SEASON 6

ACT III - Part II

Oh no.

I told you, this was a bad idea

DONT CHECK THE—

It's too late.

“A Writing Assignment”

Fuxk.

This is bad.

I'M GONNA DIE LIKE THIS.

Well, it's Brooklyn—there's gonna be a fire escape and a rooftop.

This is creeper level 9000

Whatever.

Where'd the bass go?

I've lost my sense of direction

I'm mad I can't have you,

It's candid

I shouldn't be out here like this l

I should have gone to Manhattan

Are you mad, man—

At the mad hatter!

At the course of action in this rendition

fuxk, it is Skrillex.

I just went to look for Kayla Lauren.

Got hit with the other one instead.

“I insist, do it this way”

Better get a good picture,

Better get a good fix on your riches

Maybe this is why my scar was lighting up all morning

Maybe that's the reason I was off. Without my phone all day.

Maybe that's the reason I was fasting.

Good Goddamnit man,

You're awful good at acting

Awful good at grabbing ass,

And awful good at dancing

Awful good at making friends

And awful good at

First things first,

And first things last, and after—

Amsterdam

I never guessed where York was at

I never asked

I never asked

I never asked

FUCK.

What, man.

I think Skrillex listens to my podcast.

Well, that's, uh.

Fuck that.

Fuxk that.

Fuck that.

Well, that's one hell of a flex.

It's a pop up.

I just had a dream about surfing.

Better stop, God.

There might be a show for every day of the week.

I'm still weak in the knees.

I don't know what I need.

I'm still a mothafuckin Skrillex fiend.

Have a nice dream.

Have some ice cream.

There's the ice queen.

That's been three times since my eye started bleeding.

I thought I was just an MC,

Or a DJ,

I might take the soul train

But don't have a ticket

Thanks.

Now whose the dick.

Well , I'm just taking pictures.

How's Dillon Francis.

Now that's a priority.

I can't ShaZam from out here, you know.

I called my dad.

I thought you had no family.

Same thing as having no home, or,

No where to go,

I'm no homer,

I'm sitting here, hopeless, outside or your show—

Not hoping to see you, or anything

I'll be you, inside my dreams,

Sequels for everything

Sequences, sequins and diamon rings,

Sequoias and

I still have feelings for

I still have feelings for

Feelings for everything

This is the weakest I've been since I needed you

2019 was the year that the hero

Was broke

Well.

That's it.

What.

That's the whole thing.

Can't be the whole thing

Do you want to take a half, or a whole thing

Do you want to wear the pants, or the whole ring

Should I take a flight to France, or to Oakland

Stuck in a chokehold,

God, I'm too old for this

God, I just want to go home;

Here's a long rope to hang your self with—

Now I'm locked up in homeroom

I lost it all once, got it all at the pawnshop

For $96 dollars—

The original price tag, of course, read

$115 though.

I honestly thought I never wanted to see Skrillex again, but as it turned out— as I was, of course, trying to connect with closure, snooping into Instagram just to find evidence or romance, which I did—not that I needed anything more than a glance to ensure my own insanity—and it was that, insanity.

Don't do it.

—but it's Valentine's Day.

Don't do it.

Goddamnit, I hate this.

I hadn't been up this early without not having gone to bed since I arrived on the east coast; I woke up promptly around 8 with lyrics in my brain and music in my head; it had been a long and strange night, with no dreams at all—at least none that I could remember, and it had been long since I had woken up with anything in my mind besides fear and panic.

I refused to turn on my phone, quickly reaching for my notebook and a pen before the song would leave my mind—I had a lot of work to do, and for whatever reason I actually felt like doing it; I at least had the train ride to Manhattan to think about what I should be thinking about, or to unravel from whatever I was wrapped up in, even if it was just myself.

This is not a coincidence

This is not a drill;

Of course, now—

I feel like the villain;

To swallow Dillon like a pill

But In the end, though,

Nothing's real,

And nothing changes,

Nothing will

I should be working on my will

I think of jumping—

What a thrill

I'm busy thumping, humphing

Rumbling, mumbling about something

And someday never comes,

But Sunday does,

And Sonny shows up Monday—

I feel dumb, and awkward, suddenly—

I'm just an awkward cunt;

That's what the prophet wrote

Upon the wall

In Brooklyn,

Out on Broadway,

Where I was,

Before the fall off;

I gave my dad a call,

And then my son—

That's all that love was

I showed up with my whole heart in my pocket

What a long walk;

What an alter,

Whatever the sun does

When he doesn't watch

I'm Sasquatch,

But it's water, starch,

And crunches

‘This is not a coincidence.'

I had spend the day before, valentines say, combing through my belongings meticulously—I was due to check out the following morning, and without much thiugh I had thought of another extension, which would l of course diminish the last of my money, but at least warrant another couple nights safe and warm.

I hadn't made any sense to look for a normal job-not only would the process or getting hired take up all the rest of mh time, but it would be if. Purse two to theee weeks before I would receive any kind of paycheck at all—and with such little time left living indoors, It didn't make sense to try.

I had been stranded in New York since addict f on the 4th, and though it had nearly been two weeks, I hadn't any luck in landing any gigs or performances. Jetro of course was still waiting with Blame Society records in Rome for my arrival, I hadn't even thought to notify him of the lack of such, as I partially blamed even alerting him that I was on my way via instragrwm for the flight delay that had caused me to miss my train, which of course caused me to miss my plane, landing me stuck in a hostile, cruel, and homeless USA.

I carry, or

Hold no stones for you;

Haven't I a heart left

It's the darkest of all the hours,

And here you are, again—

Not near, or far,

But a bet is a bet,

An eye for an eye

And a head for a head

And you're so far ahead,

I've yet to catch up yet

I have a gift for your daughter,

Often, I've thought of her

Lost in New York,

No glass houses,

It's just brick and mortar

She calls me retarded, my mother

So I haven't called her

I just keep running north

I just keep running my mouth on this podcast

I just keep thinking that someone's my long lost love, at last

You dirty bastard

I'm an asshole:

Handsome, Hanzel is

In case it mattered

Everyone's a fucking actor

Look at that girl

And look at that

And look at that

And look at that girl

And look at that

And look at that

You took my whole world

Turned it upside down

And bottled up my love l

You never told me where the bottle was

But showed me what a model was

And after that I fell in love with

Something about doing drugs and

Coming up with love to give to others

Turning pigeons into doves

And wishing I could just be nothin'

—cause my life was fuckin loveless

—and I thought you were my husband

(Fuck Kayla Lauren;

But I guess I gotta love her,

Cause she's human)

I took my time getting ready, no time, actually, in comparison to how slowly I had been moving throughout the week, and although I had been to the gym daily, I was worn, and tired—and coming up empty on all fronts. It was 10:14 or so by the time I finally made my way to the subway, ‘I'm still off', I thought— but not only couldn't I depressively sulk and lay in bed the way I thought I would or even maybe wanted to, I had been lifted out of my sleep and on my way to Equinox with a startling force—though I shouldn't have at all been suprised; this, whether consciously or not, I realized, had always happened when it came to the matter of the mysterious Sonny Moore.

‘Fuck'

It was late evening Monday before the anxiety started to set in, and for some reason had been the reason I had decided to turn on my phone, to extend my reservation another couple days, buying time in comfort and warmth, on the freedom of privacy, which I had done nothing with but rest and try to be whole again, whatever that was—and whatever it meant. I had been cooking for the first time in months, stretching, and meditating the ways that only seemed to come natural when having my own time and space —and though it wasn't wholly my own, it was clean, peaceful, and quiet—included it's very own space heater, and was decorated in my favorite color blue. My host was an actual working professional who had succeeded in the entertainment industry—which of course made me jealous, but I at the very least had done my best to network and perhaps nitpick an easygoing cash job out of it “I have some connections”, she had piped—and so, with that in mind, I had sent her my links; and of course, with my extension being the reason for even having turned on my phone, was quick to check my text messages to see if there had been any movement with the booking agent she had supposedly sent my information to. “I gave him your Instagram, and so he'll probably reach out to you through there it he's interested.”

I hated Instagram and it seemed to hate me, even before the devastating discovery of what a Kayla Lauren was, it had always seemingly been algorithmicallu programmed to make me hate myself, always spamming my feed with skinny white girls with blue eyes, which I only hated Seinfeld, admittedly out of bitter loneliness—the guys I seemed to like and fall for had always seemed to go for that type—white, skinny, blue eyes or some variation of the “ideal” standard of beauty, especially by Californian standards—and so I had always taken long breaks from it, shielding myself from self hatred: my absolute theory becoming that Instagram was an algorithm built for population control, preying on the weak and insecure, and probably attributing to more suicides than anyone had noticed or cared for.

Lil biiiiiitz

You know what else is weird about New York.

People eat on the subway.

They eat in the train station.

They just—

It's kind of gross; at least to me.

Of course, the trains in New York are a lot cleaner.

Sometimes the station even smells like bleach.

That's so cool.

Still don't want to eat in there.

That's weird.

INT. CHAUNCEY STREET. SUNDOWN |

VALENTINES DAY

BLŪ waits patiently for Instagram to download, sighing heavily as she waits; As it has finished, she rolls her eyes and opens the app, squinting and pursing her lips as she quickly checks for messages: only adds, nothing important.

BLŪ

Of course, no messages.

Psh.

She exits the app, thinking for a moment before re-opening it.

Don't do it.

SEARCH: Sk—

INSTAGRAM

skrillex

You never learn.

BLŪ watches the story, for the most part, unenthused—until

TONIGHT:

BROOKLYN NEW YORK.

BLŪ

AGH!

The phone flies from her hand and onto the bed as she seizes, flying back and hitting the wall with a thud—then dramatically backing up into the closet, closing both doors and exclaiming in the darkness

BLŪ (CONT'D)

I'm gonna die like this.

OH NO.

HE'S IN BROOKLYN?!

RIGHT NOW?!

SKRILLEX

I'M IN BROOKLYN. RIGHT NOW.

WHY WOULD HE BE IN BROOKLYN. I'M IN BROOKLYN.

(heavy New York accent)

I'M IN BROOKLYN.

(even heavier New York accent)

I'M IN BROOKLYN.

(*hawks loogie, spits*)

[very ugly cry]

I was expecting to see some cheesy picture like I had just a couple years before—or however long it had been. So much time had passed and I had no doubt there was still more and that I wouldn't be seeing Sonny tonight, or even anytime soon—still, I was headed towards the rooftop to collect my stones, and though the tickets were sold out and there were said to be none at the door, I was headed for the train before I even knew why, or what was happening.

Well, he's out of the basement.

BITCH

GET OUT THE ATTICK

I'm in the closet now,

I had a heart attack,

I'm in a panic

You need a manual? This is a stick shift

This is some sick shit

Click click, bitch

I got witches in automatic

Automatic

It was 11:11 AM; I had never been to Manhattan to early before, at least not from Brooklyn; I knew my way to Equinox Sports club easily by now, without getting lost, or much hassle; it was an easy one hour train ride—and this morning, even easier; the writing came automatically, rather than forced, as it had been, and the ride went by almost too quickly, despite a full train and a flurry of emotions I worked heartfly to keep in check.

‘This changes nothing.' , I thought, more awestruck than anything and trying to convince myself nothing had changed, though something certainly had. Manhattan looked even better in the daylight—clear and sunny, and even a bit warm; babies in strollers and dogs on leashes and for a moment or two, I might have even forgotten I was homeless, dropping 2.5 Jimmy Fallons on a piping hot coffee at the shop I had always passed, but was never open.

I would be at Sports Club until close, as I had planned to be all week but had always fallen short of, struck with jet lag and crippling depression at the same time—but today, and even if it was for the best that I couldn't seem to get exactly what I wanted, If even just out of sheer disbelief, I had at least been shaken out of my tomb, if only for a moment, and into work mode, still grieving the self I had lost in the collision of stardust and superstardom, fame, and misfortune—tears still on the brink of rolling down my cheek, and the cost of sicccess a grueling question burning somewhere between my still bleeding heart, and somewhere in the back of my mind.

‘Its like a fucked up cheaper by the dozen'

And I still haven't frgotten about Dillon Francis,

But Sonny seems to fuck me up a bit,

—and then some

It's just an addendum:

I flipped the script and went dumb

Here's my number, Christopher Columbus;

And a bumper sticker

Still a nigger

Still a nothing trying to make it bigger

Still a little off my rocker,

Like I bought, at Cracker Barrel

I'm still scared of marriage,

Mind my manners, like Harriet Tubman

Somebody's up to somethin'

Better suck it up and get some crunches in

Before I go to lunch

And jump from too high up

Or hang off of some bridge

Just to get to the dimension

Where it's Skrillex in the picture

With Dillon standing next to him,

And I'm just in the middle,

Front and center

With an Emmy Win

An Oscar nomination,

And a Tony, where my Grammy is:

A curio cabinet I had custom fashioned for my bathroom;

Next to the magazine rack, actually—

Where I'm on every cover wearing fabrics I myself imagined,

shining like a dragon eating laffy taffy;

Fuck,

I Suck at mathematics,

—But I finally got my masters degree.

Nice.

Jeez,

It would be tragic to have it all go up in ashes

Lighting matches just to get the smell of gas to shatter—

Or to dissipate,

I estimate I'm 40 minutes late,

But if I make it,

I'll get naked on the plane,

For heaven's sake.

What the fuck is this.

Some Sunnï Blū shit, I guess.

“I guess.”

I'm still mad at the world,

I'm still mad at your girl, for being better than me

So mad I could hurl,

But I'm still fasting, actually;

It's intermittent,

In a minute,

I might turn to Skrillex,

Talk to Fred Again

Then take some medicine

And finally finish, like-

“I did it”

Oh look, it's Fred.

Yep.

Oh.

Hi.

It's Fred Again.

That's me.

Oh.

Hey there.

It's Fred..Again.

Fucking a.

JIMMY THE MOBSTER

Alright, Jimmy—you sick sonofabitch.

JIMMY FALLON

—just kill me already.

JIMMY THE MOBSTER

WHERE IS IT.

JIMMY FALLON

Where is what.

JIMMY THE MOBSTER

YOU KNOW WHAT.

JIMMY FALLON

I don't know what.

JIMMY THE MOBSTER

—my medallion.

JIMMY FALLON

You were wearing a medallion?

JIMMY THE MOBSTER

I'M ALWAYS WEARING MY MEDALLION

JIMMY FALLON

How am I supposed to know that

JIMMY THE MOBSTER

there's only me and you here—

JIMMY FALLON

you know what they say—there's a crowd—

JIMMY THE MOBSTER

Listen, Jimmy Fallon, you illiterate motherfucker!

JIMMY FALON

I'm not illiterate; I'm very well read.

JIMMY THE MOBSTER

oh yeah! What was the last book you read?

JIMMY FALLON

…

JIMMY THE MOBSTER

…that's what I thought.

[beat]

JIMMY THE MOBSTER grabs JIMMY FALLON by the shoulders abrasively

JIMMY THE MOBSTER (CONT'D)

WHERE'S MY MEDALLION, JIMMY!?!

JIMMY FALLON

I DON'T—KNOW!

JIMMY THE MOBSTER

YOU DO KNOW!

JIMMY FALLON

NO, I DONT—you blindfolded and kidnapped me!

JIMMY THE MOBSTER

I kidnapped you?! C'mon' you're like 50-

JIMMY FALLON

I'm 42.

JIMMY THE MOBSTER

—I snatched you.

“Snached” hm.

I like that.

MEANWHILE, in HOLLYWOOD

This is a serious job…

It's a job.

A serious job.

I'll take it.

Wtf is this dude into.

Whippets and women—

Like every-other Hollywood nigga

Stop using the n'word.

It makes while people uncomfortable.

Imagine what it's like being called the n word like it's your name.

FLASHBACK

BEVERLY HILLS, CALIFORNIA

PRODUCER

YOURE JUST A NIGGER SLAVE.

(That actually happened.)

Anyway.

As you can see, or might have guessed,

I'm desperate for attention,

Sonny followed me to Brooklyn,

But never even mentioned it:

I should have figured he was listening,

When I heard Renaissance,

And lost the mixtape that I did

That Skrillex took it off of

Glad It didn't win the Grammy

I'd be mad if it had. Cause I was on it!

Not Exactly.

Swear to God,

I might have lost it,

Heard applause and started walking

Nodded off,

And woke up in a coffin

Coughs,

What a photographer.

DILLON FRANCIS has been buried alive, inside or a coffin.

I love this scene.

He really is a good actor.

(In my mind.)

Dude, you are creep level 1 Billion.

Whatever, he followed me to Brooklyn.

I am you.

You know what,

That is something I would do if I was stupid rich and…

And what.

I had fallen in love with Sonny Moore, not at first sight—but at first glance; it seemed he had been quite literally tossed into my broken and shattered world, and—

What, I'm an animal!

Did you fuck?

Should I have?

I would have.

I know you would have.

I'm not Annie;

She is pretty, and fun;

An addict, an alcoholic

And formerly, my other half

When I was one,

But now I'm half of half of half

And then some;

I've been numb,

I've never felt like this,

Since I've been struck.

I guess if I drink,

I'll be a big drunk;

And If I die before I ever wake

I'll be in big luck

Honestly,

After Kayla Lauren,

I didn't give a fuck

Been thinking of jumping,

Then something hit me like a big truck

I love eating.

There was some sort of event on the basketball court at Sports Club; I had been there already two entire hours, and spent most of it in the sauna, still followed by coughing people, I knew I still wasn't out or the heap of madness or broken from any spell or curse it might have been — and it wasn't fair, I wasn't fair skinned, and it didn't make a difference at all what had happened; I still wanted to end it.

I'm losing my mind again

Losing a light again

Losing my light,

But if I run to find it

I just might

I just might

—I'll fly like a kite.

He's trying to kill me.

He's not doing a bad job.

Don't know what i'm working towards;

Don't know what i'm running for—

Don't know about Sonny Moore

(He's not for me;)

Or so I thought before, therefore—

I take metrormin

I'm still homeless,

Searching for a metaphor,

An aquafir,

And somewhere to plug my phone in

(Better than being ignored and drinking tap water,

On the fourth floor)

Housing is a human right

I hate this place

It's just not right

I'm sick of fighting

I'm not racist;

Just not fucking white enough

To run for red and right;

I guess

I'm blū then.

I could be crying in the sauna.

But I guess I'm writing you a message

It's just a bullet in my head

It's just another lesson

It's just another test, at best

It's just an algorithm;

Go back to my nest

And rest for just a minute

This is season 6 of a Legends,

Now I'm turning to a villain

I keep coming up with Skrillex,

But I have my heart to Dillon

Here's a tiny violin;

It's getting violent since intermission

Ultraviolet light,

And impolite fixations,

Revelations,

Realizations,

Revolutions,

Reservations

Let's set a date then—

Is it fucking coughs,

Or is it Satan?

I hate this.

You would want to jump in front of a train, too

If for years. No matter what you did or where you went

People came around you and just started coughing

That's such an evil fucking thing to experience

For someone who never wanted anything

But to be loved

But was always too fat

Too black

And just altogether too anything to ever experience love, joy, and happiness the wayoh

other people do

And so, it must be hell

Cause all I do is love, and love, and love

And just get shit on

And coughed at

And called retarded

And falling short of success

I'm not heartless

I just carry rocks around

And get followed by coughing bodies

My life fuckin sucks, man

I just want to turn the simulation off,

And on again

I just want to take a long nap,

And wake up in the arms of a man

I just want a booking manager,

And an orgasm.

And a ham sandwhich,

And my land back,

And to be happy

Or maybe like half a xanex

Wanna throw myself down on the train tracks

I want a can of spam and pancakes

Like breakfast made by my dad

I want to hold hands,

And a whole home, with a landing pad

Or maybe just an address, and a gas lamp

Or a campfire

Timestamp that.

This is the third and final act.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.