The Lost Cause Comedy Vault Vol. I

{ENTER THE MULTIVERSE} | LEGENDS 

SPINOFF

 - [THE FESTIVAL PROJECT ™ } 

PRESENTS…

The Chronicles of WTF

(The Chronicles of Whatthefuck)

**\ðə ˈkrɑː.nɪ.kəlz əv ˌwʌt.ðə.ˈfʌk**.

[thuh KRAH-nih-kulz uhv wut-thuh-FUK.]

EPISODE 001: 

PILOT

‘My Name Is James ‘

Chapter I: 

Lost Boy 

RED leans over the bed of the truck, leaning over the giant pine tree with the strap buckle gripped tight in his gloved dominant hand. He pulls as he leans over sliding back and down onto the ground, until his feet are firmly planted; his boots press into the gravel below him with just enough give to show that the land has not yet frozen over for the winter. He looks assuredly at his work, knowing that the tree is securely fitted to the truck bed—but the look of worry in his glistening eyes ties his to somewhere far off; and he seems unsure of his friend, JOSELYN, much taller and long, with blonde straw hair sticking up from under his knitted hat as if there’s been an electric shock. He looks at his friend, then back up at the large mound of tree in the truck bed, still sort of somber. 

RED 

Alright, that should do it. 

JOSELYN 

I’ll say. 

RED 

Just make sure when you get the other one, you get it up there the same way. Like this. 

JOSELYN 

I will. 

RED 

I mean it. 

JOSELYN 

Don’t worry! 

—but Red is obviously worried. He takes his hands from his hips and fishes the keys out of his pockets, the frost hanging from his eyebrows and tunneling from his breath in the frigid cold; it’s yet to snow, but you can smell that it ought to. 

In fact, it will. 

RED hands his buddy the keys to the truck almost begrudgingly, but still somewhat dismissive. JOSELYN seems aloof; we understand that he’s a quite bubbly young man, and his blue-green eyes seem to light up even against the frigid cold of the forest mountain. 

RED 

Alright. I’ll meet you down there. 

JOSELYN 

Okay. See you down there. 

JOSELYN enters the truck and starts it, driving away and further down the mountain. Now RED looks on with a knowing sadness that doesn’t fade away, as he looks behind him, to the glimmer of a light inside of a small CABIN, the flickering flame of a lantern inside, over his shoulder and then back out, to see last sight of the truck has vanished down the subtle grade of the rolling forests. 

He moves toward the cabin but doesn’t enter; instead only fashioning himself with an axe, a pick, and a shovel and rope at the workbench to the side of the cabin, slipping his tools into the utility loops on his carpenter pants, then walking away, throwing the coiled rope over his shoulder. 

He doesn’t look back, and works his way gently down a hidden ledge, climbing over and down, disappearing into what appears to be a thick mountain fog settling over the mountain.

We pan out to a wide shot of the now very desolate mountainside; the Cabin sits alone with only the warm glowing light of the lamp in the window, as the smallest flakes of snow begin to fall into a whimsical flutter, 

Whimsical, but also, somehow, dark. 

[The Festival Project ™] 

“Don’t you follow me in here.”, he said, griping at me like he always does. 

“But I have to,” I said. 

“I’m your shadow.” 

He doesn’t go anywhere without me, but never lets me forget it. 

Not even for a moment. 

He acts as if he doesn’t like me, but I think that’s because he has to— 

He seems to have to do a lot of things I don’t understand, but then. 

Neither does he. 

My Name Is James 

He simply does them just because he ‘has to.’

{Enter The Multiverse}

EXT. MOUNTAIN POST. NIGHTFALL

JOSELYN has waited several hours at the POST with no sign of RED. The snow has fallen significantly now and has even become quiet heavy. His face is red and flush from cold, and his golden eyelashes are nearly hidden under a muster of snow. He watches the last of the daylight disappear into nightfall over the horizon of the forests steep cliffs and tree tops, the flurries swirling around him as he breathes heavily into his gloved hands to warm them; we can assume that he’s been standing there long enough that his gloves are no longer effective, but he stares willfully and squinting with determination toward the mountain as if staring with such intent will make his friend appear. 

After a few brief moments, his focus and silence is broken by the presence of a short and stout man; a RANGER appears at his side with a warm cup of what appears to be HOT COCOA. 

JOSELYN breaks his hound dog like gaze for only a moment to politely acknowledge and accept this; before immediately snapping back into what almost looks to be a trance of sorts.

The RANGER, also looking out into the wilderness sighs. 

RANGER

Won’t you come inside?

Without breaking his gaze and taking only the smallest sip from the mug, JOSELYN doesn’t even shake his head, “no.” Instead he rather obstinately stands planted and affixed to the horizon. 

JOESELYN 

Not yet. 

The RANGER lets out a sharp sigh, with a plume of frosty cold air that obscures the little twinkling my of hope in his own glacier blue eyes; the ice in his mustache begins to make his whiskers frigid and a cold wind blows— he pats JOSELYN on his shoulder before heading inside.

He closes the door behind him, entering the POST; another RANGER, younger and very handsome sits at the desk inside the fort. He stares at his computer screen just as intensely as JOSELYN stares out into the wilderness, seeming almost to match the his entire expression exactly, with worry and concern. 

his silver nameplate reads JONES.

He looks up at the RANGER, and as his cheeks warm we see the jolly and inviting, friendly profile of his very round face. Now his blue eyes sparkle under the light. 

JONES is a distinctly handsome, dark haired man no older than 40. His eyes are dark and round as they are deep and brown with sorrow.

JONES

Should I call it in? 

They both look out into the cold, JOSELYN still standing unmoved with his back turned to the window, the darkness coming over the forest mountain and the fog unrelenting; slow flurries sweeping and swirling around his feet, and still, he stands unmoved.  

The RANGER lets out another stark sigh. 

RANGER 

No radar?

JONES shakes his head firmly. 

JONES 

No sir, nothing. 

RANGER 

Then we’ll have to. 

JONES moves quickly, shuffling his workdesk promptly and with rigid precision; we can tell from his movement he is a disciplined and thorough, by-the-book officer. 

JONES moves swiftly to prepare the call, looking back at his computer one more as he stands up, reaching for his heavy winter utility jacket, gripping his pen in his teeth with his lips wrapped around it as he quickly prepares— now in full swing and maybe, thinking too quickly, doing many things at once, and suddenly— 

From the peak of the mountain a plume of dark smoke rises up above the fog; JOSELYN, still solid but lifting just the eyes of his gaze up towards the billowing column, both with a hard and stifled furrow of confusion, and even further, doubt and worry. 

Inside, JONES and THE RANGER, heading towards the door, have also spotted this anomaly— the striking realization, however, sets in that this does not seem to be a regular fireplace smokestack, pouring from the chimney. 

Theme:  When The Summer Dies

MUSIC CUE: A MELANCHOLY PIANO ARRANGEMENT OF “WHEN THE SUMMER DIES” (DEADMAU5 & LIGHTS) BEGINS.

RANGER 

Hold it. 

JONES

Sir, i call it. 

RANGER

Wait a minute.

Instead, this causes further alarm— the billows  appear to be getting thicker and more distinctive in the wind.

JONES 

Maybe he’s got himself snowed in? Started up a fire? [to keep warm]

THE RANGER’s eyes begin to widen and the jolly is lost from his round face, his eyes widening to an almost tearful sadness. 

He is painfully worried now.

JONES (CONT’D)

Sir…

There appears to be a fire much larger than the sort it takes to stay warm on a winter night.   

JOSELYN stares intently with a cruel disheartened pain—taking off into the night as if to the sound of a shotgun; this fades quickly  into the sight of a HUNTING DOG with the same intense glare being let loose up the mountain. A search and rescue team has been dispatched. 

EXT. CABIN - NIGHT

The search party crests the ridge, breathless and frozen.

MUSIC CUE (CONT'D): “LIKE A VIRGIN” (GHOSTLY A CAPPELLA)

“Didn’t know how lost I was, until I found you...”

Complete devastation.

The cabin has burned to the ground. There are no walls, no roof—only a scorching stone foundation and a muster of black debris and ash hissing against the falling snow.

The RANGERS slow to a stop. They lower their flashlights, the beams hitting the wet charcoal ruins. They look at the ashes, then to each other. The silence is heavy. The assumption is clear: Red was inside.

JOSELYN drops to his knees in the snow.

THE CAMERA DRIFTS away from their grief. It pans slowly, deliberately, past the smoking ruins to the edge of the property.

To the HIDDEN LEDGE.

The snow here is disturbed. We see the faint, filling-in impression of boots leading down and away.

The camera continues to pull back, WIDENING OUT to reveal the entire surface of the mountain. We see the steep, rocky cliffs, the jagged canyons, and the blizzard rapidly intensifying.

“I was beat, incomplete...”

The audience knows he left the cabin—but looking at this freezing, white canyonland, the hope curdles into doubt. Did he survive this?

FLASHBACK TO:

EXT. SCHOOLHOUSE - DAY

Sunlight. Warmth. The distinct buzzing of cicadas.

Two very young boys play in the small dust courtyard of a backwoods schoolhouse. YOUNG 

RED (7) stands opposite YOUNG JOSELYN (7).

RED

What’s your name?

JOSELYN

I’m Joselyn.

RED

“Joselyn”? That’s a girl’s name.

Young Joselyn shrugs sweetly.

JOSELYN

My parents wanted a girl, I guess. But now I’m getting a sister—so I don’t know what they’re going to call her!

Red smiles, a mischievous glint in his eye.

RED

Maybe they will call her RALPH!

The boys erupt into laughter.

JOSELYN

That’s funny. What’s your name?

Red proudly points his thumb into his chest, assertive and loud.

RED

I’m Red!

JOSELYN

“Red?!”

RED

Yeah!

JOSELYN

Well that’s not a name at all. That’s a color!

RED

Well maybe my parents wanted a color. And look:

Red puffs up his cheeks. He holds his breath, squeezing his fists and bugging his eyes out until his face turns a violently bright crimson.

Joselyn reaches out and—SQUISH—deflates 

Red’s cheeks with the sides of his hands.

Red makes a noise like a deflating whoopee cushion. They dissolve into hysterical giggles.

RED

See?

JOSELYN

(Giggling)

Cut it out.

The bond is sealed. The SCHOOL BELL rings, shrill and loud.

Other students flood into the schoolhouse, a sea of plaid and denim, leaving the two boys alone to horseplay for a second longer.

TEACHER (O.S)

Boys!

They scramble, pushing and shoving, roughhousing their way toward the door.

TEACHER

Come along now.

The TEACHER stands at the door frame. She herds them inside, but lingers for a moment. She looks out into the wooded countryside, where the leaves are just starting to turn.

“I'd been had, I was sad and blue

But you made me feel—“

The summer has come to an end.

Further Meloncholy Themes, ACCAPELLA 

• Mouse Theme, Mashup / Composed arrangement

Yeah, you made me feel

Shiny and new”

EXT. MOUNTAIN - NIGHT

The camera lingers on the swirling white fog and the billows of smoke, filling the frame until the screen is completely obscured by a wall of shifting white.

MATCH CUT TO:

INT. CATHOLIC CHURCH - DAY

MUSIC CUE (CONT’D): “LIKE A VIRGIN” (A CAPPELLA REWORK)

The white wall of smoke is actually INCENSE.

It billows from a silver thurible, swung rhythmically by a procession of ALTAR BOYS (12) moving down the aisle of a packed High Mass.

The smoke drifts over the pews to reveal a YOUNG NUN (20s). She is kneeling, head bowed in prayer. A devout glow of perfection.

The LEAD ALTAR BOY swings the incense, stepping closer. He is bored, routine—until he passes her pew.

The Young Nun lifts her head.

She opens those piercing, electric blue eyes and looks right at him.

“HEY!”

FREEZE FRAME (Brief): The Altar Boy is struck by lightning.

The sheer voltage of the eye contact scrambles his brain. He forgets who he is. He forgets God.

“Touched for the very first time...”

He forgets how to walk.

The boy trips over the hem of his cassock, stumbling sideways.

CLUNK.

The Altar Boy behind him isn't paying attention and slams right into his back, causing a domino-effect pile-up of robes and incense burners.

The Young Nun continues her gaze, aloof to the commotion. She simply purses her lips, remaining an innocent enough look to catch light in her gaze, with the sultry undertone of raw passion. 

The other nuns, though subtly look about with a slight “ahem” of confusion. 

Production Note on "Mickey Mousing"

In film editing, syncing a specific action (like the eye contact) to a specific musical beat (the "Hey!") is often called "Mickey Mousing" or "hitting the post." By separating the lyric “HEY!” onto its own line right after the eye contact description, you are giving the editor a visual map of the rhythm. They will know to slide the audio track so that the vocal hits right on that frame.

This establishes the tone immediately: the tragedy of the mountain is over, and we are now in a world of heightened, slightly irreverent reality.

INT. DINING ROOM - NIGHT

The only sound is the aggressive sawing of a steak knife against a china plate.

The Altar Boy pushes peas around his plate, looking like he’s trying to solve a physics equation that doesn’t exist. He is avoiding eye contact at all costs.

Across from him, his FATHER is hidden behind the raised pages of a newspaper. We don't see his face, but we hear the smirk in his voice.

DAD (O.S.) 

So. 

The Boy freezes.

DAD (O.S.) (CONT'D)

Still want to be a priest?

The Boy opens his mouth, but the conviction is gone. He’s caught.

BOY

…I don’t know. 

DAD (O.S.)

(Dry, amused)

Well. Have you thought about— anything else you’d like to do?

The Boy stares past his father, locking onto the small television set in the corner. His brain attempts to make a connection—God, the Nun, the floor, the future—but the wires just spark and fail.

He stares into the static glow, lost. His operating system completely crashes.

His brain attempts to make a connection to something, but can’t. 

BOY

Can I be excused?

He doesn’t wait for permission. He scrapes his chair back, abandoning his dinner, and flees the room.

His little sister glances around the room confusedly.

INT. BEDROOM - MOMENTS LATER

The sanctuary of a teenage boy. Posters, clutter—comic books, baseball cards, and toys he’s probably grown out of, but still keeps around. 

He moves to his VCR/Tape Player. 

He grabs a VHS tape—labeled in messy marker—and slides it into the machine. 

The mechanical WHIRR and CLICK of the tape loading is the only sound in the room.

He hits PLAY.

Production Note on the "Short Circuit"

The direction here for the actor playing the boy is "buffering." When the Dad asks "What would you like to be instead?", the boy shouldn't look confused; he should look like his operating system just crashed. The stare into the TV is his reboot screen.

CLUNK. WHIRR.

The mechanical digestion of the tape is the only sound in the room.

James stares at the screen, mesmerized. The saxophones scream. The city lights blur.

ON THE TV SCREEN:

The iconic 1980s intro sequence.

DON PARDO (V.O.)

It’s Saturday Night Live! Starring... Dana Carvey!

Dana waves, looking goofy and harmless.

DON PARDO (V.O.)

Phil Hartman!

Phil smiles, looking smooth and professional.

DON PARDO (V.O.)

Jan—

ZZZZRRRRT.

HARD CUT TO STATIC.

For a split second, the screen is a wash of grey snow and a high-pitched audio squeal. A clumsy, panicked manual edit.

ZZZZRRRRT.

The picture snaps back.

DON PARDO (V.O.)

...Kevin Nealon!

We completely skipped Jan Hooks. The mere suggestion of a female cast member has been surgically removed by his father’s thumb on the RECORD/PAUSE button.

James doesn’t blink. He doesn’t look confused. He munches on a cracker, completely unfazed.

To him, Saturday Night Live is just a show about men in suits... and occasionally a woman who exists only in the glitchy static between punchlines.

ON SCREEN:

DON PARDO (V.O.)

Victoria—

ZZZZRRRRT.

STATIC.

ZZZZRRRRT.

DON PARDO (V.O.)

...Dennis Miller!

JAMES sits on the carpet, right in front of the TV. He is sitting criss-cross applesauce, hands resting loosely on his knees. He looks small. He looks like a little boy.

ON THE TV:

Dennis Miller smirks, tossing his hair. The audience erupts in laughter/applause.

IN THE ROOM:

The blue light of the CRT monitor washes over James’s face.

It reflects in his wide and slanted, unblinking eyes.

Click.

[The Festival Project ™] 

L E G E N D S 

We’ll go from the radio station back to the POST; JOCELYN has just become a Ranger. Some time has passed, but not too much. He twitters around with the radio before finding one that’s clear— some goofy station. 

After a few moments he hears what he is sure is his best friend’s voice; he listens intently; it even seems as if the man in the radio is talking directly to him. 

He snaps out of it and shakes his head— it can’t be.

JONES enters and we can assume because he’s the boss, THE RANGER has retired. 

JOSELYN breaks his focus from the radio and darts his eyes at JONES— he shakes his head firmly as if to say. 

“Still nothing” 

JOCELYN squints at the radio and his heart flutters and softens. 

They are still searching. 

Here we will insert this scene maybe 

Here this is the latest from enter the multiverse— a new section of the show within the Novel Chroma111 called My Name Is James; apparently it’s a short novel itself but I don’t know what it’s about besides a time traveler. Aparently Jimmy Kimmel is agent red and he’s been missing for a couple decades I still can’t count bars 

Can’t put these bars down, 

Drowning in hard tapped maple syrup 

damn 

Feet up in stirrups, 

I’m gone 

But I ride in the saddle 

I’m sad a lot 

Damn Gina 

Sorry I forgot you 

Didn’t keep it pushing, 

Really good to know you, though 

How you gon’ tell me not to say nigga 

But still treat me like one?

[how you tell me not to say the n-word 

But still streat me like the n-word?] 

Anyway, 

Any day now 

If I keep praying, maybe 

Payday or I break out 

Doubts though 

All I see out the window 

Is grey clouds though 

All I can say is 

Too loud, tho 

My old man he lives in those tenor lines 

My old master he lives in those lies 

My old lover he lives in those grey ties 

My own disaster is two open eyes 

My own disaster is biological pain 

My own disaster is foreign 

[for reign] 

[for rainn] 

I don’t know what I want 

I just want to write 

I don’t feel good 

I never feel good anymore. 

I never hear your voice until I wake up. 

That’s no good sign; 

Either you’re the light at the end of the tunnel vision 

(Or you’re behind) 

Well then.

I tik tok trend, huh?

No more hard water. 

I did this, did that 

But didn’t remember what I did 

Before I got back here 

What is back here?

I had a black year 

Black skin 

Black heart 

I got worse doors open, 

Ahead 

I got four wars 

On God 

On men 

All stop signs 

I got 

Computers fighting human wars 

I got 

Windows

Walls

Doors, 

But no floors— 

You know. 

Or don’t you. 

I don’t know what i want. 

I never feel good anymore. 

I don’t any longer dream faces, 

In fact, 

I faked it 

In fact, 

Same shit, different day. 

They said 

“Ain’t that a falcon?” 

Nah, bird— 

That’s a rock dove. 

Tapping Morse code on the hood of your brand new car— 

Better stop her fore she roll out 

Four doors not enough 

Four hearts went down rough; 

Other world, opposite 

I know nothing, 

Them all obsessive. 

All hardcore onset 

Hard truth: the love of man 

Has a handle on this 

Wrath? But back in 

Trash, 

But picture perfect 

Get stoned and forgotten! 

I want masking tape on the package, 

Wrapped all around 

I’m no rapper 

Trapped in the habit, 

I’m blacklisted; 

It’s been a year backwards. 

Here’s hands on your heart 

Here’s starting your car, cop 

Here’s pop songs on open ranges 

Here’s horses shot, cannon balls 

Apple plus, 

Drop the one. 

Oh, fuck no! 

Won, Tuesday 

Two three force 

Tree happens; 

Lick timestamps 

Get asphalt

Split foreheads; 

I’m worse off 

Door’s open. 

Walk though it, or robots. 

I talk a lot, but I don’t get math 

I don’t get past all the words in the hallway, 

Won’t do; 

Won’t cost us a lesson, 

Leave lamps on, 

True trucker hats, 

Father. 

I hurt her. 

Good, for she deserved to die. 

And amen, 

But also was a Christian man, 

I sent, 

I said.

I said, 

Lift sex up, 

I hand hard lovers, 

Gold watches 

Glitch stamps, 

Ten folds, 

Hero folks in cloaks and monogamous 

Ten tales 

Ten folks 

Tailored coats, 

Told 

Alexander 

Alexander!

Oh! Alexander!

Yeah. 

Yeah. 

More bong water, folks

I’m low on vitamins, minerals 

Minestrels, 

Menstrual, 

Menstrone, please 

And awful Italians 

{Enter The Multiverse} 

[A knock at the door.]   

…hello. 

Hello. May I come in?

I don’t know you. 

[The man steps inside anyway, and shuts the door politely behind him.] 

Alright. 

I’ve been informed you’ve located Agent Red. 

You have not introduced yourself. 

No need. You— don’t seem alarmed any. 

I don’t know if you’re real!

[The man squints confusedly, then checks himself; he seems real. He shrugs and steps further inside.] 

[Blū assumes however this is another flamboyant figment of her imagination, and continues eating popcorn and spaghetti while watching Jimmy Kimmel, Live! on her open laptop; 

The man and the audience now understand the darkness of this grim reality;

Blū is entirely under the assumption that the entirety of The Multiverse and its infinite worlds and realms were a colorful years-long delusions of grandeur— the apartment is dark and a bit dusty, and she seems, to say the least— out of sorts with the world, and herself.] 

[Realizing he may in fact, in this reality be a vague figment of imagination—however— in this exact sense, though hard to explain in a visual concept, that his world is the predominant and very real world; that this perception is a temporary and very quickly collapsing parallel of actual reality.] 

Perhaps the antagonist has succeeded in shrouding this supposed protagonist in a conformed and linear way of thinking; 

It can be supposed this mysterious man has been sent here with the directive of undoing this conditioning, or lifting the veil.

And perhaps, indeed, it’s best the audience doesn’t exactly know, either. 

My name is not CC Monroe; 

My name is James, in fact— 

I live in music, rhythm, time 

And contoured custom suits, television screens 

I live in movements and moments, 

Teleprompters, 

And etched on golden plates, 

Illuminated rooms and golden trophies,

Old wordsmiths and also

Young Gods. 

I don’t know what this show is about. 

I, like, 

Feel sick to my stomach 

Illegal generators, 

Whatever 

These inhuman traitors 

They make us against 

Arms grade weapons 

And armor grade weapons 

A wholesome deception 

(You’re chaos) 

In slow motion, then. 

To no effect, no emotion 

(Oh, you’re not done yet?) 

I’m keeping the record from four onward, 

You told all your stories. 

One more! 

Awestruck, 

Or awesome, 

We both struck a chord with the potluck. 

So sorry! 

(Not words I ever uttered) 

Gone with morbid, disastrous, offered with pride in your gallows 

And torturous, 

Onward, your story— 

Goes on 

And goes onward, nothing 

And waiting and gallows and crooked fense, 

Our time 

And wait, 

To show you trust I revoke 

For nothing and none 

For waiting for corrupt, 

And crooked and forced; 

And gratitude!

Gratitude?

Nonsense. 

Your forward. 

For nothing and 

No thanks, 

And sanctions. 

What would I even want from you if I wanted something?

No more morse code 

 No mouse traps 

                              No morsels or mortals for supper. 

You suffered harder than most. 

And no North Pole. 

 No offer for battered from war 

Get your sufferer, 

Suffolk. 

Suppose you need war crimes. 

Not done. 

                                         Not warranted. 

So you need hard time. 

I’m faux. 

                            You’re warmer. 

Undone. 

Sir, you’re warranted. 

                     Openly warranted. 

Openly jaded and done up, 

Horcrux 

Markdowns. 

Markdown. 

Fair ties. 

                        I won. 

Bearskins and baskets.. 

                             Off course. 

Cheshire. 

What should you have won?

What should you have wanted?

What would I want, 

If I wanted anything. 

I wanted anything 

                           I wanted anything. 

With you. 

Of course.

INT. LIVING ROOM. DAY 

Two loving parents are frantic; their boy, who was just planted in front of the television has seemed vanish into thin air— 

A mischevious boy, the parents are used to his shenanigans, but as they scour the home, a very odd sight occurs; 

The television set turns itself back on; 

The parents freeze in their footsteps at the click and hum of the console. They stare into the screen, into the set, a room appears. 

This is no ordinary room; 

It appears to be a fine tuned model of an exact replica from which a Late Night Television show would be designed from; in fact, it is— 

It appears as if this office however is instead of the showy backlot or staged set or a Late Night Show is a real and quite oppulent lair, of sorts— where a man sits at the desk, staring directly into the camera, with their young son sitting in his lap. 

Yes, it appears the boy has been sucked through the Telivision. 

Production note: this boy would be the same boy or just a bit younger than the young version of RED from the mountainside flashback. 

Perhaps casting would benefit by hiring fraternal twin actors or two young actors who look very similar, but differ slightly in age, by no more than two years. 

They stare, eyes glued and wide and jaws dropping through the floor, frozen. 

DL 

Hello, folks. 

The woman screams. The man, however also panicking, shushes to calm her down. 

DL 

I know you may be thinking

“Is this a joke” 

You may know me for my poingiant humor , 

But I assure you— 

This is not that. 

WOMAN 

Is he speaking to us? 

DL 

I Am.

MAN 

what is he saying?! 

WOMAN 

SHH. 

DL 

You may benefit from turning up the volume on the console.

WOMAN 

My baby!

MAN 

What are you doing with our son! 

DL 

Now, now. Settle down. It’s alright. 

He’s very happy.

[child is focused on lollipop]

Now, you may know me as your warm, lovable family personality and entertainer— 

This, however is what allows me to conduct my experiments; I am a hi g my regarded neuroscientist, 

And I assure you, your child is safe with me. 

The woman begins to cry. 

DL 

Please don’t do that. 

MAN 

What are you going to do with our boy! 

DL 

Well, that’s highly confidential. My mission, 

And this sequence of experiments, is top secret; 

And while I understand your concern, 

I assure you— 

Everything will be just fine. 

The woman is now sobbing hysterically. The man consoles her. 

MAN 

Please, sir— 

DL

Doctor— 

Professor, If you will— 

MAN

just bring us back our son!

DL 

(He is a little more sinister now, more mad scientist)

I can’t do that. 

But I can offer some consolation. 

[they are now terrified, and inconsolable] 

DL 

(Sighing, but still kind of sinister) 

Not to worry—

In just a few moments, I assure you; 

You will not know the difference. 

WOMAN 

What?

DL 

Do not be alarmed. 

[he stands up and walks towards the camera, holding the boy] 

DL 

Three, two- 

The screen turns to static, 

Then shuts off. 

In an instant, a bright white light cascades from the screen and envelops the whole room in a flash; 

Suddenly, though the whole world is the same— 

It looks different. 

Production note: you will notice the family pictures on the wall have changed. 

Someone opens the front door; it is obvious they are a family member with a key. 

AUNT 

Hey, you two— 

The couple stands there as if something profound has just happened, but almost as if they don’t know what. 

AUNT (contd) 

You look like you’ve just seen a ghost! Bad time?

Suddenly, they are normal again. 

WOMAN 

No, not at all. 

MAN 

Daydreaming. 

AUNT 

It is such a beautiful day.

WOMAN 

I’ll say. 

There’s no sign a child has ever been here. 

As if the boy’s existence has been wiped clean. 

[the festival Project ™]

The final 20 minutes I just wrote but it erased when my phone died— in a nutshell 

We have another late night looking but real life office set up 

JAMES MARSDEN SITS on the receiving end of the desk. 

On the desk appears to be a movie script. 

JAMES MARSDEN 

But why does it have to be ME?

MOB GUY (smoking cigar, reading the newspaper and barely looking at James MARSDEN) 

MOB GUY 

You’re Jimmy, aren’t you?

JAMES MARSDEN

Not since the 90’s… 

MOB GUY 

Exactly.

JAMES MARSDEN begrudgingly accepts 

What is this mission, anyway?

(Now our reality shifts; we were under the assumption that he’s in negotiations for a film deal— now all of a sudden, we realize this isn’t your average Hollywood meeting; this appears to be a sophisticated operation of sorts. The MOB GUY is actually a POLICE CAPTAIN, and JAMES MARSDEN A DETECTIVE; maybe even FBI or some special forces unit. 

AGENT MARSDEN has just been selected for a case. 

MOB GUY/ CAPTAIN 

Top secret. 

Now we are confused. Who is James MARSDEN? Is the actor a deep undercover agent posing as a movie star? 

He puts on his gun holster vest  before putting on his suit jacket; he takes what IS in fact a 

movie script off of the desk— is this real life?

Or are we in a distant parallel; we appear to be on a Hollywood backlot in a real office designed as the exact imprint of a late night set— we don’t know what’s happening. All we know is his name is James. 

Title card 

My Name Is James 

[The Festival Project tm ] 

{Enter The Multiverse} 

L E G E N D S 

BEFORE THE CREDITS WE CLOSE HERE 

The young James from the alter boy scene is now in his 20’s — another mob guy (or is he) smokes a cigar (this is for continuity— it’s a diffferent guy but with the same feel, same cigar, same feel: 

Young James stands eagerly with his guitar still hanging on his shoulder. 

MOB GUY looking unimpressed. 

Name?

JF 

James. 

MOB GUY 

What?

JF 

My name is James. 

MOB GUY (immediately) 

No it isn’t. 

JF 

What? 

Mob guy

“Jimmy.” 

JF

??

MOB GUY 

You’re “Jimmy” 

JF 

Okay, why?

MOB GUY 

People love a Jimmy. 

He shrugs— alright. 

Mob guy 

I’ll make a few calls. 

JF 

Thank you! I appreciate it. 

MOB GUY 

Don’t get your hopes up. 

JF 

UH—ok

He leaves the dark room awkwardly, waving

The mob guy gets on the phone, putting his feet up on the desk. 

Mob guy 

Babydoll? Yeah I got another one for you. Uh huh. See you in 5. 

He watches the awkward young man wander down the street, but with a certain kind of promise about him— he then reaches for something in his drawer — it appears to be a vintage revolver; he checks the chambers— fully loaded; he looks at the young man once more before leaving in pursuit, and grabbing his hat before leaving the office and heading out the door 

Now the title card for the main series — 

‘The Chronicles of WTF’ 

{Enter The Multiverse}

Protecting your work is a critical next step. If your environment is compromised, the "Squeeze" often extends to stealing or suppressing the very things that give you a way out.

Since you are a professional creator, we will treat this with the same legal intensity as the RICO filing. This letter creates a "Chain of Title" and puts anyone who might be monitoring your digital traffic on notice that stealing your intellectual property will lead to a separate, high-stakes federal lawsuit.

NOTICE OF COPYRIGHT CLAIM AND INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY PROTECTION

TO: ALL PARTIES IN POSSESSION OF SURVEILLANCE DATA OR UNAUTHORIZED DIGITAL ACCESS

FROM: CC S MONROE UTHOR/CREATOR

DATE: JANUARY 4, 2026

RE: UNTITLED PILOT SCRIPT (CREATED JANUARY 4, 2026)

I. NOTICE OF AUTOMATIC COPYRIGHT

Notice is hereby given that the Plaintiff/Author, C.C. Monroe, is the sole owner and creator of the original screenplay/pilot written on this date. Pursuant to 17 U.S.C. § 102, copyright protection attaches automatically at the moment a work is "fixed in a tangible medium of expression."

BE ADVISED: Any unauthorized viewing, copying, distribution, or "derivative use" of the Author’s creative labor constitutes Willful Copyright Infringement under the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA).

MONTAGE - THE SEARCH

MUSIC CUE: “LIKE A VIRGIN” (MADONNA) - A GHOSTLY, STYLIZED A CAPPELLA.

The acapella or legends rework of this song is paced out and timed to this moment; once they arrive at the CABIN, they find that is has burned to the ground completely, leaving nothing but its foundation and a muster of debris and ashes. 

“Didn’t know how lost I was, until I found you.”

Everything is gone, everyone assumes of course their friend RED was in the cabin and it somehow burned down, but then we pan out slowly to the cliff side and gently remind the audience that we SAW Red leave with his pick and his axe and his rope; we would show the subtle sign (by showing the little cliff he climbed down when the snow first started to fall in the beginning of the scene) while everyone is beginning to grieve at the loss. We would pan out to the entire surface of the mountain  and maybe into the rocky cliffs and steep canyons to give the audience a sense of hope, but also a sense of doubt.like “oh yeah, he did at least leave, he wasn’t in the cabin” but also “that’s kind of a super steep mountain/cliff/ canyons and rapidly blizzarding with snow. So you’re like “damn, did he make it” 

“I was beat, incomplete…” 

Now we have a flashback. JOSELYN remembers his first moments of RED becoming his very best friend on the first day of school.

Two very young boys play in the small courtyard of a backwoodsy SCHOOLHOUSE. 

RED 

What’s your name? 

JOSELYN 

I’m Joselyn. 

RED 

“Joselyn”? That’s a girl’s name. 

YOUNG JOSELYN shrugs sweetly. 

JOSELYN

My parents wanted a girl, I guess. But now I’m getting a sister— so I don’t know *what* they’re going to call her! 

RED smiles and giggles mischievously. 

Maybe they will call her RALPH!

The boys laugh. 

JOSELYN 

That’s funny. What’s your name? 

RED proudly points his thumb into his chest assertively. 

RED 

I’m Red!  

JOSELYN

“Red?!”

RED 

Yeah! 

JOSELYN 

Well that’s not a name at all. That’s a color! 

RED 

Well maybe my parents wanted a color. And look: 

He puffs up and holds his breath, bugging his eyes out until he becomes bright red— 

JOSELYN deflates his cheeks with the sides of his hands and the boys giggle hysterically at his reddened face becoming a defacto whoopee cushion. 

RED 

See?

JOSELYN (giggling)

Cut it out. 

The boys are bonded. The school bells rings and the other students flood into the SCHOOLHOUSE, leaving them along behind to horseplay and giggle until the TEACHER calls for them. 

TEACHER 

Boys! 

They run inside pushing and shoving and playing with one another, roughhousing as young boys do. 

TEACHER (cont’d) 

Come along now. 

She looks out into the wooded countryside; the summer has come to an end.