| L E G E N D S: ICONS. |

It was fergalicious

//

—derelictions.

Lmfao what a beautiful misspelling.

I agree .

BRING ON THE CREAM OF WHEAT.

Dammit.

What.

I forgot about that scene with Josh Peck.

Which scene with Josh Peck?

All of them,

That's right.

Well, did Josh Sign on?

I don't know. Does it matter,

Of course it matters!

HEY. ITS ME.

JOSH?!

YES!

Where are you?

I'M STUCK IN—

He lowers his voice into a whisper

—I'm stuck in The blacklands!

You WHAT.

I'm— nevermind. Just come get me.

Ok. What's the address?

It's 4545–

Uh huh—

West—

Uh huh—

You know what? Nevermind just meet me at jfk. I think I can get there from here.

what?! You're in New York!?

YEAH, man!

That's tough.

What?

I'm in Los Angeles!

I get that! Catch a flight.

What? What? Catch a flight?

Yes. Please!

I can't!

Why not?

My money's all tied up right now…

Tied up— in what?!

INT. THE DUNGEON. LOS ANGELES. DUNGENTIME

Several women in leather and harnesses are literally tied up; bound to decorative sculptures dancing strangely to wild music under fluorescent lights.

Uh…just…tied up.

What?! —but you still owe me!

Sorry, dude! I just— can't.

Can.

I—I can't.

You know what. I'm not gonna forget this.

Of course not. You're like an elephant; you don't forget anything.

Was that a reference to my previous predicament of plumpness.

Nobody's saying that.

You just did!

A girl walks by and slaps Drake's butt.

Hey—hi!

Who are you taking to?

Just a friend.

Are you at a party.

I wouldn't call it that.

You're at a party!

It's—I'm not!

Girl in background: woo!

Another girl starts grinding on Drake

You're at a party! You asshole!

I'm not—

You—you had better find a way to come and get me right now—

Why do I have to come and get you?! Why can't you just catch a flight.

Because!

Because why?!

Because—I can't—just—

Girl: great party!

Uh—

ARE YOU SERIOUS.

Sorry— I—

COME GET ME RIGHT NOW.

I can't—I don't have any—money!

Well, figure it out!

He hangs up phone angrily.

[beat]

You don't take refunds, do you?

Before:

Hey. It's you.

It's me—who?

You know who.

I promise, I don't.

Yeah—- I know you. You're that one dude from that show—

What show?

With the two dudes.

Two and a half men?

No, the other one.

Will and Grace?

That Sounds gay.

Mike and Molly?

What? No—

Then I don't know—

I know who you are— yeah—

Uh, okay.

Where's your friend?

It seemed something was reading my brainwaves entirely, and by some sort of dysfunction, I began to be curious about what kind of technology or being might do such a thing.

And strand of random thought about strange and simple things, or people— seemed to be at once interrupted by some sense of terrible abnormality or aversion—not that there were such thoughts about the man that had been normal at all, as I had become practically incapable after all of wandering into unwanted and dark charters, myself unwanted the most bizzare of thoughts which had occurred, and however, it was second to none, the most crucially eye opening experience of the entire awakening to begin with, to have been altered in such a way that at any sorts, the only collisions between the celebrity and I had been to return the obstructions with mantras—prayers of sorts—, good tithing and well wishes, as it seemed something was wrong of course, but not to say that in an intuitive sense I was either wrong or right—seeming so that it was after all,

I had been right about Sonny in the same exact way. Something had been terribly and deep wrong, and I had somehow known it—and now something in the exact same striking way, though near seven years later, seemed true—however, within the restraints of my own morale, I had chosen that, as someone not particularly ever having belonged to his fandom at all, and only having taken an interest of sorts in my own mark of endeavors, that being as such, a public figure, and of high visibility, and in the best interest of the children at all— his and mine, that any matter of judgement should be left remarkably alone,

It was a matter of safety and protection for myself, and so within the mounds of which things had such been written into the walls and foundations of the festival project, I had with intention begun to hide all traces of what had been chosen, not to be spoken at all, but crafted into words out of heart, some sort of duty of the overall outlook at large.

The sirens were fine, but the motorcycles weren't making it into the album.

They had already ruined most of the seasons episodes since I had moved into the apartment, and I refused to allow them into what would be supplemented into my musical repertoire—because as it were, it almost seemed that they were doing it on purpsoe, to become markers of time within my recordings as a matter of importance—when in fact, they weren't. And though what some might have thought the devil to have his hand in attempting to rule the world, he did not rule mine, but was simply a facet of the things that represented weak and unworthy men, who had no such power upon the earth but to take away from its love and light with his own weak spirit and tainted mind. These men were no more than fools given too much in pride and not enough in wisdom, as to be so deranged in acting as if no one mattered besides themselves.

What good do you do to anyone besides yourself?

What good can I do?

very well, for now.

Write.

I don't have much time left.

What do you mean, ‘you don't have much time left?'

—!

—unless, you don't want to have much time left.

Where are you?

Anywhere.

False ties,

And false truths

Stolen reality

Programmed shadows,

And drains of

So— caskets, then?

(Shaking hand firmly)

Caskets.

We beforehand had agreed to a friendly game of caskets, amongst the other games we had made to play, and though a game of Caskets was never friendly, we had, at least, at face value, agreed to a for the sake to each other's willingness to carry on, play by the rules.

There were already other games in play, none of which anyone in any given circumstance could gather at all, who was ahead, or who was behind, but one—and though I had certainly been making gains towards progression, had given up in even trying any longer at the fame game.

He appeared to have won and taken on the full suit.

Indeed—

He lived in a house of cards,

And mine of glass—

Both fragile upon

The casting of stones

None of which

Either would dare

To throw.

I'll see you in 1950.

Fine— you'd better make it this time, ior you'll have to wait until the next fall of Rome.

If Rome falls again in the next archive, I quit.

You said that in the last archive.

I was sure there would be no fall.

If there's no fall, there's no here or there.

Yeah, but maybe there's somewhere else—

And I'll see you there.

1950.

Do you think this is on Google's network.

It has to be.

I've got some guy hacking outside my door,

The cops and robbers going at it with sirens and motorcycles,

The robot next door offering a peace treaty—

Or a time bomb—

And of course,

No Jimmy Fallon.

At least it's the turn of the season so these weirdos actually have a reason to keep hacking up a lung.

At least that.

Maybe they're just attempting entry into the afterlife.

Fine, but whatever's waiting for them on the other side

After disturbing all my peace

Can't be any better,

Than what I've got.

I'm on my way out.

To live again.

Someone must have by now noticed that gang stalking breaks a basic moral code, and by the time they've accomplished anything in one way or another, they're met with the same exact treatment for punishment as they've done to other people; the system then turns on its own self, eventually rewarding the victim of said stalking with promotion or progressing, and reprogramming the firmer stalker to be stalked his or herself. Tortured, hacked, coughed at—ridiculed and humiliated, intruded pubkically, and eventually, maybe even—driven to death of insanity via mental deterioration and dysfunction.

What can you expect! You gave Google your number name and address.

I also gave them the answers to questions they were looking for out of actual space, instead of cyberspace.

You're right, you are worth more dead than alive.

Are you enjoying yourself at all?

Oh, no, i'm—

[The Festival Project ™]

You know that thing where,

Someone attractive to you, can do something for you,

And it's flattering and really appealing—

But if someone ugly does it,

Then it's creepy,

And feels like, uncomfortable, and it's overstepping boundaries?

Yeah.

Well, this just assumes that I'm the creepy guy, in this scenario—

—alright.

And that Jimmy Fallon is the pretty girl.

That's—making sense.

It's— solid.

Airtight.

Hey look,

It's Jimmy Falalalalalala—

Lawsuit.

Ahahah.

Why are you laughing?

We're getting sued!

I'm getting sued.

Exactly!

Yeah that's hilarious

How is that “hilarious”

Cause I'm getting sued by Jimmy—

Fuck you.

Fuck you, Jimmy Fa—

Ultline.

Oh, shit.

Step on a crack, break your momma's

EARTHQUAKE.

Goddamn.

Niggly Nigga is the niggliest nigga that ever nigga'd.

NIGGLY NIGGA works at PIGGLY WIGGLY.

–are you sure?

It's been like three fucking weeks.

THREE WEEKS.

Well, I guess he just started working at Piggly Wiggly.

What happened to your job at the Hobby Lobby?

…

It wasn't working out.

{Enter The Multiverse}

Yo.

The late night guys are mad weird.

Somehow, the hosts of late night television have all mysteriously been locked into an unfamiliar mansion, without their suits—and pants—unable to find an exit. All of the doorways are blocked—and all of the windows have been altered—they do not open, nor can anyone see out of them; in fact, they are doctored with the same illusionary backdrops that can be seen on the sets of their own shows—the televisions, which, have seemingly been programmed to only play reruns of their own shows.

Why— why aren't you wearing pants!?

I don't know.

Where's your suit? You should be wearing a suit!

I know, right?!

Who the fuck even are you?!

Depends whose asking.

YO, CONAN. WOAH.

You're not a late night host!

Thank God! That seems like an awful job—your demographic fucking sucks.

My demographic does suck. But to counter that— I'm a Republican.

Who knew?!

Not my demographic.

Okay, everybody calm down.

(Everybody was already calm, but for the most part just confused, and pant less; most of them wear the same classic boxers, though in different patterns/ slightly varying colors—but of course, nothing too crazy, while only one host sports boxer briefs, and one (I'll let you guess who) ladies panties.)

At least we all have our own rooms.

I don't! I'm stuck in a twin bed and Leno has the other.

Before:

JAY LENO

Good Morning, bright eyes.

CUT BACK TO:

Aren't you retired?

I do moonlighting.

LENO and FALLON seem somewhat comfortable and non-biased (read: unbothered entirely) over the morning paper and coffee at opposite ends of the large breakfast table, a continental style breakfast of croissants, seasonal fruit, with an assortment of cereals arranged in the kitchen. FALLON occasionally looks up from his paper to laugh at himself on the television, playing in the kitchen. The other hosts squint with allied disgruntlement of FALLON'S nonchalance and slightly narcissistic egotism.

FALLON

(reading paper, watching self; eating croissant, sipping coffee)

Haha.

Nobody has pants, and as the hosts will soon discover—this is with purpose. They have been trapped here as part of an experimental game show, in which the unrecognized and uninformed guest will host, as part of a test shoot aimed at the demographic of the late night hosts combined audience, to test whether or not this demographic will be positively receptive to a late night host who is also a woman of color (read: black) —without a white male counterpart co-host to soften the blow.

Really? This is why they're doing this?

Who is “they?!”

The network.

We all work for different networks!

I'm pretty sure the only reason I have a demographic is because of my accent.

It's true.

They accept you.

Right.

Where are the women.

An overhead voice:

(They are coming)

Oh, so I will have co-hosts.

Guest co-hosts; they will vary and change from episode to episode.

Oh. Thank Goodness.

Don't thank me yet.

Uh, okay—overhead voice…

Let's just say I'm the narrorator..

Narrorator for what

[this is also a movie]

Uh. In what genre?

[a host opens the cabinet to a bloody chuckie- like doll, which pops out from a mechanical arm with a high pitched scream; the host lets out a squeal, abandoning his coffee— we see a hidden camera pov from the camera's perspective, and then slow-motion replay footage of the host's reaction— he runs frantically pantless into a corner and then up the stairs.

—Depends on the host.

FALLON, who has been sitting at the table behind him, is still unaffected/unmoved. Himself makes a joke on the TV screen above— he giggles at himself, sipping coffee and looking back to his newspaper the other hosts groan; LENO shrugs and continues, delightfully finishing smearing a bagel and biting into it— he trades FALLON the comics he's been reading for the RELIGION section he's been scoping under the magified lenses of his readers, quietly and sweetly, like an old married couple, without even exchanging a glance or speaking to one another.

Ugh.

Suddenly, from the floor above.

OH DEAR GOD.

CRAIG FURGUSEN has just realized his worse nightmare.

The hosts still standing at the bottom floor in the kitchen all look up, wide eyed.

[Cursing in unintelligible Scottish]

———-

They said that you were one of us, but you're not one of us. But you're not one of us.

Of course not, I'm not a comic— I studied philosophy in college.

That should be funny, but it's not.

I would repeat what I just said, but I don't want to.

Still not funny.

What if I farted?

Bubbles—water—maybe—

some potential.

But probably not.

Shame.

What are you reading?

I'm not; I'm having banter with a crazy-eyed late night host in a bathrobe.

Well how's this for a book mark?

He opens his robe.

(Unimpressed)

Aren't you married?

Arent we all?

I digress.

Embarrassed and nervous, he quickly closes his robe.

Yes. To a blonde.

Congratulations. Where should I send the card?

I'm not giving you my address! Creepy fan—stand up, wanna be…

He frustratedly begins to exit

You're the one standing, technically

—And I'll be the last one standing! At the end of the week, it's gonna be me in those pants! Me!

Clearly, this show of affection has all been an attempt to bribe “CC”, into being pursuaded into awarding this particular host “The Pants”.

The hosts will compete for “The Pants” at the end of the first week of challenges.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

It seemed something was reading my brainwaves entirely, and by some sort of dysfunction, I began to be curious about what kind of technology or being might do such a thing.

And strand of random thought about strange and simple things, or people— seemed to be at once interrupted by some sense of terrible abnormality or aversion—not that there were such thoughts about the man that had been normal at all, as I had become practically incapable after all of wandering into unwanted and dark charters, myself unwanted the most bizzare of thoughts which had occurred, and however, it was second to none, the most crucially eye opening experience of the entire awakening to begin with, to have been altered in such a way that at any sorts, the only collisions between the celebrity and I had been to return the obstructions with mantras—prayers of sorts—, good tithing and well wishes, as it seemed something was wrong of course, but not to say that in an intuitive sense I was either wrong or right—seeming so that it was after all,

I had been right about Sonny in the same exact way. Something had been terribly and deep wrong, and I had somehow known it—and now something in the exact same striking way, though near seven years later, seemed true—however, within the restraints of my own morale, I had chosen that, as someone not particularly ever having belonged to his fandom at all, and only having taken an interest of sorts in my own mark of endeavors, that being as such, a public figure, and of high visibility, and in the best interest of the children at all— his and mine, that any matter of judgement should be left remarkably alone,

It was a matter of safety and protection for myself, and so within the mounds of which things had such been written into the walls and foundations of the festival project, I had with intention begun to hide all traces of what had been chosen, not to be spoken at all, but crafted into words out of heart, some sort of duty of the overall outlook at large.

The sirens were fine, but the motorcycles weren't making it into the album.

They had already ruined most of the seasons episodes since I had moved into the apartment, and I refused to allow them into what would be supplemented into my musical repertoire—because as it were, it almost seemed that they were doing it on purpsoe, to become markers of time within my recordings as a matter of importance—when in fact, they weren't. And though what some might have thought the devil to have his hand in attempting to rule the world, he did not rule mine, but was simply a facet of the things that represented weak and unworthy men, who had no such power upon the earth but to take away from its love and light with his own weak spirit and tainted mind. These men were no more than fools given too much in pride and not enough in wisdom, as to be so deranged in acting as if no one mattered besides themselves.

What good do you do to anyone besides yourself?

What good can I do?

very well, for now.

Write.

I don't have much time left.

What do you mean, ‘you don't have much time left?'

—!

—unless, you don't want to have much time left.

Where are you?

Anywhere.

False ties,

And false truths

Stolen reality

Programmed shadows,

And drains of

So— caskets, then?

(Shaking hand firmly)

Caskets.

We beforehand had agreed to a friendly game of caskets, amongst the other games we had made to play, and though a game of Caskets was never friendly, we had, at least, at face value, agreed to a for the sake to each other's willingness to carry on, play by the rules.

There were already other games in play, none of which anyone in any given circumstance could gather at all, who was ahead, or who was behind, but one—and though I had certainly been making gains towards progression, had given up in even trying any longer at the fame game.

He appeared to have won and taken on the full suit.

Indeed—

He lived in a house of cards,

And mine of glass—

Both fragile upon

The casting of stones

None of which

Either would dare

To throw.

I'll see you in 1950.

Fine— you'd better make it this time, ior you'll have to wait until the next fall of Rome.

If Rome falls again in the next archive, I quit.

You said that in the last archive.

I was sure there would be no fall.

If there's no fall, there's no here or there.

Yeah, but maybe there's somewhere else—

And I'll see you there.

1950.

Do you think this is on Google's network.

It has to be.

I've got some guy hacking outside my door,

The cops and robbers going at it with sirens and motorcycles,

The robot next door offering a peace treaty—

Or a time bomb—

And of course,

No Jimmy Fallon.

At least it's the turn of the season so these weirdos actually have a reason to keep hacking up a lung.

At least that.

Maybe they're just attempting entry into the afterlife.

Fine, but whatever's waiting for them on the other side

After disturbing all my peace

Can't be any better,

Than what I've got.

I'm on my way out.

To live again.

Someone must have by now noticed that gang stalking breaks a basic moral code, and by the time they've accomplished anything in one way or another, they're met with the same exact treatment for punishment as they've done to other people; the system then turns on its own self, eventually rewarding the victim of said stalking with promotion or progressing, and reprogramming the firmer stalker to be stalked his or herself. Tortured, hacked, coughed at—ridiculed and humiliated, intruded pubkically, and eventually, maybe even—driven to death of insanity via mental deterioration and dysfunction.

What can you expect! You gave Google your number name and address.

I also gave them the answers to questions they were looking for out of actual space, instead of cyberspace.

You're right, you are worth more dead than alive.

Are you enjoying yourself at all?

Oh, no, i'm—

[The Festival Project ™]

You know that thing where,

Someone attractive to you, can do something for you,

And it's flattering and really appealing—

But if someone ugly does it,

Then it's creepy,

And feels like, uncomfortable, and it's overstepping boundaries?

Yeah.

Well, this just assumes that I'm the creepy guy, in this scenario—

—alright.

And that Jimmy Fallon is the pretty girl.

That's—making sense.

It's— solid.

Airtight.

Hey look,

It's Jimmy Falalalalalala—

Lawsuit.

Ahahah.

Why are you laughing?

We're getting sued!

I'm getting sued.

Exactly!

Yeah that's hilarious

How is that “hilarious”

Cause I'm getting sued by Jimmy—

Fuck you.

Fuck you, Jimmy Fa—

Ultline.

Oh, shit.

Step on a crack, break your momma's

EARTHQUAKE.

Goddamn.

Niggly Nigga is the niggliest nigga that ever nigga'd.

NIGGLY NIGGA works at PIGGLY WIGGLY.

–are you sure?

It's been like three fucking weeks.

THREE WEEKS.

Well, I guess he just started working at Piggly Wiggly.

What happened to your job at the Hobby Lobby?

…

It wasn't working out.

{Enter The Multiverse}

Yo.

The late night guys are mad weird.

Somehow, the hosts of late night television have all mysteriously been locked into an unfamiliar mansion, without their suits—and pants—unable to find an exit. All of the doorways are blocked—and all of the windows have been altered—they do not open, nor can anyone see out of them; in fact, they are doctored with the same illusionary backdrops that can be seen on the sets of their own shows—the televisions, which, have seemingly been programmed to only play reruns of their own shows.

Why— why aren't you wearing pants!?

I don't know.

Where's your suit? You should be wearing a suit!

I know, right?!

Who the fuck even are you?!

Depends whose asking.

YO, CONAN. WOAH.

You're not a late night host!

Thank God! That seems like an awful job—your demographic fucking sucks.

My demographic does suck. But to counter that— I'm a Republican.

Who knew?!

Not my demographic.

Okay, everybody calm down.

(Everybody was already calm, but for the most part just confused, and pant less; most of them wear the same classic boxers, though in different patterns/ slightly varying colors—but of course, nothing too crazy, while only one host sports boxer briefs, and one (I'll let you guess who) ladies panties.)

At least we all have our own rooms.

I don't! I'm stuck in a twin bed and Leno has the other.

Before:

JAY LENO

Good Morning, bright eyes.

CUT BACK TO:

Aren't you retired?

I do moonlighting.

LENO and FALLON seem somewhat comfortable and non-biased (read: unbothered entirely) over the morning paper and coffee at opposite ends of the large breakfast table, a continental style breakfast of croissants, seasonal fruit, with an assortment of cereals arranged in the kitchen. FALLON occasionally looks up from his paper to laugh at himself on the television, playing in the kitchen. The other hosts squint with allied disgruntlement of FALLON'S nonchalance and slightly narcissistic egotism.

FALLON

(reading paper, watching self; eating croissant, sipping coffee)

Haha.

Nobody has pants, and as the hosts will soon discover—this is with purpose. They have been trapped here as part of an experimental game show, in which the unrecognized and uninformed guest will host, as part of a test shoot aimed at the demographic of the late night hosts combined audience, to test whether or not this demographic will be positively receptive to a late night host who is also a woman of color (read: black) —without a white male counterpart co-host to soften the blow.

Really? This is why they're doing this?

Who is “they?!”

The network.

We all work for different networks!

I'm pretty sure the only reason I have a demographic is because of my accent.

It's true.

They accept you.

Right.

Where are the women.

An overhead voice:

(They are coming)

Oh, so I will have co-hosts.

Guest co-hosts; they will vary and change from episode to episode.

Oh. Thank Goodness.

Don't thank me yet.

Uh, okay—overhead voice…

Let's just say I'm the narrorator..

Narrorator for what

[this is also a movie]

Uh. In what genre?

[a host opens the cabinet to a bloody chuckie- like doll, which pops out from a mechanical arm with a high pitched scream; the host lets out a squeal, abandoning his coffee— we see a hidden camera pov from the camera's perspective, and then slow-motion replay footage of the host's reaction— he runs frantically pantless into a corner and then up the stairs.

—Depends on the host.

FALLON, who has been sitting at the table behind him, is still unaffected/unmoved. Himself makes a joke on the TV screen above— he giggles at himself, sipping coffee and looking back to his newspaper the other hosts groan; LENO shrugs and continues, delightfully finishing smearing a bagel and biting into it— he trades FALLON the comics he's been reading for the RELIGION section he's been scoping under the magified lenses of his readers, quietly and sweetly, like an old married couple, without even exchanging a glance or speaking to one another.

Ugh.

Suddenly, from the floor above.

OH DEAR GOD.

CRAIG FURGUSEN has just realized his worse nightmare.

The hosts still standing at the bottom floor in the kitchen all look up, wide eyed.

[Cursing in unintelligible Scottish]

———-

They said that you were one of us, but you're not one of us. But you're not one of us.

Of course not, I'm not a comic— I studied philosophy in college.

That should be funny, but it's not.

I would repeat what I just said, but I don't want to.

Still not funny.

What if I farted?

Bubbles—water—maybe—

some potential.

But probably not.

Shame.

What are you reading?

I'm not; I'm having banter with a crazy-eyed late night host in a bathrobe.

Well how's this for a book mark?

He opens his robe.

(Unimpressed)

Aren't you married?

Arent we all?

I digress.

Embarrassed and nervous, he quickly closes his robe.

Yes. To a blonde.

Congratulations. Where should I send the card?

I'm not giving you my address! Creepy fan—stand up, wanna be…

He frustratedly begins to exit

You're the one standing, technically

—And I'll be the last one standing! At the end of the week, it's gonna be me in those pants! Me!

Clearly, this show of affection has all been an attempt to bribe “CC”, into being pursuaded into awarding this particular host “The Pants”.

The hosts will compete for “The Pants” at the end of the first week of challenges.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Oh, That's not Jimmy Fallon.

It's not?

No.

That's Sim Jim.

Sim Jim?

Uh huh. You see,

Sim Jim took over for real Jim a long time ago.

Oh…I really like that guy!

Everybody likes Sim Jim; he's just like the real Jimmy, but takes care of everything The Real Jimmy can't.

…that's making sense.

They're nearly completely identical—Sim Jim is just more — avalible.

Wow! He must be really famous.

Yes, exactly.

So—what about The Real Jimmy?

What about him?

What does he do?

At this point, I knew there was no way I could really get around it—getting the Festival Project ™ off the ground and running—actually into production—seemed almost impossible.

The shell and ghost of Jimmy Fallon seemed to be everywhere, plastered on walls and screens in all this time and at every turn —but the real masked man/-The Real Jimmy Fallon—was a mystery— the mask he wore, his own face, and his entire namesake, his own address.

What would you do?

I would probably never see him again on the material plane, but he had instead soaked my dreams in mystery in illusion—his shadow figure having become enchanted, whispering with ease as the voice of my own subconscious. Like any celebrity, he was untouchable—-and like any of them before or sense the seven years time, had come and gone into my quarry of philosophies and cosmic murmurs, only leaving behind the pondering of thoughts, now dwindled down into a reconciling judgement that perhaps I was, after all, somewhat broken. Perhaps, once, I had fallen asleep only to never wake up—perhaps I had died in all truth and not known it and had become the ghost myself. Shattered mirrors and references to time only left me with more truth and less overall knowing—that something had happened here—something strange and otherworldly; Something mystical and cosmic that had left me in audacity and crumbling inwardly in calamity, though my outer spoke with the calm outpourings of a humbled and collected but weary traveler, once, too made of dust—but now seeped in skin and rushing with blood—at least, I thought…and I thought far too fondly and far too often of Mr. Jimmy Fallon to care at all without being frustrated, or giving weight to the reality which was simple, in that he had become a galaxy in his own, so distant that it seemed to rival any coincidings of rampant thought which might be logical in any sort of way or make actual sense at all. The Jimmy Fallon I knew was the Jimmy Fallon everyone knew— and nobody knew The Real Jimmy Fallon. Three entire solid deades of fame between my world, and whatever his might have been fashioned as— fabrication, any means—and none of my actual business, besides the business—I crept into a sacrificial surrender with the hopes of never being further harmed—the ritual torture of those around me fading into rupture; the rapture of all mankind had gathered at my doorstep, and outside my window, and rather than to wait and watch, I crept and closed into my fortress of servitude, in solitude, silently keeping the records of what I had known.

“The Untouchables”

Episode 1

‘The Wrath of Stanhope'

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

'boxed' (Instrumental)

Collection 1.1 - actuality.
track 05.- boxed.

prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

Listen—

—motherfucker—

You should—

Know—

I don't —

—give—

No

—kind of—

—fuck—

Whatsoever

I love my own

—but not the other

Something - something son

Get a gun and blow my candles out

White power now bout

Building towers up

To tear you down

—I don't give a fuck about flax seek

Black seed, back seat black candles

Black cat, relax,

Atticus.

I don't give a fuck about a Fallon,

I bought a gallon of water for two jugs,

And a quarter

On my daughter.

Get it?

(Fuck you)

Or should I go back to spending

Spin class looking at candid camera

I could buy a mountain before I sit down on mounds

White Diamonds, 9 time champ

I'm just like ET, don't mind that

I'm a dead beat dad camped out in a van

With a 30 second tan on, oh man

Redact that one

—FUCK—

YOU.

Power play

I should wait an hour

For the Amazon van

If the Amazon man can hit this

What makes you think you can

I just too fan

I drew fandoms on your

Blū Barrymore,

Don't carry that backpack,

You might fall back

I called my song

—but I can't call back

…fuck you,

(Goddamn)

If you don't believe me,

I just scored two degrees

Just from pleasing people

Three of you count me,

My MBA in saying

I buy NBA team

Damn.

Can't even get an Instagram account

Without getting hacked

Just for being a half black

Half Uncle Sam smashing red/*ted man

Don't call red man,

Just call Meth/ Seth back

METHOD MAN

…hello?

Flip the bitch right back

I flip the whip

And grip the script,

I pistol whipped Bristol back

To — camp

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Where am I?

What?

What city is this?!

—seriously?

Why do I see boats?

You don't remember?

And bridges?! What city puts sky scrapers on the waterline?

What? Lots of cities have that.

Well which one is this?! Are we in America?! Who goes sailing at this hour?! What time is it?

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

'beat my face. '

Instrumentals for a Higher Purpose

Collection 1.1 - Track 01-

'beat my face' (bad girls club) (Instrumental Only)

prod by Blū Tha Gürū

Now I can chill and do fun things—

What fun things.

Like this:

And *you* can go do the tonight show.

Aw what?! I'm not doin the tonight show!

SUNNI BLU is doin the tonight show.

There's this woman at work… I've been thinking about just l sticking it in her.

Do it!

Really.

Yeah, go for it. You might as well— thinking about it m so much is just as bad as doing it to a woman you would call your wife.

Hm.

Thinking about it so much anyway, means that you already have.

Does it?

Besides actually doing it?

You already have.

I write about white america

Then listen to Billie Ellish

Isn't it ironic

Remember when Billie was niggas

Remember her speaking Ebonics

And talking like not from highland park

God bless Los Angeles

Like the animals not on Noah's Ark

God bless Brooklyn New York

On a walk I saw a copse on rigamortis

It's gotten worse

Saw a bunch of disco balls mu never noticed

Blessed the lord

The global war on politics

Is actually over water

And skin color

One time

What's trap is I'm just out for bananas

Truth is, I don't even want it no more

That's when it start comin

I don't want no drama,

I'm still dumpster diving lord

At least walk your dogs l

Scooping people and poop off of the sidewalks

God I hope I die today

Almost got hit by a semi truck

Didn't even slow down and shit

Didn't even see me

I must have been 27

Been up in the parts of Brooklyn ain't nothing beautiful but the baby's breath

Only maybe

Why why

Saw my life in the back of the old Volvo

Bring my words and my worlds to the waterfront

I found Trader Joe's after all

I only came out for bananas and coconut water on markup

Call mark wallberg I smell burgers

Sweatingbmybhuns off

Another small dumb blonde barbie.

White people gon steal everything from a nogga

Even a name

I'll tear down your poster

You fuckin poser

You not Soleil

Your name Kayla or Kaylie

You stole it

They say a heartbeat at 18 days

What difference does that make.

I don't have a heartbeat sometimes

I'm 30 years old

I'm sick

He says

It's this

But that's not sickness

She says

And if it is,

We share it

Well, it's a beautiful day in

—THE WORST RAVE OF ALL TIME.

Damn. That would be

Hierovnmus Bosch, The Garden of Eathly Pleasures

Oh GOD,

What is this place!?

YOOOOO.

wtf.

I realized, at some point— that as long as I wasn't being paid, that there was no need to prioritize anything or anyone—that I could do what I wanted and write what I needed, and do things as I pleased and on a whim because simply put, that nothing else had benefit to it; there was no income in the work that I was doing, and it seemed more for show than my actual benefit, so much so that I felt like a circus act when being made to work out in front of people, and almost entirely unwilling to keep dragging myself out of bed in the middle of the night to ensure that I wouldn't be followed to the gym. It wasn't that I was afraid or paranoid, but that I felt like a circus monkey, especially when the same few people seemed to show up to workout whenever I did, regardless of what time I chose to. As long as it was day time, the same few people showed up almost on que when I was ready for a workout, and I grew tired of the charade at all. I had lost all my weight, and anything leftover was from the stubborn and unfortunate circumstance of having once been so large that I was almost entioy certain that I was in fact a different person.

I was at any tigivrn time no more than 48 hours away from being able to see my ribcage through my upper chest by simply drinking water through the day or taking a walk to Trader Joe's; I was no longer in fear of regaining as much weight as I had, lost, and in any sense was so astonishing healthy and clean eating, that even on days I indulged and gorged there was no seeing past the fact that m even bloated, all my extra and extra-extra smalls still fit: I was skinny.

Continuing to push myself was a disasterous and pointless charade.

I wasn't being paid for being at the gym—and nor had I attracted anything other from what I could see than men already in relationships taking a side eye from their often bland and uncoordinated girlfriends—usually white girls who never learned how to dress or match clothes because they didn't have to—and I often thought of how great it must be to live at the top of the food chain; to be born into a world that loves you and revolves around you and your kind, while the rest subsist under you and fight for survival.

Besides the always eager black man, my time in the gym had not resulted in any other suitors that Immight actually arouse my inner beast at all in the way that I thought it might by now— stretch marks at all, as I often realized much larger women with perfectly suitable men enough times to realize that simply put, sometimes it didn't matter. I wasn't going to allow myself to get fat by any means, and was still so fit that the smooth and firm, toned lines of my abdomen often facinated me so much so that I had to touch it to realize that it was true—that even under the skin that I needed removed, there was some kind of six-pack-type abdomen carved out and hidden, defined enough that on the days I did fast, it almost scared me. I squinted in the mirror, even on days that I gorged on whatever I wanted and indulged, bloated from overeating without care—I was still so small that I was proud of myself, and reduced my training schedule to basically whenever I wanted, which was whenever was truly needed. I was nobody's fucking show monkey—I had done more work than most people at all and had achieved more than the average man or woman struggled with, realizing that things such as removing animal product from one's diet, avoiding processed foods, and following a gym ritual at all, never the less 6-7 days a week for a period of years— were things average people said they were going to do over and over, but never did; or started and then quickly stopped upon realizing it was hard. Normal people made New Year's resolutions to do what I had done every year without doing it—and I had.

It had taken me this long to realize that most people never escape abusive husbands, or lose 250 pounds— they most people never have to. Most people have never suffered the loss of two children and recovered enough to function properly in the world—and though I wasn't myself ‘in the world' for the time being, I owed myself realizing that I didn't owe the world anything at all besides what I wanted to, or what I could do. That even though I wasn't picked from a Petri dish and born into an industry family like Billie Ellish, I was made just the same to sing and dance around in stage and tour the world doing what I loved as she was— and not being allowed to do that —what i had always wanted— warranted this, an indifferent and almost apathetic protest to whatever it was that was ‘expected' of me, to go out into a world that was rigged against those of my ‘type' and play a game that was harder for me and people like me than It for people born without having to work, sacrifice, and who defined struggle as something so far from what I had come to know as such, that it was almost two different enough things to have been placed in two different worlds at all. Alas, it was all the same world, and all the same game—though some of us with less pieces than others.

I had been used all my life, and had finally decided upon some sort of revelation, that I should absolutely not do anything at all, unless I was being paid; not in incentives or windfalls of material things—but cold, hard, cash. The thing that had turned the world evil and dark—but allowed me to get the things that I wanted, when I wanted—without relying on some cheating scumbag loser to provide them for me.

Men wanted perfect bodies and the ideal traits to match—and so since I hadn't been gifted such such that would allow it without nearly killin go myself working it away to the bone, I'd find a way to earn a new body myself, so that the world that I had done could be seen.

I had a six pack, and nothing was moving at all until I was being paid enough for the world to see it. I was going to wear a bikini, and bask in the sunlight, and do all the things I had been prevented from doing by being poisoned by trauma and processed foods for two decades. I was going to find a job and save for a body that men wanted—the freedom I needed to end the hell that had been 32 years of being a fat, ugly nigger.

New York City had made it clear that the world was against us and that Karen, Becky, and Kelsey had ruled in such a way that was meant to destroy us, but I could not be destroyed;

If I had to kiss Karen's ass working some bullshio job at some place just to earn the admiration and desire I had always craved and never received, so be it. There was nothing in the world left at all besides money, vanity, and the truth of it all—that men didn't love souls—

They loved bodies.

All of my time would be spent figuring a way to earn mine.

Maybe my mother should have had that abortion after all.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

[In the 10th dimension of reality, all things become possible. ]

Make a mockery of myself;

wear smock to work

I don't talk too much no more

I just gossip somedays,

Dark on mondays;

The forgotten apostle

With just enough rope

To jump off and hope

It all stops, soon

The motocross and the terror stalkers

Just across from the starbucks at the Rock

–it got awkward

But God Loves me

Might start a talk show

Some chef, with a pop tart

A pop up club, a long night

Some broke shards of glass,

the yards of all the scars on stars and stripe

Feels like a long night–

Got coffee and tacos

A long talk with your blonde wife

To bypass the psycos

Right, though?

Bro, it's so over;

I won a whole asshole and a four leaf clover

In a game of poker

Now, brush your shoulders off

Brush your hair,

Pet the dog,

And kick the cat over and over

Till he turns back to a robot

“You're so gross.”

–don't i know it.

The whole world is over

–you jump first,

I'll follow

Lets keep talking

About the letters I penned

To the false Gods,

Painted them scarlett, of course

Scattered em from here

to Scarboro Fair,
I was right there,

then out of nowhere

a new nightmare

with nice hair

Here we go again

Lines out the door;

We got lines out the door

Out of Order

The world is at war

The whole world has run

Out of water

The four is the for

Theres no five

But the V for vendetta

Theres lines out the door

The whole world

Is a mom

And a daughter

My jokes get better,

The buildings look bigger

I pretend this seltzer is alcohol

Cause i want it

To make me forget

I've got all my–

Huh

There's a line out the door.

What if–

Me,

And all of your friends

And all of my

Wait, I don't have any friends

I'm getting a cat.

I was just thinking about Mila Kunis.

Oh yes, why's that?

SETH MCFARLENE

YEEEEE. YEEEEEEE. YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

WHAT, GODDAMMIT

GIGGITY!

OKAY, ASSHOLE

Eyes on eyes,

and tears on tears

All the years ive cried

On ears on ears

Why am I even here?

It's been too long, since i've been touched

I don't love love

but i dislike lust

I don't trust anyone

I don't have a number

I crawled up my arm,

Danced with the blood drawn

BLŪ wakes up famous.

[The world swirls into a plume of dark blue sky; BLŪ awakens suddenly from the blackness of a deep sleep in the middle of a road, a group of people, friends, swirling around her.]

YO.

What?

BLŪ.

What's up.

PARTY FOUL, BROH.

…

Billie Ellish?

Billie Pirate Ellish.

Uh.

That's why the rum–

Is gone.

What.

Guess i'm Jack Sparrow, now.

Hey wait–are you even legal?

Uh. I'm a mad fucking genius; are you legal?

I don't know.

Besides, this was your idea.

What–what?

Exactly. Get up.

Wtf is going on in this scene.

Idk i might a have to play the song again

Fuck that. I'm about to slit myfucking wrists.

HAVOC.

Where are we going?

You still got that NDA in your wallet?

I–yeah.

Then we're gucci.

“Waking up Famous”

I don't know exactly what happened.

[Looking in the mirror, confused.]

This is a nice leather jacket.

I wonder if i'm still Vegan.

Damn. I look mad rich.

BLŪ hurry UP!

[toilet flushes with foot]

Alright, I'm coming.

[Blu checks her pockets to find a wallet, the contents including numerous cards–metal ones, with copious amounts of cash, and pre-filled NDAs which have been folder neatly and stuffed into the corner pocket of the trifold wallet]

Billabong. Classy.

I'm never gonna finish that other project, am I?

Whatever.

Leave Fallon alone.

I did.

–it came back.

Cut lil blonde

Hot as Finneas O' Connell

Possible homosexual, but god love him

Cause I'm hungry

Lookin for lunch

Somebody as scrunches

Pull up and crunches

Cause my monster is

Lookin to

Humpty Dumpty

Fuck, I forgot Rosie O'Donnal!

I cant get no Satisfaction— The Rolling Stones

What's wrong, Saint Jimmy?

Lucius?

What is it.

Percius would like to see you.

Oh.

The Prince Lucius hasn't left his chamber in days—however, as his brother Percius has just returned from war, he quickly emerges from his resting place, an alter of sorts.

Damn, I'm getting a headache.

I almost never have headaches.

It was true, and of course, as I started to write about this prince and his so said brother, Lucius and Perseus, I was reminded once more of Athens, where I had just been however briefly, in a short astral trip of sorts, wandering about in the dreamworld, looking for something or someone in place of my pillow to hold.

Did you want to walk to Trader Joe's?

I mean, kind of, but no.

My muscles were sore and I had just spent some two hours in the gym, not on purpose but quite by accident, though only having run just under two miles, though at least uphill, and spending the rest of the time lifting—I had been bound to mostly beans and rice, and so however was bloated and gassy, quite slow and not as strong, my regular protein just out of reach…

Dang. I have so much to fucking do today.

I hadn't realized that somehow it was Saturday, although just a couple days before had been a Wednesday that felt like Sunday, and now again time was all out of sorts; it was a “holiday” weekend, and I was without a doubt, drowning in my own having-to-do's, and as such, weekends and days off were entirely not a thing, besides in ways that those bustled around me—and I was sure that some days had been lost, as I was planning to visit the food bank on Friday, but had somehow skipped over the end of the week entirely—somehow, that is, and I was sure sometimes that in skipping days, meditating and fasting about, however intermittently, that time itself shuffled in all the ways I had, between cross dimensions and parallels such as I—I had been hovering somewhere between the 6th and. 10th dimensions, for the most part, and none with having to understand the undoubted shifts in my own perception of time that were bound to happen, as I sprawled across the astral plains looking and searching for a sign that the tragic poverty, restlessness, and lack of peace wound end.

Bound to your alter, my dear brother?

Aye.

So perhaps here there was another unfounded Kingdom within the realm of Ascencia—Lucius, a prince, and Percius—seemingly slated the King, and yet I had unreached such a conclusion as to assimilate an entirely factioned world, as of yet.

What did you write last night?

Uh…I don't know.

Well, let's see

Something had shaken me from my almost-sleep, laying sprawled across my bed, in the middle of the mattress, rather than to either side, which was rare; I typically preferred the left side of the mattress, anyway, but as I waited to launder my bedding, after a sweaty and sweltering almost summer day of lounging, smothered in shea butter and lackadaisically scrawling about what recordings had been buried in my phone, between the collection of books I had practically all found in the streets of New York and the rising temperatures of the tepid summer weather, my room was starting to smell funny—and without being able to burn sage anymore, for fear of being thrown back into the streets like a dog, I with every hope in the world figured that washing my thick bedding, comforter included, would restore the crisp and rigid, almost factory clean that I found satisfactory.

Songs buzzed in and out of my head as if I hadn't enough already much to do—and still, I added into my growing pile of notes and mounds of work, even more songs—this time, The Rolling Stones.

I can't get no

Satisfaction…

…but I try—

—and I try—

—and I try—

And I try!

I can't—get no—!

God, I wish I could write something like that.

The rock Gods had at the very least been accompanying me, and in a certain sense, so had the Gods of The Rock;

I had been forced up out of my dormant state by a voice which urged me away from my near sleep—I had been up since six AM and it was something past midnight, and still the voice said—

“Get up and write!”

And though I had words tinkering around in my head like little coins in some sort of metal box, none of them quite made so much sense that I had to get up and write—however, still the voice, though not angry, but firm, insisted.

The voice, for once, sounded female— a welcome change, and though I had become quite fond of males in general, in the solemnly celibate sense, it was a difference and yet none at all— a voice of wisdom had projected itself at me, and as I dragged myself about, reaching for a notebook and flipping through the pages, finding that the notebook was practically full…

‘great, more shit to do'

I held the words that had tinkered around in my mind like little whispers until I found a page to make them full formed, and the words which fell into my hand as scriptured by the pen—my favorite writing utensil, nearly out of its cherishable gel ink, danced upon the page nearly on its own, channeling the words written as such:

Once prosperous to throw

The stone asunder

Glisten whispers of water

Tears of al tears |ter|

Of the altar,

For follow for fello,

A felon of Antigone

Grace, with shield

A tattered tail,

So flew with feathered Phoenix

? Feared,

Foreshadowed not,

Agreed upon however,

Was the velvet woven path of us,

So honored in her fortress .

Yeah, something about Rockefeller Plaza.

Well there were all these hooded figures in like weird, brown velvet robes—

That's true, I saw that.

Yeah, I was there,

You WHAT?

Look what I got.

Fuck me, man.

You know, there's a lot more to this story.

I was hoping so, but however also, hoping not.

Man, Jimmy Fallon's wife is super hot.

Gee!

Yeah man, she's so cute.

W0W.

I like her,

They're Gods.

I think they're Gods.

yuh.

What else did I write?

There was something else?

What the fuck is wrong with that guy?

Somethin.

Yeah.

The pages of the notebook were all full, something of a book of shadows and protection spells I had used in an attempt to ward off my ex husband—how of course, that they were done with, I should very well have been jotting them into with all the notes, into the documents—later to burn them, unable to afford the parchment book I wanted.

For what a withered way would call an honor for fortunes duty,

Glorified wherein in as shadows,

Cast upon reflections in redacted incantations and enchantments, foreword come, theone who waits

Believing darkness be his fate

Whatever, man.

Fuck Jimmy Fallon.

If you really feel that way!

I feel a lot of ways.

Well, don't.

I'm so, so hungry…

So, so lonely…

So, so fuckin broke.

Man—I learned all this dumb ass magic just to protect myself from this guy, and all this still happens!

I think it's just Satan.

[Satan Appears]

Man— she is JACKED.

Try this one.

Follow me, boy!

Uh— okay.

I'm staying single forever.

Don't look at me.

That's my girl.

Don't look at me.

What the fuck. Stop looking at her:

Don't look at me!

Men are hopeless.

Fuck dude, like, the worst thing imaginable is that this Jimmy Fallon dude actually hates me so much for this—

What? Uh oh.

And is so fucking powerful.

He is. A very, very powerful—

Well, what is it!?

We don't— know.

*gasps*

He's a—

SHHHHHH.

[Redacted]

Well, that's not doing much, is it?

Seriously, just kill yourself again.

Might have to!

Fuck, why do all these robot demons SMELL like him?

Satan?

Yep.

Satan

?!

I'm—

Seriously, save him.

Seriously, God really loves Jimmy Fallon—

(He's one of my favorites.)

Favorite what's?!

Just—favorites.

Damn. This is getting to be like Greek Theatre.

Great. Now everybody's gonna fucking die.

It could be a comedy.

Holy shit, yeah—

This has mad good production value.

I love it!

Strange shit

I just did give my OWSLA tat a kiss

Smile for the camera,

Pageantry of mattresses,

A master of the MagicIan's chance at

Chancellors dance,

Look at Harrison trance

Can I run a mile for President?

A toy chest,

A boy, just Obama

I'm so much older

Been through such trauma

What the Willy wonka

I should apply for Harvard

New York over Boston

So Columbia or Juliard

I wish

Son of a bitch, this is tragic

I'm too old for scholarship

Diploma's in another name

I just got protective orders on

I should start over

But the world war is another

Trump drama

My Amazon cart is full of karma

What you want from God?

A trophy husband,

Let's call him

Oscar

-undefeated.

All this is weird

I think imm married to the music

Think of growing a beard

Opening a beer

And getting out of here

All of my fears is

Mommy dearest mommy dearest

All of my hell is

A body

Imm a seed in a forest

Been buried

Bipolar,

Supposedly,

So tell me,

Faery;

How could I love you

The way I I do

If my mood

Were restablized

My blu life

Gave me blue eyes

Clean tub of water

I don't belong here

It's too late for me too

Swapping Vogue for the People

My people who hate me

But I been so played,

The hatred betrays me

I walk both ways

Down a one way street

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Mad Men is an American period drama TV series that aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. The show follows the lives of the people who work at a New York advertising agency in the 1960s, and focuses on the professional and personal life of Don Draper, a talented but mysterious ad executive

{Enter The Multiverse}

{Mad Men}

(A Happy Accidents Mix)

GET—OUT OF MY WAY.

What are you doing?!

MOVE.

Is this a code four?

Far beyond code four!

Oh my!

What could it be?!

Move! This is a serious matter!

The NBC pages are in a frenzy, pushing and shoving one another frantically, turning 30 Rockefeller plaza into an animalistic jungle of confusion and chaos.

What is going on.

The games—sir.

The—games?

The. games. Sir.

I–m– afraid I don't know what you're talking about

You should be afraid! Be very afraid. Because the games.

What “games”

The GAMES have begun.

CUT TO:

Seth Meyers stands in the mirror comparing two exactly identical ties— he appears to be talking to himself, asking

SETH MEYERS

how do you like this tie?

—to no response.

He uncomfortably shifts and switches to the other, exactly identical tie.

Or this?

Yo. What a creep.

Again, to no response, he waits a moment and switches to the first, exactly identical tie, with an assertive nervousness.

SETH MEYERS CONT'D

You're right, the first one. Yeah.

He completes tying his tie, then placing his hands in his pockets, still facing the mirror—quite enamored with himself. He leans up onto his toes and then back onto his heels, admiring himself before spinning around to face the anterior of the room;

SETH MEYERS

It's showtime.

He points his fingers animatedly at his mock audience—now we see that the room is filled top to bottom with stuffed animals, puppets, dolls, and other strange likenesses…

Hold up, i'm distracted

Just stick to what you know.

Most of the Saturday Night Alumni and Late Night hosts had long, noteworthy careers in comedy, hefty writing backgrounds, and tons of experience in television. I found myself out of place and grasping at straws, letting something come for a moment between myself and my sanity. I did know music—but wasn't the girl with her shit together enough to have made any kind of dent in my obviously gaping music career, with the additional workload of what may have been the work of a genius, but also a madwoman—or mad man, depending on whose essence or presence happened to take hold of my weary and feeble soul, or

Distracted again

[the news] (the actual news)

Whatever (Wednesdays) - your weekly dose of whatever.

The Audio Files (for Audiophiles and Music Producers/ Engineers)

That was all I could remember off of the top of my head, not that it mattered at all, actually. I was grasping as strings and between worlds— the winner of the contest had beautiful pictures, and had played festivals—her website was flawless, and I liked her, later finding that she was Greek. I didn't seem to mind women, so long as they weren't the hateful, competitive, and typically racist—even on both sides—American type, and I scanned the list of participants that had been American to see if any of them were black women—doubtable, though in the New York scene some black women had seemingly out of nowhere taken to techno, and with that I had shifted gears to make my production more focused in bass and dubstep, if I were ever to return to my state of producing at heavy volume. I hadn't, with so much on my plate to juggle or rather spin, and I had been in quite the bubble of for whatever reason l trying to solve the puzzle of what had suddenly become what seemed like an NBC sponsored charade through the inner workings of my mind, only to find that not only was I not qualified, but also not entirely capable of doing any of the jobs I wanted to, and with that notion had settled once again comfortably in the cradle of suicide, hating everyone and everything around me—and using Tina Fey's book as an alter to light my prayer candle, all the while knowing someone had left it there—the book, along with a collection of surf themed relics, especially for me.

I had been thoroughly warned about Jimmy Fallon. He was an impressive egotist—- walked amongst rightfully the elite, was highly competitive, and powerful. He was not the kind of man you tell ‘no', even if you were, like me, entirely unsure as to what the question was—his eloquence had been understated, the design of it all, unique, in a way that it all seemed to speak of a time before time— I was immovably always fond of the Greeks

Lost, was the old world,

Our own,

Bound by candle light;

Marked by wisdom,

Enrichment,

Cherished times,

Beseeched the throne,

A mask of wands,

The arch of Tryerdom,

I am the arms of therefore

What was once,

The whole of body,

As a man or womankind,

Seeks to know a God—

They are as one,

And all of us,

Beyond the shroud of time,

A whimsy befallen, like leaves upon us

Overgrown the garden of Adam,

Wrought with fruit,

Which rotten lies upon the tide,

So soaked with formidable ocean

She or he therefore has lost

The touch of truth,

The seekers wisdom,

All are none again,

And so shall fall the empire

They called us upon as ours.

—in God we Trust.

Amen.

Fuck, man.

How am I supposed to—

What do you call it?

—summon.

Summon a fucking—

What's it?

God.

—God…up on this fucking soundstage without the entire audience or anyone else noticing.

You figure it out.

How, though?

What the fuck.

It takes a lot of impressive achievements to get into the page program.

Yeah, but .

I would assume your studies in practical magic to be at the very least—

—Doing what now?

Adequate—if not satisfactory.

You are weird.

This is weird.

I paid cash, and I expect results.

Whatever.

Now, be careful with those tablets.

We wouldn't want anyone dangerous getting a hold of them.

Anyone like who?

{Enter The Multiverse}

Do your job;

I'll do mine.

When we go, we go—

And when we go…

The man emerges from below the surface of the water, gasping for breath; as the water drips down from his hair and face, back into the water, as the splash echoes into a dull chorus of dripping, his mouth open, gaping, as if he had just awoken from a nightmare; he breathes deeply as something in him recollects before the blur of the world sets in to become a clear and crisp, colored world.

We go the way we came—

At once, and Alone.

As if no one could no where we've just come from—

Or where we must go.

But we must go.

“Cosmos Factory”

This could be fatal.

—but isn't everything.

He's not breathing.

Call an ambulance.

nurse!

Call a paramedic.

The paradigm shifted as I departed one world and entered the next.

In a fit of blind rage and fury, also came an excitement; I was accomplished.

The man is distinguished, late 40's to early 50's, with dark, lush hair.

Soon, you know, it will all be grey.

It can't be.

What do you mean it's ‘empty'?

This is not the place!

What place?

This is not the place that it was!

Ah, so this is Cosmos Factory.

I thought that was a comedy.

I was hoping it would be.

Here it is.

I was wondering what was in there.

I'm still waiting to see what's in Mrs. Gillipsie's refrigerator.

Well, keep waiting. I've got a few more chapters in this memoir and I can't be bothered with trying to figure out why Johnny Depp is the narrator in the voiceover—

My God, how you've changed.

Well, yes— I am a changeling.

Not to mention your improvements in shapeshifting.

Actually, let's not mention it.

very well.

Whatever, man.

Tom.

Is it?

It should be.

Whatever. Come in.

Oh. What a lovely portal you have.

—shut up.

But the man reemerging from his practical baptismal submergence is none other than —

I don't think he's capable of a role like this.

He isn't—which is why I wrote it like this.

You know, by the time the actual writers get their hands on this, there will be so many rewrites it will be hard to imagine or recognize you even wrote it.

That's—already becoming a sort of paradoxical challenge.

Of course it is. You shifters never have any idea the kind of repercussions coming, or, the endless— and I mean —endless realms—

—infinite—

Endless. Things are rarely infinite actually besides the things that always were, henceforth—infinite—

Of course,

Always having been and always will be.

Got it.

So. Do you understand the kind of effort it takes as a collective to have come up with a work like this?

I understand the benefit of having opposable thumbs and an iPhone,

You think you're smart;

—when I'm thinking, at all—

But you're actually a genius; that's right, without thinking at all.

Have you thought about the characters you haven't yet created?

There are more?

The worlds you've yet to build?

I've got all my money on blowing my head off before ever actually making it as a stand up comic.

And I've got all mine on you blowing your head off, after you've made it as a stand up comic.

Now, which is it going to be?

[beat]

Statistics don't lie.

Actually, they do—

Especially in America.

North America?

South America?

You know as good as I know, I mean the Good old Goddamned USA.

That's a lot of good old goddamned, Uncle Sam.

—aha,

And Sam, I am.

Now, suit up as Dr. Suess and make sense of this.

Nothing makes sense—

If everything did, what would be the purpose?

[agreeing, simultaneously]

Puzzle Pieces.

[a moment of solidarity]

Now, pick the old man up off the ground,

And get to it.

He's not that old…

You only say that because you're older.

Let this trickle down into the body of success that I should be born at least two decades left than half a century ago.

Any less and you'd be begging for some kind of pardon for all the crimes against humanity you've caused to solidify the theoretic concept of consciousness within the occult, instead of humbly accepting the consideration for an honorary doctorate at any given Alma mater whose brotherhood of trust has bonded us through this unjust monologue to seal such in blood as a relic.

That's a lot of words.

I have hairs on my chest.

They are grey.

Congratulations,

Some of them silver.

Is that a riddle?

If it were, would there be so many puzzle pieces?

I think that would take this whole thing out of balance.

Manage your axis.

Bid you well.

Severance.

“The Occult Classic”

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

{Enter The Multiverse}

Make the old man laugh–

–make The Old Man break a sweat

Make the old man dance

(Make The Old Man Young Again)

Make The Old Man dance, I said

Wise Owl

My server be your server;

My proxy, thine proxy…

WHOOPI GOLDBERG (as The Cosmic Owl) sits crouched over a nest of stone and earthen metals of precious kind, enchanting within the thick smoke of incense and fragrant oils, with a whispered chant, evoking with spirit and summoning with force–a spell of all spells; a worldly ritual. Her golden turban matches the embellishments; the royally fashioned robe and chains around her neck, bangles and ribbons of gold and silver draped with the hooded cape of which the grand sleeves, falling into the grand purple flowing train of the cascading draperies.

Meanwhile…

Come on, we don't got all day…

–”we”?

I don't got time!

MEANWHILE,

CHRISTOPHER WALKEN awaits at the corridor of an unknown marker, inside of a train station–which appears altogether to be in a different time; altogether a different place; the period of his dress appears perhaps late 1800's; his pocketwatch, which he checks sporadically–also golden.

ALSO MEANWHILE

So this is Casper, huh?

This–yeah.

The friendly ghost.

Well–

AGH.

He used to be, anyway.

Why are you not making any sense!?

I asked for PROTECTION!

I gave you LIGHT!

That's not a protection! It's a target!

What the fuck ar eyou talking about?

*vampire*

{instant kills vampire}

*demon*

{Instant kills demon}

THESE THINGS EAT LIGHT.

Well. I don't know how to help you.

Get me out of here!

I can't do that!

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

Speak now, or forever hold your peace.

Damn.

Patrick is one cold ass motherfucker.

It was all still rumbling around in my head somewhere…

How could i forget something like that.

Why even come to the ceremony if you were going to make a big scene like that

I didn't.

Why even show up?

Appearances.

Are you serious?

–it would look bad if I didn't.

It looked bad that you did and then exited during the ceremony.

–the end of the ceremony.

Specifically at the objections.

–I wasn't paying attention.

You stood up!

I had to use the restroom.

As an objection?

Merely a coincidence.

You don't believe in coincidences.

I don't believe in marriages, either.

Oh, please.

I begged you.

That's your excuse.

It's not an excuse.

Is it an objection?

And if it was?

I got married anyway.

–So it wouldn't matter.

Thanks for the toaster oven.

–I didn't get you a toaster oven.

Yes you did.

Uh–no, I didn't.

Then what did you get us?

Nothing, I forgot.

Well, the card was from you.

Hm

Maybe you forgot to forget.

Maybe.

Thank you, anyway.

–Congratulations.

There's leftover cake.

Where?

Everywhere.

__

LATER.

Hazel is practicing her guitar; her glasses rest at the edge of her nose, as she focuses on the instrument, almost as if her father in the doorway is a shadow, or an afterthought. She carefully tunes the strings as he leans into her bedroom.

Hazel.

Hm.

Did you buy Esha and Mark a toaster oven with my credit card?

She stops for a moment and peers over the brim of her glasses briefly addressing her father.

–I knew you'd forget.

Oh. I–I did.

I know.

Thank you.

You're welcome.

He pauses for a moment before making his departure, turning into the hallway.

There's leftover cake.

She seems genuinely excited.

There is? Where?

[beat]

…everywhere.

Ugh. This show blows my mind.

Yeah. Sometimes almost literally.

Happiness is a warm gun.

You're the Hatter, and the rabbit, Alice and The Cheshire!

You're The Rabbit, The Hatter, The Cheshire, and Alice!

Did I ever write that scene about the liquor store?

Maybe, probably. I don't know.

Now every time i go to the store where I saw that scene, I see it again–although not quite as clearly, and I can't help but wonder if I ever wrote it down, or, like so much of whatever and somesuch–it was all just in my head.

No, Patrick exists.

Clearly.

I had been fasting for an extraneous amount of time, though for how long i couldn't say. And the words repeated over and over in my head for me to fetch a book from the cabinet I had been interested in by its cover alone, but had put away weeks ago. I had stopped reading, and had become more focused on creating something that could generate revenue. I needed money, almost desperately enough to sell my already outdated DJ equipment and some of my studio gear, and yet–there was still work to be done. There wasn't much that I could do with my aged equipment, but there wasn't much I could do without it, either. Luckily, winter was coming forward faster, with heavy enough rain throughout the week that it kept some of the cyclists at bay, however, the same evil energy seems to have moved inward; now the doors just outside of my own slammed continuously throughout the day, without any logical explanation as to why; there were only six apartments on the floor, and most of the other people on the floor used the elevator to go about their tasks, so I couldn't much understand the constant door slamming–and though I had put in a maintenance request, being well aware that the doors could be fixed not to slam, my request had been ignored. It seemed as though the property manager had grown tired of my requests, but I had grown tired of having to make them. THe neighbors were inconsiderate, and I desperately wanted to move to a cleaner and quieter neighborhood–and though I knew by New York city standards what I had was a blessing–the noise had become depressing, and so had being followed by the same group of people during my gym regimen–enough so that I avoided nearly all human contact. People seemed to be increasingly toxic, in such a way that I intended to find a suitable enough position that I could save money and be able to one day escape. New York was not a clean, quiet, and friendly place. I disliked my newfound bitterness, hostility, and anger which the city had characteristically put into its place.

My creativity meant nothing–I would need to earn money to be respected, or even well liked–

Not that I cared much for being accepted or admired, however, in the way Californians upheld high standards of vanity, New York never overlooked the value of a dollar; it was a money game, and so far, I was losing.

‘Guncle. Guncle.'

A faraway voice seemed to say.

‘Uh, okay.'

I continued about my ritualistic deep cleaning, which always seemed to automatically take place towards the end of a fast.

‘GUNCLE!'

The voice was loud this time, almost as if it was being yelled.

“Jesus Christ, alright.”

I reached up onto the high shelf where the book was stored and retrieved the book; I had almost forgotten the pink and blue letters which had drawn me to it in the first place. I had figured the colors to be some sort of code, as they were often used in media–but I wasn't sure besides what meaning I had assigned to it all my own what it was supposed to mean, besides being somewhere along the right path–

‘G U N C L E'

I had no idea what the book was about, but flipped to the middle as I often did to get a glimpse at what the book might fortell.

Low and behold, there it was–

Not a massive sign, but a sign at least. I myself no longer believed in coincidences, especially while fasting, and all incidences of a certain nature lately seemed in fact to be somewhat Divine;

I opened up to find that the main character of the book was named Patrick–

And of course,

He was some kind of actor–

A television personality.

I had nearly abandoned The Television people with Fallon and his–whatever-he-was–

and being entirely honest with myself,

I wasn't sure.

What I was certain was, though, was that he was whatever I was, and whatever I was, was dangerous, volatile, prone to both implotsions and explosions and a little bit whimsical–I'd have liked to think, some sort of artist, or creative, however,

Obviously not vibrating at the speed of celebrity status, at least not consistently–

And, of course,

remarkably tamed, for the kind of creature in my nature to have stumbled upon quite a discovery so ‘casually.'

But there was really nothing so casual about it– it was formally divination, this specific puzzle piece, in that I had been fasting for no reason or purpose at all with no end in sight until being directed with such pertinence to pick up this book, only to find that the first word my eyes would see, was not at all just a word, but a name.

I couldn't remember why he was Pat Kirkpartrick, at first, at all; then I remembered that for some reason–there was some kind of teaching i was supposed to have remembered about these people–the television people–and the Irish, especially; but then, there were also, strangely with some of the same ties, the Greeks, the….

Suddenly the back of my neck cause a warm wind, which I always thought to be strange sitting in the middle of my apartment with no air conditioning on at all. I had been fasting on this day as well and had gotten a second wind after eating, completing as many instrumentals as i could before continuing to look for a normal ‘slave job' so that I could earn money to travel and visit my loved ones. I didn't want for much else, not that I wanted to be normal, because I knew already at this point that I couldn't–but I needed to be paid in money I could choose what and where to spend on things I needed without relying on anything or anyone else. I couldn't keep taking my chances in entertainment; I was aging, and growing tired, and wary of the whitewashed and over-politically correct world that was sure to be pursuing entertainment anymore, especially television–I thought that perhaps I was best suited for desk work at a gym which would motivate me to show up every day; otherwise, I would probably quit or be fired almost immediately.

It was time to retire to bed, with protective stones strapped to my chest to protect myself against whatever that awful, evil thing was–now that it was rainy for motorcycles, the doors slammed all day long and ached in my bones as if someone were hitting me; I knew that this thing only wanted to hurt me–it could be no other force but the force of evil that continued to lurk around me whatever way that it could–whether I meditated or prayed, fasted or exercise, ate or didn't–there was always someone or something unpeaceful happening; something which allowed me to understand that perhaps I was in a world that I could leave sooner than later.

Often my wrists ached with the throbbing sensation of a dreary and thoughful wish for freedom; a suicide which would end all things once and for all–but–I also knew there was more art to leave behind than I had made, and so for that, I continued to be; I let the motorcycles and slamming doors stand as a reminder that all things that would seek to harm me would also be harmed in doing so–not in the least a calming sense of knowing, but a sense of something known nonetheless.

Damn I keep forgetting Trevor Noah.

How do you do?

How do I do what?

Fuck man, America is so fucking racist.

It's like,

We'll kind of almost fuck with South Africa–

But only cause it's dominated by white culture;

And the prominent blacks that come from south Africa are light skinned

And have accents, so they're not as scary.

“Oh, South Africa”

“Right.

How's the water?

That ought to tip your elections in the right direction.

“I'll say!”

(Ours too.)

The only time racists accept anything colored is if its beautiful,

(read:flawless)

Or overly accomplished.
I've realized that if you're either one or the other,

You can eventually be both.

Anything else with color is basically just for entertainment purposes.

Or general warfare.

“Multi-use niggas”

White people are like:

“Entertain me;

Or else you're a threat.”

“Yessir”

Yo.

The late night guys are mad weird.

Somehow, the hosts of late night television have all mysteriously been locked into an unfamiliar mansion, without their suits—and pants—unable to find an exit. All of the doorways are blocked—and all of the windows have been altered—they do not open, nor can anyone see out of them; in fact, they are doctored with the same illusionary backdrops that can be seen on the sets of their own shows—the televisions, which, have seemingly been programmed to only play reruns of their own shows.

Why— why aren't you wearing pants!?

I don't know.

Where's your suit? You should be wearing a suit!

I know, right?!

Who the fuck even are you?!

Depends whose asking.

YO, CONAN. WOAH.

You're not a late night host!

Thank God! That seems like an awful job—your demographic fucking sucks.

My demographic does suck. But to counter that— I'm a Republican.

Who knew?!

Not my demographic.

Okay, everybody calm down.

(Everybody was already calm, but for the most part just confused, and pant less; most of them wear the same classic boxers, though in different patterns/ slightly varying colors—but of course, nothing too crazy, while only one host sports boxer briefs, and one (I'll let you guess who) ladies panties.)

At least we all have our own rooms.

I don't! I'm stuck in a twin bed and Leno has the other.

Before:

JAY LENO

Good Morning, bright eyes.

CUT BACK TO:

Aren't you retired?

I do moonlighting.

LENO and FALLON seem somewhat comfortable and non-biased (read: unbothered entirely) over the morning paper and coffee at opposite ends of the large breakfast table, a continental style breakfast of croissants, seasonal fruit, with an assortment of cereals arranged in the kitchen. FALLON occasionally looks up from his paper to laugh at himself on the television, playing in the kitchen. The other hosts squint with allied disgruntlement of FALLON'S nonchalance and slightly narcissistic egotism.

FALLON

(reading paper, watching self; eating croissant, sipping coffee)

Haha.

Nobody has pants, and as the hosts will soon discover—this is with purpose. They have been trapped here as part of an experimental game show, in which the unrecognized and uninformed guest will host, as part of a test shoot aimed at the demographic of the late night hosts combined audience, to test whether or not this demographic will be positively receptive to a late night host who is also a woman of color (read: black) —without a white male counterpart co-host to soften the blow.

Really? This is why they're doing this?

Who is “they?!”

The network.

We all work for different networks!

I'm pretty sure the only reason I have a demographic is because of my accent.

It's true.

They accept you.

Right.

Where are the women.

An overhead voice:

(They are coming)

Oh, so I will have co-hosts.

Guest co-hosts; they will vary and change from episode to episode.

Oh. Thank Goodness.

Don't thank me yet.

Uh, okay—overhead voice…

Let's just say I'm the narrorator..

Narrorator for what

[this is also a movie]

Uh. In what genre?

[a host opens the cabinet to a bloody chuckie- like doll, which pops out from a mechanical arm with a high pitched scream; the host lets out a squeal, abandoning his coffee— we see a hidden camera pov from the camera's perspective, and then slow-motion replay footage of the host's reaction— he runs frantically pantless into a corner and then up the stairs.

—Depends on the host.

FALLON, who has been sitting at the table behind him, is still unaffected/unmoved. Himself makes a joke on the TV screen above— he giggles at himself, sipping coffee and looking back to his newspaper the other hosts groan; LENO shrugs and continues, delightfully finishing smearing a bagel and biting into it— he trades FALLON the comics he's been reading for the RELIGION section he's been scoping under the magified lenses of his readers, quietly and sweetly, like an old married couple, without even exchanging a glance or speaking to one another.

Ugh.

Suddenly, from the floor above.

OH DEAR GOD.

CRAIG FURGUSEN has just realized his worse nightmare.

The hosts still standing at the bottom floor in the kitchen all look up, wide eyed.

[Cursing in unintelligible Scottish]

———-

They said that you were one of us, but you're not one of us. But you're not one of us.

Of course not, I'm not a comic— I studied philosophy in college.

That should be funny, but it's not.

I would repeat what I just said, but I don't want to.

Still not funny.

What if I farted?

Bubbles—water—maybe—

some potential.

But probably not.

Shame.

What are you reading?

I'm not, I'm having banter with a crazy-eyed late night host in a bathrobe.

Well how's this for a book mark?

He opens his robe.

(Unimpressed)

Aren't you married?

Arent we all?

I digress.

Embarrassed and nervous, he quickly closes his robe.

Yes. To a blonde.

Congratulations. Where should I send the card.

I'm not giving you my address! Creepy fan—stand up, wanna be…

He frustratedly begins to exit

You're the one standing, technically

—And I'll be the last one standing. At the end of the week, it's gonna be me in those pants! Me!

Clearly, this show of affection has all been an attempt to bribe “CC”, into being persuaded into awarding this particular host “The Pants”.

The hosts will compete for “The Pants” at the end of the first week of challenges

I want them gone.

But sir.

Out. starting Monday; and I want you out of my office, starting now.

Now, get Troublemaker on the line so I can finish my breakfast in agony, like the red blooded American I'm supposed to be.

Sir.

Troublemaker is the top secret code name assigned to the President of the United States; the true President of the United States, the only surviving member of the cabinet after a series of successful infiltrations and assassinations by the enemy, after a covert mission revealed that the succession of the US presidents had been predetermined; not chosen by “The People”, but descendants of a Royal bloodline. Pinocchio the code name for the senator chosen as the stand in— the face to America's eyes and ears, listens intently to the President's every move, daily happenings, and assertions, as to best convey the ideas as his own; meanwhile, the Secret President is heavily guarded, controlled, and is acclimated using a series of secret codes and messages and decoded, including several secret languages and symbology hidden within her daily routines, which become more challenging and versatile, adapting her to her role as Commander In Chief of the United States armed forces, and consequently, the world around her, as the US forces seek to broaden their horizon as the a world superpower, to a Global entity, which powers and controls the heavily overpopulated planet which lies in imminent demise by like likes of war, plague, and diminishing resources.

The actual President of the United States must remain hidden as so, as to remain safe until the intercontinental breech has been sealed, and national security has been restored.

Viewer indescretion is advised

It's not ME.

Okay, okay:

I'm not the president!

I'm not running for president

I don't even know who the president is.

The president is dead.

GOOD .

Madame…

I mean—not good.

You—

No.

So like—-

It's automatically racist to just outright say that the migrants are for the most part not well behaved or orderly—-

They leave trash everywhere and don't even watch their kids!

Some of them.

I think they're just assuming this is okay?!

IS THIS OKAY?!

No! What the fuck!

That is racist.

Have you seen it from where I stand?

The strength is in numbers!

Look,

I don't hate human beings.

Are they—

Yes they're humans.

They're just.

Our imminent demise is in allowing this to continue to happen.

I hope you realize that from how high up you are.

I know you can't see it from up in your shiny townhouses or from the blacked out windows of your town cars, but...

They're good people.

SOME of them

I mean a lot of these 3rd world people are very primitive thinkers.

Don't count on them being brought up to speed in consciousness and morality when they're basically brought here as luxury slaves.

That's putting it nicely.

Well, if you're not going to pay Americans living wages, you're going to have to counter it somehow.

I can't have three jobs.

Oh, that's nice. The terrorists are attacking their own people.

For what purpose is any of this, actually?

Check it out. I found the leak.

Alert the mayor.

He's on the Mayor's books.

What in the actual fuck.

Gross.

Is there not a screening process for this?

Too late: anchor babies.

“The Secret President”

So you just dropped like 2 million pregnant 3rd world—

You realize that.

There must be some kind of compromise.

Yeah. Send them back.

Ew, fucking gross.

I don't understand—

What you don't understand!

[A SAGA]

What don't you understand?

My land is your land!?

Yeah, and now the economy's in the trashcan.

I figure that's an upgrade from a black hole!

You don't understand that we're like leaking—

—like bleeding—-

Money!

Half of this money's not even being recirculated into the United States!

Send for uncle Juan, Camilla, and all of my pregnant nieces.

Dalè.

ARRIVA

STORM THE GATES.

Yo, lady.

What the fuckz

At least put shoes on the baby.

PUT THE DIAPER IN THE TRASHCAN.

Where's your mother?

I am my mother.

Goddamn!

What is the United States?!

Racists!

Trust me

I'd rather die than not

Either way,

I'll love you all the same

It's unfortunate

The wicked ones

Atop us, with the fortunes

With no one to love

But piles of bodies,

Power plays and flaccid phalic

Valid fantasies and tragic

Dissatisfaction

All those bottles

And all those bodies

And all those models

You still can't mount a horse.

All that power

And all that money

And you don't want me

But she doesn't do much

But want to love

Pity no one up there seems to know what is does

Love, is for us

The ugly under you

Trust me, I'd rather die tonight

Than wake up alone

Foaming in the mouth

With no one there to froth with

Trust me

I'd rather die than not

Either way,

I'll love you all the same

I guess I'm slag bro

Another attack

It's fine;

I'm just not attractive

Not even fit for his

Side piece of ass

How's that go?

What's that life

Just take a knife to my back

Cause I can't go back bro

I went black bro

Flatline

He caught my eye,

Then I went flat broke

If I could draw a line up my spine

And unwind the entire world

I would, though

If I could tie a knot to the knot in my back

And then just jump rope

Off a long rope

From a strong pole

Here's hoping

{Enter The Multiverse}

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