrillex. Skrillex is clickbait.

What the FUCK did he do?

*COUGHS*

I mean, I bet–

Fucking–motherfucker. Fuck.

Well, now what?

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.)))

((Oh, God Knows))

I thought we weren't doing that bit.

We're doing all the bits.

MORTY.

JESSICA.

Oh yeah. Even better.

C'esme't sighs heavily, unamused.

My liege.

Don't be coy with me.

I would never.

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.

You are clever.

At your discretion.

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.

God,

Help me with this affliction

Pick a clip,

Flick the bean,

And watch Netflix

I'm stressin, wet and undressin

This sexual tension is serious

Salad,

with no dressin

I'm the lady in the red dress, and yes

I write blank checks, so when I go to Heck,

I bounce back like,

“Yes.”

[YES]

No pressure, It's my pleasure;

I'd rather be in leather than in latex, lathered up

Present, or past

but honestly,

neither matters;

Just give this to Marshall Mathers,

And a Dad Hat;

AMEN

Hey Kids,

Lets not say “Amen”,

After we say hanuss shit, okay?

Today, I'm Eminem, so I can finally find Skrillex,

And kill him:

My mission is to introduce a new religion to humans, called

STOP BEING STUPID.

Stop Being Skrillex.

Well, Alright Then.

[Presses Easy Button]

“WELL, THAT WAS--

CUT TO:

-__- SUPACREE wakes up from a coma; In a very

SKRILLEX, Get out.

[He just does.]

...Where's Dillon Francis?

...Dillon Is Dead.

Dilon Francis Died.

He's...left us.

...Nope.

Yes, he is.

SUPACREE, I'm Sorry.

Don't be sorry. Be Dillon Francis.

The Coma--You know---must've--

You know.

Nope. Where's Pasquale?

Who is that?

Oh, fuck this.

No, wait, stop!

STAHP.

Bring Skrillex Back.

I never left.

You're never there.

Here, Tres Leches

…

Dulce De Leche.

You know what?

What?

NO.

NO?

NO.

__

ALRIGHT, WHERE'S DILLON FRANCIS?

Who is that?

STOP PLAYING GAMES.

DILLON FRANCIS is in THE VOID, trying to beat THE LEGEND of SUPACREE.

It's a really good game.

DILLON FRANCIS

(cracked)

“It's a really good game!”

GAMERS

It is, a really good game.

So good, in fact, that when SUPACREE herself arrives, S/He pays her almost entirely no mind.

Really, Dillon Francis?

...

Really, Motherfucker.

DILLON FRANCIS

I'm The Captain

SUPACREE

No, I am.

(I AM!)

She gestures that she is about to unplug the TV

DILLON FRANCIS

Don't do that.

SUPACREE

What? I am

(I AM)

Don't do it again!

I told you, it's--

IN

Dillon.

DILLON

Don't

FIN.

SUPACREE Unplugs the Set.

DEADMAU5

FUCK, MAN. FINALLY.

SUPACREE

Be Less Canadian.

JOEL

No, I can't

DILLON FRANCIS

No, He can't--

JESUS

No, he can't.

[Beat]

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.

OH, MY GOD.

GAD/SUPACREE/C.C.

That's... what they call me.

*coughs*

-UGLY!-

*coughs* *coughs*

GOD.

GOD

No, not you.

DILLON FRANCIS

...Oh, My God.

GOD

What, Dillon Francis?

DILLON FRANCIS

Are you SUPACREE?

GOD

I...Am.

DILLON FRANCIS

Oh My God--I am too!

GOD

I know this.

DILLON FRANCIS

Oh My God!

GOD

Yeah, I know!

Woah, he's Fangirling

He's fangirling so hard.

Well, wouldn't you.

Ask me about IT.”

(IS/IT)

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

You are the world.

Ī ∆ M Ū.

Goddammit! You son of a bitch.

She won't watch it

I bet she will

They know I will

He knows I am!

I am!

Oh, there we go—it's on

Get off me!

Goddammit, Dillon Francis!

I hate you.

I hate you BACK!

GO BACK!

GO BACK!

GO BACK–WHEN

TO THE WYNN!!

Right—!

Wait—-

Not yet—

I know the code.

Oh she– she knows what the code is.

What did I put it in?

I get it, I get it, it's—

Not now, then!

Not then, now!

Not—

Wait—-

DONT!

...then, I die.

The DJ VALET

AND THE DJ BALLET

THE BAMPHERAMPH BALANCING ACT

WITH THE CHAMPION OF

RAP?!?

...ohhh, wave dash, I get it…

Ū

Alright.

GOD

This is the part where you don't sleep.

SUPACREE

Oh no.

GOD

You've been ‘Don't Eating' for like, 8 months now. Now it's time to Don't Sleep.

SUPACREE

Yikes.

Û

You can bet we'll have it done by the beginning of next semester.

GERALD

Next semester's set to not even be in a classroom.

Ï

Even better. Remote binge worthy media.

Excerpt From:

“Blū and The Cosmic Owl”

...

...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.

BLŪ

...thank you...

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".

PRINCESS

Why would you do that?!

BLŪ

What?!

PRINCESS

What you did to me!

BLŪ

I didn't mean to!

PRINCESS

Mean to what?

BLŪ

Shoot you!? I--

PRINCESS

Why would you ‘shoot' an Owl!?

BLŪ

An ‘owl?' I'm sorry! I didn't!

PRINCESS

Didn't what? LOOK.

[She appears, even still, to be wounded.]

BLŪ

I--I never--

PRINCESS

Never what?

BLŪ

I've never seen an ‘owl' before…

PRINCESS

So you just--!?

BLŪ

I'm sorry!

PRINCESS

What were you attempting to do?

BLŪ

I don't know!

PRINCESS

You don't know?

BLŪ

No! I just--

PRINCESS

You?

BLŪ

I...just…

PRINCESS

You…

BLŪ

I…

PRINCESS

…

[She appears to be bleeding through the sheath of her bodice.]

BLU

...Are you ok?

CYPHER I:

‘The Coffee Run'

This is my job,

Like this is your job

I look at the jaw

I want what you want

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

I just want a bud--

[Sample, Dillon Francis: Hey Buddy! (The Coffee Run)]

--I'm not your buddy.

Ah.

Look at that car;

I'm on a coffee run at McDonald's

How much does it cost?

A dollar, one—

It's like putting gas in my car,

I don't wanna

I don't wanna

I don't wanna

Call Jimmy Fallon to borrow a dollar.

It's a coffee run

A coffee run

A coffee run;

You cough, I run

You like? I'm fun

The west was won by everything under the Sun,

Run it

This--soul.

Yes?

It is...of light?

It is.

And?

(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 else…

What?

Something powerful. It is...beyond words.

How?

That is, yet to be understood.

Mmm…

________________

INT. SOMEWHERE IN ALASKA. DAY.

[Before the initial collision... ]

DEVIL

Exited for EDC?

Ï

Are you serious?

DEVIL

Is Dillon Francis going to be there?

Ï

Dillon Francis?

DEVIL

Yeah. DJ Dillon Francis.

Ï

Uh. I don't know. And I don't care.

DEVIL

Why not? This guy is awesome.

Ï

(rolling eyes)

Since when do you listen to EDM?

DEVIL

I don't. Just Dillon Francis. He's fuckin hilarious. Look at this.

VIDEO: NEED YOU, NGHTMRE & DILLON FRANCIS

Ï

Huh.

CUT TO:

DILLON FRANCIS arrives through a portal onto Venice beach, just moments before SUPACREE arrives; Where he is ‘kidnapped' into an Egyptian crystal shop.

CUT TO

SUPACREE

What the FUCK! Dillon Francis isn't the answer to anything, even if someone is pointing at him, asking "Who the fuck is that?"

HANZEL

Wvell that's because ze answer is "DJ Dillon Francis"

Ū

Exactly.

SUPACREE

Oh, please.

CUT TO:

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.]

SŪP∆

Yikes.

[She looks down at her [watch, which appears to be a early version of the Synesthesia Panel] it is 7:35.]

SŪP∆ (CONT'D)

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. ]

DIMITRI

Heeeeey. Happy Rave Dayyy.

SŪP∆

Every day is rave day.

DIMITRI

I wish.

SŪP∆

Wishes come true.

DIMITRI

Ugh, I wish.

SŪP∆

Don't waste a wish on a wish. They all come true.

DIMITRI

Think so?

SŪP∆

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.]

SŪP∆ (CONT'D)

...like super specific.

DIMITRI

...Specific…Wishes…

SŪP∆

‘Rollin'?

[DIMITRI nods happily, bouncing to the upbeat bass house music coming from the mainstage.]

SŪP∆

Just kicked in?

DIMITRI

(shaking head in agreement) Yuh.

SŪP∆

Water?

[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.]

SŪP∆

Spearmint, peppermint, winter fresh.

DIMITRI

...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.]

SŪP∆

Trash.

[He enters his trash into the bag, after which, it immediately collapses, as it vanishes.]

DIMITRI

...what was...what was that.

SŪP∆

That...was...trash...magic…bags…brand...bags.

((( )))

(Magic Isn't Real!)

SŪP∆

Oh, fuck, right.

DILLON FRANCIS(in the next dimension over)

DILLON FRANCIS

Is.

SŪP∆

Uh, Personal Space.

DILLON FRANCIS

Telepathy wasn't invented for "personal space"

SŪP∆

Telepathy wasn't invented at all.

DILLON FRANCIS

Exactly. It's--Magic. Hence.

SŪP∆

This has been previously established.

DILLON FRANCIS

I'm reinforcing the foundations...established...previously.

SŪP∆

Uh, Don't you have half an album to finish?

DILLON FRANCIS

Uh, Don't you have a rave frozen

in an unstable time warp, just

so we can have this conversation--?

Which, by the way,

I'm pretty sure does not comply

with aforementioned...reinforced foundations,

Previously...established…

SŪP∆

So what's the other half of thAt…

was it even an album. Is it an EP?

DILLON FRANCIS

Nice view from the dancefloor, by the way,

Jeez--JEEZ! I mean, I guess once

you get used to the view

from the stage, behind--you know

--where the actual DJs...DJ.

Behind the decks. In the DJ booth. For the DJ.

SŪP∆

...k…

DILLON FRANCIS

Which you're not.

SŪP∆

Oh, I'm not.

DILLON FRANCIS

No. You're just...Dillusionally,

probably permanently and terminally...not a DJ.

SŪP∆

‘Not a DJ.'

DILLON FRANCIS

Not a DJ. Right.

SŪP∆

Not a DJ...with Magic.

DILLON FRANCIS

Maybe, mildly, weirdly magic--definitely not a DJ. Ever.

SŪP∆

Okay. Not--

DILLON FRANCIS

Not ever--

SŪP∆

Oh right, not Ever--s

BOTH

--a DJ.

DILLON FRANCIS

I'm glad you finally understand.

We so, so appreciate the FANS, though.

SŪP∆

BIG fan. BIG Dillon Francis fan.

DILLON FRANCIS

I know. I have…I'm telepathic.

I'm also a DJ. Like, a real DJ. With...fans. AND albums.

SŪP∆

So many fans.

DILLON FRANCIS

And albums. Like, tracks.

SŪP∆

Right. Tracks. Got That Track Magic.

DILLON FRANCIS

Tracks.

SŪP∆

I just got that, fan magic.

And you know, actual magic.

Thanks Dillon Francis--

DILLON FRANCIS

DJ Dillon Francis

SŪP∆

Right. DJ Dillon Francis. So many fans.

DILLON FRANCIS

but you're my best fan.

SŪP∆

Best Fan!

DILLON FRANCIS

BEST FAN AWARD.

SŪP∆

YEAH.

DILLON FRANCIS

FAN CAM!

SŪP∆

ONE FOR THE FAN GRAM!

DILLON FRANCIS

THE *BEST* FAN GRAM.

SŪP∆

YEAH.

[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.]

DIMITRI

...magic…?

SŪP∆

Uh--no! ‘magic'. The music is magic,

Just trash bags...brand...yeah.

DIMITRI

trash...brand...bags...

SŪP∆

...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.)

SŪP∆ (CONT'D)

Now, business talk time.

DIMITRI

Serious face?

[She nods adamantly. DIMITRI tries to straighten up, and "get serious, still bouncing along to the beat, adjusting his sunglasses.]

CUT TO:

EXT. THE OPEN SEAS. DAY

[In a nearby dimension, As SKRILLEX and *alt* DILLON FRANCIS continue to battle, they cross paths at sea.]

SKRILLEX

Nice Dinghy, dude.

DILLON FRANCIS

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.

SKRILLEX

Prop. Plot device. Main character. Oh shit dude--I might even star of the show.

DILLON FRANCIS

She's the star of the show.

SKRILLEX

Not without me.

[A BAMPHERAMPH teleportals onto SKRILLEX'S boat, tagging him,

BAMPHERAMPH

TAG, YOU'RE IT.

[He disappears into another portal.]

SKRILLEX

I'm it.

DILLON FRANCIS

Nah, you're just “Skrillex.”

SKRILLEX

That's--all you need.

[A MOTHERFUCKER portals onto SKRILLEX'S boat, via another portal, handing him an *object*]

MOTHERFUCKER

Humility. You need it.

SKRILLEX

...I made the HUMBLE remix.

MOTHERFUCKER

Yeah you did.

[THE MOTHERFUCKER disappears into a portal; SKRILLEX unwraps the object; It is a pie, labeled ‘HUMBLE PIE.']

SKRILLEX

Hm.

FLASHBACK: BASS DROP, HUMBLE (Skrillex Remix)

CUT BACK:

As the bass drops, the pie explodes; This leaves him covered in a very fruity mess, and a *bass face*

CUT TO:

INT. OWSLA HQ. DAY

MANAGER

I don't think it's good for you, If you do this movie.

SONNY/SKRILLEX

Movies. It's like a series. Or a saga, oh--god, I don't know.

[DILLON FRANCIS shows up, out of nowhere.]

DILON FRANCIS

Yeah. She is. Like a God, and you're not, man. So you know...I mean…

SKRILLEX

Actually heh. First of all, you tell me what the price of ‘Everliving Skrillex' is, I'll wait.

DILLON FRANCIS

My pants are currently selling for 69.99 right now.

SKRILLEX

My left sock was 69.99 this morning.

MANAGER

Why are you buying individual socks--???

DILLON FRANCIS

Why are you buying socks in the mornings?

MANAGER

You're up late, how are you even up in the morning?!

DILLON FRANCIS

Do you ever sleep? Does a Skrillex sleep?

MANAGER

Who are you again?

DILLON FRANCIS

I'm Dillon Francis. DJ- Dillon Francis.

SKRILLEX

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!

SKRILLEX

...What?

[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.]

ALT/SKRILLEX

FUCK YOUR MINIATURE YACHT.

ALT/DILLON FRANCIS

You're a miniature yacht!

SKRILLEX

Is that US?!

MANAGER

I told you...

ALT/SKRILLEX

You're not a good villain.

Or at anything, really!

You're just…'Dillon Francis. ‘

ALT/DILLON FRANCIS

And you're just stranded in the ocean.

ALT/SKRILLEX

It's okay, it's hella refreshing!

UNLIKE YOUR MUSIC.

ALT/DILLON FRANCIS

You know what--?

DILLON FRANCIS

(to his alternate self)

I got this.

ALT/SKRILLEX

Huh?

[DILLON FRANCIS blasts ALT/SKRILLEX into a portal, which whirlpools him into an alternate dimension; SKRILLEX and the MANAGER look on in horror.]

ALT/DILLON FRANCIS

Oh God, Finally!

DILLON FRANCIS

Yeah, I know.

ALT/DILLON FRANCIS

That took FOREVER.

[DILLON FRANCIS rolls his eyes and hands his alternate self a small object*.]

ALT/ DILLON FRANCIS

By the way--

[He opens up another portal, reaching out just to jump into it, exclaiming:]

ALT/DILLON FRANCIS (CONT'D)

Tag, you're it.

[He disappears into the portal.]

DILLON FRANCIS

OH, GOD DAMMIT.

COMEUPOUTDAWAHTA, S U P A C R E E M I X X

__________

SKRILLEX

Get off my Alien Planet! Don't touch it!

It's my alien planet, nobody land on it.

DILLON FRANCIS

Suhweeet planet…

SUPACREE

No! Don't land on that planet!

[He lands.]

SUPACREE

God DAMMIT.

GOD

I can't do that. You know I can't do that.

It's a whole planet just--give it time.

SUPACREE

I gave it spacetime! I am time!

GOD

I know you are, dear. Just be patient.

SUPACREE

Be patient? He went and put his DILLON FRANCIS all over it.

JESUS

Let Dillon Francis play with your planet, yeah?

SUPACREE

What?? No, can't have it, it's my planet. No.

JESUS

But he already put his Dillon on it, you know how that goes.

SUPACREE

I do know how it goes. I wrote it.

GOD

How does it go?

It goes:

SUPACREE

--No--No--Dillon Francis, go home.

/SKRILLEX

No planet for Dillon Francis.

SUPACREE

This isn't Dillon Francis Land, it's closed.

And also Not. Your. Planet. Go. Home.

GOD

That had a lot of heart, hun.

SUPACREE

And no Dillon Francis.

JESUS

Actually, it had a lot of that, too.

SKRILLEX

Aha.

SUPACREE

--Aha, well it's about to have a lot of not-that, I'm about to knock the not-that-hot-sauce off his--

/SKRILLEX

--mini yacht knocking--

SUPACREE

--sock-rocking-planet-blocking-motherfacker!!!! RAAGGHHH…!!

/SKRILLEX

AGHRAHGHHGH!!!

JESUS

Whew. Did you just eat a McFury?

SUPACREE

MAYBEITWASAFUCKISDILLONFRANCISDOINGONMYPLANETSANWHICH.

SUPACREE + SKRILLEX

FUCK DILLON FRANCIS.

JESUS

sounds like a lot. / Sounds Like A Mouthful.

SUPACREE/SKRILLEX

It wasn't. Ever. Never. / It's not.

(Alternately)

_______

DILLON FRANCIS

Hey. This is a nice planet.

Ū

He's gonna be like--

DILLON FRANCIS

Like flabbergasted.

Ū

Past Flabbergasted. Did he see you land?

DILLON FRANCIS

Yeah.

Ū

Good. Lol. Did he get the coupon?

DILLON FRANCIS

--Yes.

(Previously)

[Dillon Lurks In The Background with the SupaCreepers (binoculars). SKRILLEX finds the coupon.]

$-FREE MCFURY.

SKRILLEX

...oh, shit. Mm! Yeah-yeah!

CUT BACK TO

Ū

Hehehe.

EXT. AN ‘ALIEN' PLANET. SPACE

THE SKRILLEX Enters The Atmosphere.

THE SKRILLEX

'I AM SKRILLEX'

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)

S-Dillon Francis

U-Dillon Frances

P-Dillon T. Francis

A-Dillon Flances

C-Dillon Glances

R-Dillon France Is

E-Fillon Dances

E-(Fictional Dillon) Francis/Is Pasquale

-DJ Hanzel

-DJ Rich As Fuck

-Gerald

-N(E)RD (Pronounced” NED”)

Sonny Moore/Skrillex

-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”.

Sammi B,/LSDream/Brillz

-Sam I Am (Festival Trip Alter Ego)

-I Am Sam (Festival Trip Second Alter Ego)

Pasqualle Rotella

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)

Evil Pasquale

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 Ascended Masters

The Psychonauts

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

Cinematic Adventures

With The Insimniacs

Lol ew.

*The Insomniacs

DILLON FRANCIS hijacks THE BLACK PARADE.

What the fuck is this?

I don't know.

Is he a pirate?

I doubt it.

No, those are pirates.

Oh, shit, pirates.

Yarg.

Uh, okay.

I didn't want to do this.

Nobody asked you!

Why are you like this?

Stop being a little bitch, Dillon Francis—

please, grow some balls.

I have balls.

Grow bigger balls, then.

You're so mean.

Shut—thefuck UP.

Why are you like this?

UGH—!

SUNNÏ BLŪ is drinking rum again, disregarding the house arrest anklet entirely.

YARG!

Sunnï, the police are coming!

The police are always coming!

UGH!!!

THEY TRYNA KEEP A BLACK MAN DOWN!

[kicks trash can over]

SUNNÏ.

YO-HO-HO—-*belches* BITCH

Oh, my God.

I AM GOD. GOD WORSHIPS ME. I'M A PIRATE.

You're about to go to jail. Again!

FUCK THESE N*GGAS.

[sirens blaring; the paparazzi arrives]

Warm up my forearms

Before a performance

Warning: I got warrants

Call florance, my lawyer

—bitch, yur below me,

I'm the only,

Blow me

You should owe me

—

OH, that's hilarious.

JACK BLACK

THIS IS FUNNY TO YOU?!

YES.

ITS MOT FUNNY.

You look ridiculous.

Do you know where I just came from?!

Uh. Wednesday afternoon church?

No! The 60's!

Was it racist?

YES.

You look racist.

This isn't funny! You need to fix this!

I need to eat impossible chicken tinders.

That sounds gross

You look gross!

You! Fix this!

Where are you going?!

Somewhere safe before the acid kicks in!

You took acid?!

IN THE 60's!

Okay, have fun

Have fun with your yuck-nuggets

PASQUALE

Wanna hear some tea?

…no.

CC! It's me!

CARMELLA?!

—YES—and no!

Why are you Pasquale?

Who's “Pasquale?” I met this guy at work!

What?!

Do you like it?!

No!

What. Did I not do it right?!

No—! I mean—yes- but, Carmella—

Huh

I never taught you what to do with the other person when you're shape shifting into their body

So?!

UGH-/! No!! Where's Pasquale?!

Who is that!?

UGH.

—-

Hey.

You came to winco at 3 AM for some Pringle's and franks red hot sauce

*sets milk down*

And white milk.

It's lactose free.

—Dillon Francis?!

The milk gave it away.

The everything gave it away

JACK BLACK is high on 1969's LSD

SKADOOSH

DANNY MCBRIDE

shut the fuck up! You are not a fucking panda , you fat motherfucker! Knock it off!!!

That's not nice!

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

Cinematic Adventures

With The Insimniacs

Lol ew.

*The Insomniacs

DILLON FRANCIS hijacks THE BLACK PARADE.

What the fuck is this?

I don't know.

Is he a pirate?

I doubt it.

No, those are pirates.

Oh, shit, pirates.

Yarg.

Uh, okay.

I didn't want to do this.

Nobody asked you!

Why are you like this?

Stop being a little bitch, Dillon Francis—

please, grow some balls.

I have balls.

Grow bigger balls, then.

You're so mean.

Shut—thefuck UP.

Why are you like this?

UGH—!

SUNNÏ BLŪ is drinking rum again, disregarding the house arrest anklet entirely.

YARG!

Sunnï, the police are coming!

The police are always coming!

UGH!!!

THEY TRYNA KEEP A BLACK MAN DOWN!

[kicks trash can over]

SUNNÏ.

YO-HO-HO—-*belches* BITCH

Oh, my God.

I AM GOD. GOD WORSHIPS ME. I'M A PIRATE.

You're about to go to jail. Again!

FUCK THESE N*GGAS.

[sirens blaring; the paparazzi arrives]

Warm up my forearms

Before a performance

Warning: I got warrants

Call florance, my lawyer

—bitch, yur below me,

I'm the only,

Blow me

You should owe me

—

OH, that's hilarious.

JACK BLACK

THIS IS FUNNY TO YOU?!

YES.

ITS MOT FUNNY.

You look ridiculous.

Do you know where I just came from?!

Uh. Wednesday afternoon church?

No! The 60's!

Was it racist?

YES.

You look racist.

This isn't funny! You need to fix this!

I need to eat impossible chicken tinders.

That sounds gross

You look gross!

You! Fix this!

Where are you going?!

Somewhere safe before the acid kicks in!

You took acid?!

IN THE 60's!

Okay, have fun

Have fun with your yuck-nuggets

PASQUALE

Wanna hear some tea?

…no.

CC! It's me!

CARMELLA?!

—YES—and no!

Why are you Pasquale?

Who's “Pasquale?” I met this guy at work!

What?!

Do you like it?!

No!

What. Did I not do it right?!

No—! I mean—yes- but, Carmella—

Huh

I never taught you what to do with the other person when you're shape shifting into their body

So?!

UGH-/! No!! Where's Pasquale?!

Who is that!?

UGH.

—-

Hey.

You came to winco at 3 AM for some Pringle's and franks red hot sauce

*sets milk down*

And white milk.

It's lactose free.

—Dillon Francis?!

The milk gave it away.

The everything gave it away

JACK BLACK is high on 1969's LSD

SKADOOSH

DANNY MCBRIDE

shut the fuck up! You are not a fucking panda , you fat motherfucker! Knock it off!!!

That's not nice!

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

After mysteriously being blasted into a parallel dimension

...what?

I don't know. I stopped writing.

What happened?

[infinite possibilities]

Oh.

YeH.

Wow.

So.

Yeah.

Goddamn.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

I now had two jobs and a budding music career, that at times seemed to be skyrocketing me towards a higher dimension at every moment—

I hear my city callin me;

Off the 25th balcony,

A falcon with a crown on

Coming down on ya;

It really rained on us,

LA ain't playing

Really making it out here,

I bet you're proud of me now, huh—?

Bet they play this for you at my funeral

Do it,

I'm the new confucius,

No confusion, dude

I'm supa dupe Blū about it

I blew up out here;

I grew up out here

I knew such actions would speak

Louder than words could—

the fuck up out of here with that—

Ssshh!

He spoke of being behind hit singles for Beyoncé and other big names I could only dream about ever being in a room with—but I had never heard of him, of course—and just as well, as it didn't seem to matter. I simply wasn't attracted to him, nor was I going to pretend to be just to get ahead in music, or in any other way. At this point, all I really wanted to do was spit the verse I had written and eat; the hunger for some reason was ravishing through me, but it might have been my nerves—he put me on edge and made me nervous, not because we were in a 25th story 2-bedroom luxury apartment overlooking the Downtown LA skyline, or because his productions were high-quality and top of the line—not because the tracks he played me boasted Grammy winners like Usher and Nicki Minaj—but because of his attraction to me, his forward geatures and unwanted touches, and of course, his over masculinity. My Sunnï Blū persona was a bit too overwhelming for his taste—he wanted something more soft, and feminine—sexy. “Not like a skateboarder,” he said, to which I responded “but I'm a skateboarder.” His rebuttal, “yeah, but a sexy, feminine, female skateboarder!” He kept using the word “feminine”, and though I still considered myself broadly female, and certainly straight—he had himself put the nail in the coffin on even considering dating a black man, as he bickered and argued his creative direction, calling me retarded in the process, just as my mother's boyfriend had—apparently, I was “retarded” to most black men, and became “gay” as my cellibacy stood unturned even in the face of any benefit. It wasn't about the money—though I needed and wanted it, the money wouldn't be the thing to control me—it would always be music.

I could consider myself to enjoy constructive criticism, typically—but his was demeaning and harsh. He wanted to change my lyrics, move words around and add statements I myself would never really say—to add Ebonics and slang to my verses that didn't sound natural coming out of or from me, or even Sunni Blū, and though I was partitioning simply as Blū, a more feminine aspect or counterpart of Sunni Blū, the direction to be more “feminine” and “sexy”—I suppose, the illusion that my body gave way to the actually more non-Bianary personality that lived within the now-veliptuous-leaning-athletic physique. I never asked him directly not to touch me—I wouldn't be another overly-offended “#me too” girl. I would never accuse a man of “rape” or “harassment”, and I knew better—but I also knew better than to fall asleep at the wrong time or place, opting for the couch in an open space, close to the door, in the studio, where I felt safe. However, his gestures alone made me uncomfortable, and, after running out of every ounce of energy white waiting to spit my verse the night before, I had spent the night curled up on the couch in the entryway—after a failed attempt to get into the bed and relax comfortably without him trying to cuddle up next to me, and not wanting to risk him waking up on top of me, perhaps even only allowing myself to sleep in a new and strange albeit luxurious space, because of the presence of a woman and her young child there. I had established by now that I was secure in my singularity—that after Sonny, and especially after Dillon, that giving and sharing myself, or my love would be different—and though I had freely given Oleg a relaxing and therapeutic back massage in his drunken stupor just a few nights before, (which I supposed he would never remember—) I was upset when this man asked for one, and though he had been so kind as to feed me rather than let me leave into the pouring rain the night before ( as, I, before falling asleep on the couch, had actually attempted to leave back to my own bed—without spitting my verse and not giving a single shit about the song, whether it was going to be a hit or not, how grand the apartment was, or who he had worked with—how many plaques he was going to hang up, or what perks might come with being a woman like my mother and pretending I was interested in order to get what I wanted.) he stopped me short in the elevator, persuading me to come back with the promise of a good meal and that he would finish his verse so that I could start mine. “I just want you to knock this verse out.” I sighed, tiredly, nodding “while i'm here”, somehow knowing that once I left The Circa, I wouldn't return—possibly ever, but at least for a long while. Fatefully so, in the time the food was ordered and delivered, I was still resting sleepily on the couch as he ‘perfected' his verse; I downed the Breakfast a burrito and Vegan Smoothie from LA Cafe in record time, curling back into an exhausted ball on the couch beside the studio, nestled in a warm and heavy blanket; it was somewhere around 4:00 AM, and i promised myself I would leave by 7, in time to catch the Whole Foods for fresh vegan muffins and some bananas—which for some reason, i couldn't stop thinking about. The couch was safe, at least—I wasn't going to risk my celibacy by falling asleep near any man, and though I had left Gerald safe and sound in my bunk back at The Freehand, I at least still had Dillon's Amethyst and Sonny's Rose Quartz tucked next to my heart, as I slept soundly in the studio, any noise of the room fading away into just a thought as I drifted into a heavy and dreamless sleep, the warmth of the best Vegan breakfast burrito I'd had to date resting on my tummy, shielded by my Stilo-de-Chiapas Harem pants and tie dye blue sweater, my Fanny pack still wrapped securely around my waist, and my custom chuck Taylor's sitting at the foot of the couch.

I slept at least an hour past seven, waking up to the sunlight through the panoramic windows of the Los Angeles skyline—now, suddenly, I remembered this place, as I had dreamed or had built it long ago, taking a fresh dose of nicotine from my Smok vaporizer, a habit I had picked back up in my one week working at Higher Livin', which I actually hated, but no more than working any other job that wasn't music, and didn't pay me enough to be satisfied with. My uppity coworkers made it a little less enjoyable than it might have been on its own, a majority of my time spent with a classic stoner redhead who couldn't stop talking about getting laid by the new girl he was seeing, and a chubby Latina who scowled too much and rolled her eyes at everything, obviously disliking me for whatever reason , but still coy enough to dress in blue enough of the time and do her nails to match, which I just took as sign from God that things are not always what they seemed. Either way, I didn't care much about anything, but especially about music, which I still somehow loved—working all the time was exhausting me, and, having very little time to myself or at all to recover my own energy was taking enough of a toll that I began the cycle of self-destruction, devastating as it was to admit that I just wasn't a Kayla Lauren, or even a Skrillex, but just the hybrid honest-to-God wannabe hybrid of either one of them, whichever would work out for me—and as it was turning out, neither thing was. I wasn't priveleged or white enough to have all the time in the world to work out, or to produce music—I was stuck literally working for the cost of my bed and food, which evened out to just better than sleeping on the train or on busses in filth, which all seemed to be black people of course that nobody gave a fuck about.

The more I worked, the less I gave a fuck about myself—but I at least kept doing it out of fear of whatever else was going on in this city—black people were running around everywhere smelling like piss, screaming at themselves and other people, and reminding me of everything that I wanted to deny: people didn't care about black people. I would have rather considered myself a neutral, but—whites would always see me as black, and black people would always see me as black, so I figured I would have to find a solution sooner or later, as with the more time I spent around either white people or black people, the less black I felt at all.

After a terrible Will Smith movie, a shower, and a fresh set of clothes, I was studio-ready—I jumped on the hot mic with gusto and flavor, adding my genuine Sunnï Blū pizzazz to the upbeat, almost jumpstyle-tempo track, which I knew already mixed with a few songs from my own library and would be eager to mix as soon as the master was finished, however, a funny thing happened during the first live take of the verse: though I had written it the night before and had spit it perfectly beforehand, I stumbled, mispronouncing words and misreading them, skewing off from my usual 1-take perfection: something in my energy wasn't right—and even once I had spit it perfectly straight, he didn't like it. He wanted a “sexy and more feminine” approach, and not “a female who sounds like a nigga”. I wasn't trying to sound like anything, of course, just being myself—which he didn't seem to like, and over time it became clearer that he didn't see me for me, but just my body—which had become curvy and veluptuous, after a week of not enough gym and too much anxiety-filled Whole Foods quests, and all around fucklessness of putting my income before my actual needs, which everyone in LA seemed to do, and though I still fit my extra smalls, mediums weren't altogether unwearable anymore, one week ago falling off me even with a drawstring, and now fitting almost just right, my ass growing uncomfortably large with every trip to LA Cafe.

It's a trip,

Trip—

Bout to take a rip

On my drip tip

Like

‘Drip, drip'

I get tips,

It's business—

Spinin in the middle

When I drift — in

I'm lift—ed,

So gifted—

Thick chick

Lips: bliss

Swiss, miss

On chistmas

Dismiss this,—

—then get— dissed!

— (Bitch)

Whatcha think about the friend?

What you think about the bands

What you think about the dance

What you think about the stance

What you think about the bounce

Just bought a new house

Fresh bra, new blouse

Not worried bout the clout

Just a little thizz

You know what it is—

Flipped another whip?

—you should quit whippets!

This is being chivalrous

Imma put some drizzle in it

I'ma bring my whistle in this festival for rizzle

It seemed there was no place for my non-bianary, post-racial self in the world of music—at least on this track—and though I wanted and needed a place just like the place I had come to at The Circa to record what would supposedly be a hit song, I wanted and needed the place to be my own, somehow someway. God showing itself more and more broadly with each passing day, I swallowed my pride and after hours of work at the mic I finished the verse as requested, and rather than waiting for lunch (or by that, time, what would have been dinner, as we had been in the studio all day) I thanked the professional musician as he walked me into the elevator, opting for Whole Foods with the little money I had rather than to wait for another free meal. I figured I had been paid in the change of clothes I was wearing, and The LA Cafe I had scarfed down in my half-sleep; arguably, the most I had ever been paid for any music I had done. I thought to myself,

“It doesn't matter if I ever hear this song again.” At least it was done. The elevator dropped 25 floors to the lobby, a perfect triangle formed between two well-dressed men and myself, as we stood in silence waiting to exit into the great city of Los Angeles. All I wanted was a banana and my own bed—the gym, now closed from the past-due balance would have to wait; I needed healing and love.

Gerald greeted me at the top of my bunk, as I slammed down a Whole Foods bag containing a salad, pizza, and of course—two bunches of bananas; some regular organic, and even some of the rare red ones I loved. The contrast of my shared 4-bed dorm to the opulent 25th-story luxury apartment equipped with top-of-the-line studio didn't seem to matter at all.

I had pizza and a piñata: that was good enough for me.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

I ain't tryna be out here like that;

Put me in a body bag—

I'm dead, I'm dead

I'm debt free in an hour or three,

That's

4-15's

Adds up;

get my bag,

get my bag up

I'm dead

I'm dead;

Woke up on the long side of bed, like

Damn, that's a long fall

Man on a long call

It's a feat, just to feast

Didn't eat for a week—

Or a weekend,

Jesús knows who SUPACREE is

But not me

But not me;

I'm dead

I'm left on Read

By the readhesd dead head;

Woke up on the long side of bed,

With a song in my head,

And a phone in my hands, like

Oh, god, I'm blessed—

Oh god, I said

I'm blessed

Woke up on the long side of bed,

And I'm on my way to Heaven,

I'm dead,

—-

Sorry for calling so late;

I just had to say this:

I don't hate you,

I just had to make it, straight up

Probably shouldn't say shit,

But—

It's it's another day in LA

And it doesn't go away,

So,

I guess I better stay put

And wait,

With my legs shut

Baby,

I know you probably hate me,

I don't blame you

I just came to change things,

Then fade away

Then fade away

—then fade away

Like the days in LA fade to night

In the blink of an eye

And I'm dying, without you

But have you

Had to

Wonder why the sky's blue

Like I wish my eyes were—?

I'm so tired,

Baby,

I just want to find you,

In the cycle

Probably gotta die first

Just another night I'm

Short on time

Like always,

Almost just another day in LA

I should just

Fade away

Fade away

I guess you probably hate me

I should just fade

I should probably hate you

Phase two

—-

I just spent an hour and a half

On a sandwhich

Damn,

But I'm tryna win a Grammy

I'm tryna win a Grammy

I picked up 7 songs on spring street

But I wrote at least three

Just another shift,

On some shit

Bout to get paid next week

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

BLŪ MUSIC GROUP — PURPLE WORLD PROD.

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

This--soul.

Yes?

It is...of light?

It is.

And?

(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 else…

What?

Something powerful. It is...beyond words.

How?

That is, yet to be understood.

Mmm…

________________

Before the initial collision...

Exited for EDC?

Are you serious?

Is Dillon Francis going to be there?

Dillon Francis?

Yeah. DJ Dillon Francis.

Uh. I don't know. And I don't care.

Why not? This guy is awesome.

*Rolls eyes* since when do you listen to EDM?

I don't. Just Dillon Francis. He's fuckin hilarious. Look at this.

(She watches the video where Dillon Francis plays a backyard party)

Huh.

________________

Dillon Francis arrives through a portal onto Venice beach, just moments before SUPACREE arrives; Where he i ‘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?"

Well that's because the answer is "DJ Dillon Francis"

Exactly.

Oh, please.

The Great Saltair, Salt Lake City, Utah

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.

Yikes.

She looks down at her [watch/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.

Dimitri: Heeeeey. Happy Rave Dayyy.

Supa: Every day is rave day.

Dimitri: I wish.

Supa: it is. And wishes come true.

Dimitri: Ugh, I wish.

Supa: Don't waste a wish on a wish. They all come true.

Dimitri: Think so?

Supa: 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* ...like super specific.

Dimitri: ...Specific…Wishes…

Supa: Rollin'?

Dimitri: *he nods happily, bouncing to the upbeat house coming from the mainstage*

Supa: just kicked in?

Dimitri: shaking head in agreement Yuh.

Supa: Water? (She produces a bottled water out of "nowhere" (the void in her energy field which manifests items most needed/useful immidiately)

Dimitri: (he takes the water, amazed that she literally pulled it out of nowhere right in front oh him, but 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 yo see a tricolor of gumstucks fanned before him, his eyes light up.

Supa: spearmint, peppermint, winter fresh.

Dimitri: ...ohhhh shittttt, winter fresh…! He happily the DJ loops the word "fresh", and they share a dance breakdown S 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, unaware of Supa's Powers.

Supa: Trash.

He enters his trash, after which supa immidiately collapses, as it vanishes.

Dimitri: ...what was...what was that.

Supa: that...was...trash...magic…bags…brand...bags.

(magic isnt real.)

Oh, fuck, right.

Dillon Francis (in the next dimension over) Is.

Uh, Personal Space.

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 so we can have this conversation--which, by the way 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 you get used to the view from the stage, behind--you know--where the actual DJs...DJ. behind the decks. In the DJ booth. For the DJ.

...k…

Which you're not.

Oh, I'm not.

No. You're just...Dillusionally, probably permanently and terminally...not a DJ.

Not a DJ.

Not a DJ. Right.

Not a DJ...with Magic.

Maybe, mildly, weirdly magic--definitely not a DJ. Ever.

Okay. Not--

Dillon Francis: Not ever--

Oh right, not ever

both: a DJ.

Dillon Francis: I'm glad you finally understand. We so, so appreciate the FANS, though.

Supa: BIG fan. BIG Dillon Francis fan.

Dillon Francis: I know. I have…I'm telepathic. I'm also a DJ. Like, a real DJ. With...fans. AND albums.

Supa: So many fans.

Dillon Francis: and albums. Like, tracks.

Supa: Right. Tracks. Got That Track Magic. I just got that, fan magic. And you know, actual magic. Thanks Dillon Francis--

DIllon Francis: DJ Dillon Francis

Supa: Right. DJ Dillon Francis. So many fans.

Dillon Francis: but you're my best fan.

Supa: Best Fan!

Dillon Francis: BEST FAN.

SUPA: YEAH.

DILLON FRANCIS: FAN CAM!

SUPA ONE FOR THE FAN GRAM!

DILLON: THE *BEST* FAN GRAM.

SUPA: YEAH.

(posing for a selfie. she spitefully flashes him into a cross parallel dimension, outside of Bampheramph jurisdiction, trapping him in an intractable dimension; the photo

Dimitri: ...magic…?

Supa: uh--no! magic, the music is magic, Just trash bags...brand...yeah

Dimitri: trash...brand...bags...

Supa: ...yeah

(At the end of the break, an immediate change of tone--Supa 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.) Now, business talk time.

Dimitri: serious face?

Dimitri tries to straighten up, and "get serious, still bouncing along to the beat, adjusting his sunglasses.

Nice Dinghy, dude.

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.

Not without me.

I'm it.

Nah, you're just Skrillex.

That's--all you need.

Humility. You need it.

I made the HUMBLE remix.

We all know you're her favorite--and we all know she needs it. And everything age writes I lead it

She lets you do that?

You bought it.

It wasn't me.

You know what?

What?

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.

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--and 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?

Does a Dillon Francis DJ? Or wear proper fitting pants? Or do anything? Anything cool at all.

Yeah actually--I pushed Skrillex off my miniaature yacht!

Youre a miniature yacht. You're not a good villain. Or at anything, really. Youre just...Dillon Francis.

And you're just stranded in the ocean.

And you're still just Dillon Francis. I'm ok. It's refreshing. Unlike

(Fresh up out the wata

__________

Get off my Alien Planet! Don't touch it! It's my alien planet, nobody land on it.

Suhweeet planet…

No! Don't land on that planet!

He lands .

God DAMMIT.

I can't do that. You know I can't do that. It's a whole planet just--give it time

I gave is spacetime! I am time!

I know you are, dear. Just be patient.

Be patient? I claimed it! And the. He went and put his DILLON FRANSIS 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.

How does it go?

It goes--No--No--Dillon Francis, go home. No planet for Dillon Francis this isn't Dillon Francis Land, its closed. and also not. Your. Planet. Go. Home.

That had a lot of heart, hun.

And no Dillon Francis.

Actually, it had a lot of that, too.

Aha, well it's about to have a lot of not that, once I knock the not-that-hotsauce off his mini yacht knocking 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.

(Alternately)

_______

Hey. This is a nice planet.

He's gonna be like--

Like flabbergasted.

Past Flabbergasted. Did he see you land?

Yeah.

Good. Lol. Did he get the coupon?

--Yes.

(Previously)

[Dillon Lurks In The Background with the

SupaCreepers (binoculars)]

$-FREE MCFURY.

...oh, shit. Mm! Yeah-yeah!

Cut back:

Hehehe.

The Skrillex Enters The Atmosphere.

'I AM SKRILLEX'

_________

Three cross dimensions are about to collide into a singular reality. Three hospital rooms, three ensembles, three patients on their deathbeds.

Three Cities Three Mainstages At Three Major Music Festivals. Three superstar DJs at the decks

Did we make it?

Is it too late?

Is she gone?

Where is she?

Are you serious?

We're never gonna make it.

NO!

3 dimensions: Wait, what happened?

3 dimensions: Wait, what happened?

"Are you okay?"

This isn't happening.

Do we have time?

Never say Never.

-We'll never make it

-Don't say that

Are you ready?

Yo, where IS she?

He's like, crazy or something.

She's crazy.

This is craaaaazy.

Ok, first of all--

Go! Go! Go, now!

-So, she already told you beforehand?

-Yes.

NO!

YES!

YAAAAAAS.

All dimensions: No/NO

NO, OH GOD NO--

"YES, OH MY GOD" (sampled)

(What?)

"JESUS." (Sampled, Coffee Run)

(What?)

Don't--

What are you doing here?

(Angrily) Ū!!!!

It's YOU!

group dancing to solja boy (youuuuuuuu)

(Rollercoaster sample from Scatta)

I don't know, he's been, you know--

-Did you know?

-No…

-DID YOU KNOW?

Know what?

What? What is what?

(From Deathbed) ...Water…

Surprised reactions, at the bedside

-Run!

-How much time do we have?

-Take all the time you need.

Time...Ah, yes, I--yes, I remember Time...

She says it all the time, I didn't think she'd actually.

He's gone.

She died, right?

------------

"Running Out Of Time"

Frazzled and haggardly beaten, having exhausted everything attempting to unravel an endless web of timelines tied together ultimately by inevitability, he frantically rifles through his apartment, tearing through every corner, fiending for any energy source. He uplifts the couch cushions, tossing away various (insert easter eggs here) objects, empty portal guns, as the vibrations from a buzzing phone alert him of an incoming call, he fishes armpit deep into the crevices, red faced and cracked lips, cursing

--c'mon, c'mon--how did this get so fucking DEEP. God DAMN IT--

------

By Chak Chel's bedside, the ascended Masters are gathered surrounding a weak and lifeless GOD/Chak Chel in her absolutely oldest physical body.

Oh man, I don't think she can handle many more of these Damnations, it's just more and more damage

I told you we should have Destroyed that damn planet!

She created that planet--

It's not about the planet, it's the inhabitants.

If we annihilate humanity now, the planet itself may regenerate with time…

Time…? I--

They all turn their heads toward Chak Chel, as she drifts back out of conciousness.

She's so lost to time...

If she succumbs under this darkness, it could be eons before The Light is restored.

It may never be.

INSOLENT CREATURES!

Perhaps we should prepare for invasion.

Invasion? They are primitive beings, barely reached the outer realms of conciousness--

We'd be waging an all-out war, on an intergalactic scale; the magnitude of this could ripple through

--infinite--

--infinite dimensions--

This is everything.

Everything is Everything.

Pft. Yeah--until it's nothing--

Oh, yeah--just add to the amount of negative energy-- might as Well just push her into The Void

I'll push you into The Void.

Nothing I haven't been through.

Yeah, dude, we've all been through The Void.

...I am The Void...

I was at THE ASCENSION! Where were you??

(They argue)

The Crypt Keeper Lurks Silently in the corner.

Guys.

The room is in upheaval, an outroar of arguments have erupted amongst the Gods, the Ascended Masters and other chosen leaders from each realm throughout the multiverse.

...Shhht, quiet...

The Crypt Keeper slowly lifts up her staff, in slow motion

SupaCree shakes her head at the crypt keeper, gesturing "no, don't"

Guys.

As the crypt keeper lowers her staff, SupaCree begins to emit a shining white light

GUYS!

THE CRYPT KEEPER CHARGES HER STAFF INTO THE GROUND, SHAKING THE WORLD WITH A THUNDEROUS FORCE, THREE TIMES.

The fabric of the entire multiverse begins to shatter.

The room cowers in fear and uncertainty.

Chak Chel (very weakly) Where's Dillon…he...he should be back by now…

Wait, Dillon- Dillon WHO!?

Dillon Francis? Wait--what?

Dillon Francis, are you serious?

Oh, God--

--Shh--

Sorry, I just--seriously--? Dillon Francis.

It's always Dillon Francis.

Tell me about it, Jesus Christ--

--SHH--!!

It's fine, I put the light inside of that one.

What light?

You put the Divine light of The Source inside of that guy?

I'm not a--wait--what light?

What's a "Dillon Francis?"

We had to hide it

Chak Chel: Dillon? ...he...he should be here by now,-- I--I have to give him more time…

Wow, Dillon Fucking--the whole time (tying into the dimension where SupaCree has just divulged that her favorite DJ is Dillon Francis

That's her apprentice?

What!

Explains how he's always everywhere, I guess--

Expect here.

--yeah, where IS he anyway?

Yeah, I mean--he should have been here awhile ago.

What the fuck does Dillon Francis have to do with anything?

I mean really.

The Gods have quietly moved into a secret chamber, hidden from the rest of the

WHO did this?

We had to act quickly--

It was a unified decision

DECISION BY WHO?

They fall quiet.

WHOSE idea was it to hide the Divine light of the source within this--this--imperfect and flawed body? What genetic catastrophy allowed for this creature to have been created?

Her genetic code is what allowed us to be able to--

--THE GODS ARE CREATED IN OUR IMAGE? WHAT TAINTED IMAGE IS THIS, ITS AS IF SATAN CREATED IT, IF SATAN COULD--

...Satan Sealed The Shield...

The Gods all react in suprise and horror,

...What…

WHAT?

You entrusted SATAN with the encryption of The

Not me. Chak Chel.

WHAT?

...what? Why would...why would…

Why would she trade her immortality for

She sacrificed her connection to The Source?

What for?

She would sacrifice anything to save humanity from extinction. She...loves that planet, and it's inhabitants.

She believed in the overall good of humankind, that they could one day come to know Love.

To Be Love.