The Secret Life Of Sunnï Blū

'damaged goods'

Collection 1.1 - 'actuality'

Track 01. 'damaged goods'

Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

(as Happy Accidents)

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't hit this

What makes you think you can?

I just too fan(dom) (dumb)

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

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 — available.

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 decades 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.

blink. (instrumental)

Collection 1.1 - 'actuality'

Track 05. 'blink' (instrumental)

Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

“Wonderful”, I mouthed silently, without the voice or the actual words for movement. I needed the laughter, and it had been long since I had actually laughed, or done much at all besides cry and wonder what the fuck I was going to actually do with my life, or what was to become of me.

I held the book out to my side with one hand, the page still held with my thumb at the end of the chapter and beginning of the next, contemplating reading more— it would be an unknown amount of time before I would be here again—having fasted and walked the equivalent of what might be about 8 or 9 miles, worked out for an hour, and sweated out whatever might have been left with a soak in the tub. I was empty, closer to the divine than not, and feeling okay—not painfully hungry, but I knew that forgoing food would mean missing out on work that needed to be done, that I had been promising for months would be done, and finally was, however at a pace which only further exacerbated my anxiety further; I would only be able to focus on getting some soul-sucking, meaningless dead end job once I knew it was finished—otherwise, I knew it would be impossible to do anything; the algorithm had deemed it so that whatever I was doing, whatever I was writing, was more important than money.

“That was it.” I confirmed with another silent thought, grasping the rose quartz in my left hand and raising the book with me as I crossed into the kitchen—the new addition of the couch saw to it that I had an actual living room, and though not separate from the kitchen, it was in fact a place that I could sit and read the many books I had collected one at a time—or two, for the moment. I couldn't wait to finish the page-turner I had been unable to put down for something like a week before I started this one.

The frozen banana that I had forgotten I removed for the teeter in preparation to eat after a day of strenuous exercise and fasting had melted—luckily, I had frozen two of them at once, suddenly with the life force of something forgotten after my first cup of coffee in nearly three days—three days too long, and I realized my dependence on caffeine was just about as unhealthy as what was normally a constant roar of illegal immigrants on even sufferably equally illegal mopeds, as so said by the NYPD themselves, who had been blatantly useless at actually apprehending the assailants—nevertheless, at least I knew that there was a reason for the heavy exhaustion in the first place, overcompensating from the noise and civil unrest below with additional pots of coffee throughout the late afternoon and even evenings, in an attempt to sort though what would even take some writers rooms weeks or maybe even months. However, my writing and various works were even yet unfit to behold by the eyes of others—that is, besides my shadow of a podcast audience, the cult following I had gained piggybacking shamelessly uncrossing a line that had been crossed by the notorious entertainment industry itself, probably as a foreshadowing of what potential I could have, if left alone, fed, and sheltered for the right amount of time.

I might have even finished by now if it weren't for the motorcycles; maybe that was the point. Maybe there was no point besides that most men are immature, useless babies; that their pride in destruction and chaos serves purpose for them to just as well be destroyed eventually themselves.

Either way, I had at the very least gained a few wholehearted laughs—and now it was time to break fast. 10:00 PM, prime time for making music, but there were other important tasks at hand in order to be able to do so—and I needed the focus of a full stomach and peace of mind to do so. The peace of mind, I wasn't sure where to find—but my fridge was stocked full of food to ease the ache of an empty stomach with fruits I had been craving for days and vegetables I had collected throughout the week; errands which tasked me even further with the time to sort through the massive endeavor of making my work somehow out of thin air create an income; I had been working tirelessly for months when my food stamps were cut for ‘not complying with worth requirements' without notice. I only had one pair of wearable harems and a closet full of fashionable outward I refused to walk around in; I was fussy, and looking for a mate, not some crispy fuckboy buzzing around on a motorcycle; those days were over. Besides, the guys on Harley's were potbellied slags at best—someone else's problem, and also mine, at least sometimes. Men and their incompetence had surely set the world into a state of imbalance so deep and so heavy, it would have to take God being a woman to correct it.

Nature needs Nurture.

Now 30 rock was the obvious choice.

—-

It's getting deeper.

Now I had to keep Tina Fey's book in the bathroom— the bathmat I ordered was actually more yellow than gold and differed drastically from the picture in the description, and it looked cheap and bizzare in contrast to the classy shimmering sequins silver and black curtain and stainless steel trash can which matched perfectly. I wasn't sure where it would end up—it did have the same yellow, and so I placed the book and the rug within sight of eachother, so that it gave the illusion of being matched.

The curtains I bought but had used separately for window coverings and as garnish for the makeshift bookshelf in the studio—I hadn't any real curtains—the windows and walls were lined with sound absorbing audio panels, even in the kitchen where I seldom recorded, but had been plummeting through assortments of other work nonetheless, not to mention my resting recipes which were meant to be entries into an eventual cookbook, which I'm sure would come together now more quickly. The cover of the book matched the strange yellow, and rather than silver and gold it was now mismatched and looked cheap; but the bathmat could at least stay until I finished the book— which would admittedly probably be quickly; I had made it to halfway through the first book in less than a week—my first near cover-to-cover read, which if I hadn't picked up Ms. Fey's book— Ms. Fey? It sounded weird— wasn't she married?

She did seem like some sort of a fairy though— a teeny, tiny pixie type lady with Godlike powers. She was some sort of God, to me, at least, I was sure of it—and probably to others. Weeks, or maybe even some months now before, reading tentatively though her Wikipedia page, I scanned over her numerous accolades—some which I hadn't even heard of, and within the first few chapters of her book, which I had picked up on an extremely strong whim to scoop out the little local library down the street, which I had admittedly decided to clear out the last two days selfishly so—but also according to Wikipedia, people weren't really reading anymore; besides that, the books seemed almost meant for me, intentioned at me with titles and colors that leaps out from the covers and pages, and some brand new. I took love in all the ways I could get—and this was one of them.

It was certainly yellow and not gold. I was disappointed, but otherwise didn't care much. Now I had a reason to keep the book in the bathroom— as there certainly wasn't really any room for anymore books anywhere—and this book was special. I just didn't know why.

I wondered often enough what makes someone so explicitly famous— sometimes, as it turned out, it was the effect or affect of hard work, talent, sheer grit, and an unknown amount of luck which seemed to vary from person to person.

With Tina Fey, though she had been written into my own project primarily as Liz Lemon some years ago, I never knew exactly what I was looking at— but now that I was reading word for words a book first handedly written by one of my own favorite people, I knew that it had been something of a personal favor from God herself— something I didn't know I wanted or even knew existed at all— and laughs I needed.

I shamelessly dangled and gushed at the book, and split my attention between the two I had so far been captivated by most— the other, memoir written by a twenty something uptown drag queen. Now I could try to collect myself into a proper person somehow, reading these works alongside writing my own, and conspiring to somehow finish not just the two originally intended music albums, but something that was actually altogether more like 4 or 5, if I could wrap my brain around counting them. I couldn't, though, right now. All I could do was soak in the tub, chugging water and reading a book, trying not to cry that the only money in the world I had were two crinkled up dollar bills in a coffee can and some change inside of a beautiful wooden box I had found on a jog through Brooklyn.

{Tales of a Superstar DJ}

Oh My, God—Tina Fey! Hi!

I—uh—yeah.

It's so nice to finally meet you.

Hm.

I—I was the hot water heater in your book!

what's that supposed to mean.

Did I read it.

Working on it.

Am I in it?!

Why would you be?

I don't know! Am I?

Just— give me a few—

How long is that?! What's a few?!

How about a montage?

CUT TO:

THESE BOOTS ARE MADE FOR WALKEN.

And that's—JUST—what they'll DO!

And—

One of these—days—

These boots—

Are gonna WALKEN

Ova U.

Nancy Sinatra is still f#cking weird.

I must admit, i feel personally attacked.

OH, GOD.

OH NO.

This is certainly the thing you do not want,

When trying to erase someone entirely from existence.

Or at the very least…

Jesus fucking Christ.

…thinking about something in any sort of way.

This.

…and again.

Is most certainly what you don't want.

My walls are closing in,

full figured artifact of closure,

And in fact I exaggerated the fact of circumstance

Because I had to

Because I had to

What, am I on in the other room?

Supersonic as we all were,

By the millions and by the numbers

The simple heart attack was won,

The hearty breakfast,

Stripes were earned

And not a one tear shed after

–but my head hurts

But my head hurts.

You started it.

I did not; but I most certainly will finish it.

Quiet, they're coming.

Quiet the children;

Ready the talleys,

Count all the votes,

And stable your alters;

Didn't I warn you?

(I warned her!)

Didn't I warn you?

(I was warned)

Didn't I warn you?

(Why didn't you warn us?)

Cause I wanted to

I wanted to

I wanted to hurt you.

Well–dammit!

What. what happened?

#villain battle

I can't kill you.

What? Why not?

It's–it's in my contract.

lol damn what kind of contract did this dude sign?

Lol idk tho.

This could be progressive,

But instead it's cynical

A wizard and a mystic

should make some interesting kids, though

Another lesson timber, timbre all the violinists

And the brass section is fascinating,

Rather–

More percussion

DId you mean this?

I meant everything I ever–

*sneezing*

*DIDN'T*

Say.

Gazuntite.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

no vocals yet :( still having major issues with the noise. hopefully will be able to record soon- actual music lol more than just talking. hopefully.

take car tho. ^.^ more mixes coming soon.

Get away from me.

I'm a hologram.

Far away, please

I am very far from you–

Well get further.

I'm in another dimension actually.

What do you want, dude?

I always finish what i start.

What the fuck does that mean?!

How should I know?! You wrote it!

Then how are you gonna finish it?

That's not what I meant.

Then what did you mean?!

Look! I don't know! All I know is, I did a movie and you wrote it!

Just one movie or a whole saga!

I don't know! Just write it!

So you know some things, but not the most important ones.

If I could see through all the plot holes, there'd be no drama

It's all drama.

It can't be.

Yes it can.

NO! There has to be some comic relief in it.

What would that consist of.

I don't know! I am a HoLoGrAm.

A hologram, huh?

Uh huh.

So what happens if I touch you?

I wouldn't do that.

Oh yeah?

*poke*

Ok…

YOU'RE NOT A HOLOGRAM AT ALL.

Hm.

I'm sick of subliminal images

encrypted with ignorant messages

Suggesting the supremacy of the caucasians

And how blatant it is that they hate us

Illusions of diversity and inclusions to get your money: the usual

But the truth is, you're just a tool to them

Employee discounts, of course

Just so they can get some of their money back

Or all of it

Owners of corporations

Your landlord is probably related to the people that you work for

And so forth

I'm sure that's why they're trying to push me to suicide before I record this

And move forward with

Something other than working for them

Unless it's at banana republic, a luxury brand

Cause i'm sick of looking like a poor foreigner in my own country

When the reality is my ancestors are unhappy

Karen, Becky and Annie are all happy with nannies

And the rest of us are out here taking naps on ou break

And unpaid mental health days

It's Hell for the unwealthy

And wealth is health so good luck eating what you need

On an hourly

Or salary under 150,000

But what do I know?

I'm suicidal eating whole foods

That i stole

The whole story is longer, but honestly I been trying to get a job

That doesn't involve me jumping off of something or

Counting someone else's money as they siphon all the energy from me

I gotta wonder how much The Roc was auctioned off for

Cause landlord and employer are just the modern words

For “Slave Owner”

DANE COOK: “I WANT A DIVORCE.”

But that was a long time ago,

I heard he was in love with a 20 year old or something

So much for the rest of us:

Here's to Tiesto and the rest of em

Guys are so fucking lucky for never having to grow up

Guys like girls that comb their hair constantly

I like guys with blue eyes and blonde hair

Not so suddenly,

But i should have learned my lesson a long time ago:

Now i”m crying my eyes out to Claptone

WRiting rap songs trying to take my mind out the trap

Rats are assholes

Watch coffee run just to be closer to someone or something i love

But haven't talked to my son in a month or over,

Cause i”m sick of hearing about his father

It's all he talks about

It's like I don't even know em

So morbidly obese I can't even hold him

I think

I guess i could have stayed in it

And kept getting my face caved in

Hoping a rave day every now and again would save me

Ironically i don't believe in a white savior

But i find caucasians savory,

Every shade and flavor

But rocky road hits close to home

THrow me a milk bone and let me sober up

Before I start to open up about Sonny or something

Just another figment of my pigmented imagination

Lived in pigpens beggin pigeons to grant my wishes

Which is a kitchen–can't be a Grammy Award,

I give in

I lost interest, i'm just not skinny enough for

Nevermind, don't need another reason to cry

On the upper east side, avoiding the housing projects

Just wanting to be discovered

Or finish the festival project

Or for someone to love or want

Anything other than money or energy

It's infinite,

but with every cough i forget

coughs must be a witch and just as obsessed with Skrillex as

Everyone is

He lives in my head

I would say my bedroom, but

I'm a permanent resident at Hotel Hell No

–knowing that last line would be funny if I didn't have to cover 3 burroughs just to

get old food

From whole foods

Cause nothing adds up in a cold room,

that's renovated, which makes it easier to take it all in,

Until i realize I'm the problem, and the coffee stains are setting in

And i just wish the whole world would start over again

With me on top of it

Instead of at the bottom

Of a pyramid

With a flat top

I took off from

Upon discovering

The entire human race is

Racist, and they just

Don't get it

I'm the Great Spirit,

But hate hearing my mixes

Cause it's irritating

I'm not gifted

enough for INsomniac to sell tickets

To any event

Forget it,

I'll finish this salad and knock myself unconsious

for as long as humanly possible

Leave my body

At the hospital

And listen to Gospel with God

Then watch Kim Possible in awe of

The long lost

Christy Carlson Romano

I love Broadway

Or did once

–then wake up

Put a fake smile on

Like i ate mcdonalds

Then ran ten miles to get it off of me

Like it isn't impossible

It's not at all,

–but in my body?

Lol

stop .

What happens when you give a mouse a cookie?

What happens when a legendary artist turns into a hologram

And comes for you?

Uhhh.

What happens when you have no food and go to whole foods with one dollar?

I don't know.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū

want to know! (she's the queen) [interlude]

Collection I- 'better off dead'- Track 02.

'want to know.' (she's the queen) [interlude]

Prod. By Blü Tha Gürū

I live in a luxury building, but there's still a pest problem.

The thing about segregation and racism in New York City is that it's blatant and quite obvious.

The nicer areas are well kept and clean, quiet; areas for the whites.

The dirty, trash strewn and dilapidated, overcrowded areas–for the blacks, ad anybody who looks like them.

That's not to say that there aren't some of whichever on either side–

But for the most part–

If it looks like a dump, everyone's black.

And if it's clean and well kept, everyone's white.

So much for progression.

You could say my neighborhood –or, the neighborhood itself–is kind of in the middle:

But the pest problem persists at ground level.

I keep my apartment sparkling clean.

–but some how–these things keep trying to force their way in.

Or simply–force me out.

Either way, I'm moving up.

The Complex Collective © is committed to serving the independent artist community by providing a safe and welcoming environment, performance opportunities, rehearsal spaces, and outlets in which they can grow, enhance their skills and master their craft, and create bonds with one another, by providing a community and protecting the mental health, promoting health, fitness, and wellbeing, while committing to improving the livelihoods of struggling artists by means of providing access to clean, organic nutrition, (The Starving Artist Foundation temporary emergency shelter and resources for battered women (Off The Map), and allowing safe, tech-free and low-tech spaces, chill out rooms, light and sound therapy during winter, and seasonal theater productions, live showcases, and art exhibits and installations by at-risk, homeless, independent and full time artists committed to the passionate perusal of their unique dreams and goals, in every artistic endeavor imaginable.

The complex collective is open to writers, musicians, graphic and visual artists, filmmakers, fashion designers, spiritual enthusiasts, world travelers, and others seeking a safe space to bond, heal, and create through collaboration, exploration, and self improvement.

Created as a warehouse project based in Brooklyn New York, The Complex Collective as a non profit seeks to encompass a large warehouse space which will serve as a multi-use facility which includes a kitchen and food pantry, dance floor/event space, black box theater, cafe/ small stage, fitness spaces (Yoga/Dance) Boxing Club, and media room designed to open the minds of artists to a bustling Mecca of creativity and opportunity. The space will be used to hold flea markets, host seminars, community meetings, and lectures, as well as provide an operational and practical multimedia space to screen films, stage plays, musicals, and other theatrical productions, as well as host musical events and artists, such as DJs and live bands, poetry readings, dance recitals and other community geared events.

[The Festival Project ™ ]

You smell like a dental office.

Must be my oral fixations.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

abstrakt.

Collection I - 'better off dead'

Track 04 - 'abstrakt.' (beat/instrumental)

Prod. By Blü Tha Gürū

I smell testosterone;

The taste of nostalgia

Thought of a tune

From a tune

I had wondered before

That i'm better alone,

But no worries

I call california

No resignments

I had assigned myself this watch

From a throne

I could tale the tune, adorner

My attention,

I have no more artifacts

He don't hesitate, no!

She don't want no primetime players!

He don't call her back, Oh no

Lord,

She don't give him no false numbers

It's at a standoff,

No calls, no texts

Shit,

He's on a roll, doc!

She don't want no more one and onlys

She don't want no one and onlys

Only good times!

Unh!

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

For the first time in a long time,

Or at least sort of a long time,

I seriously considered suicide,

And all jokes aside, it almost seemed like the only option for someone in my predicament

In my mind—

I would never be white,

I would never be liked—

And I would never have the chance of getting my projects into the right eyes

Or heard by the right ears.

The sounds of motorcycles made me want to die.

I didn't want anything at all-

Not music, not even love

That is,

Besides being quietly held from behind.

I felt like I was suffocating.

Exercising was no longer enough.

There was no such thing as love or time.

I wasn't losing my mind, so much as my patience for mankind.

Money ruins everything. Especially not having any.

I just be fun to torture.

How many versions of the Truman show are running right now?

My entire generation under the guise of the American Dream, fighting to be famous,

stars in our eyes and fame for sale at a certain price:

What was the price?

For some, precious bodies would prove to be fare fortune.

For others, sheer luck—

—and some—

Inherited funding provided by l the indoctrination of the inequality and social warfare —not so simply just black and white, but rich and poor.

(™)

Goddammit!

Don't god damn it—that's an ejaculatory prayer!

#focus shifting

GODDAMMIT!

…well, okay.

‍♀️

So they like—

—uh huh—

they have a whole AI for you and everything?

I've just been made aware.

You look proper pissed off.

I am very angry, yes.

Awareness is the first step

That's kinda creepy.

So I mean.

I found it no coincidence at all,

That no matter how many combinations I tried,

My Amazon cart became equal to

Exactly that,

Or just under or over

What amounted to be a total of

Whatever was in my bank account.

And that was when I knew,

That it was entirely unsafe,

To allow the algorithm to understand

Exactly what you had

Or how much of it—

As things would always be adjusted.

With the intention

Of making sure

You were left

With nearly nothing

At all

Telekinesis turned teleportation—

Don't panic.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

The obnoxious obese man who drove the loud motorcycle up and down the street was obviously a very weak man—and he wanted the world to know it. His loud and obnoxious roaring must have overcompensated for his sloppy, fat and sagging body, which hung over the seat and sides of the motorcycle—the excessive revving of the engine must have been to let the world know that this was his power—having earned the money to ride a motorcycle; but in all other ways he was obviously lost, his slothemly and gluttonous blob of a body almost making the oversized Harley look like a play bike, his tiny penis probably covered to its top in whale blubber; he clearly had no other way to feel powerful, besides of course— being the leader of a gang of mindless peasant monkeys, who all would do anything for their own bikes—monkey see, monkey do.

Perhaps his obesity to the third world unthinking drone slaves was a sign of his dominance—or they lived in fear that he would eat them.

Obesity aside, it was his force of obnoxious harassment that had deaignatedhim as an obviously insufferably weak subhuman— much like a bully who dealt with his own faults by terrorizing others, such was the man with the Harley.

There was nothing impressive about him besides his bike—and since he had abused that with such outright offense, even that made him look stupid.

He raced his engine as if to say “look at ME! I have arrived!” But after actually glimpsing at the blob, it was hard to not laugh at it. He was hard to miss anyway, and probably should have opted for a truck or some sort of SUV to hide his intolerant and debilitating self-inflicted illness— the inability to control when and how much to eat, or how to do anything besides ride up and down the street on a motorcycle—perhaps a walk could do some good; in definite need of a jog, and a strict diet. I was embarrassed for him, and most people who weren't so obviously diseased and more in the like of self indulgent and lazy—I had once been like them, but no longer, and first and foremost I believed in respecting my neighbors, treating others as I wished to be treated. I wished to live in a quiet and safe neighborhood, but the obnoxious morbidly obese man alone was a symbol of the disasterous mark capitalism had made on the American empire—lazy, docile, greedy, potbellied idiots accounted for all too many of the world. I knew that with the desire to change, that one could change—now to force myself to believe that with the desire to succeed in something, one could succeed—I was at least trying. But the weak and uncontrolled idiots spawning from holes in the underworld and buzzing around like the pests and roaches they were reminded me that if anything, these imbiciles were decent at almost nothing but breeding other fucking idiots.

Hopefully, one day my own blood would grow up to want to work out with me, eat well, and change from appearing as his weaker half— lazy, obese idiot just the same as these, however—at the very least, the roaches were fastidious. They buzzed around under the illusion that working for the American system would grant them anything besides a motorbike and some fresh looking street wear, the attention of girls too stupid to understand that 99% of men simply weren't worth wasting time with or on, and unknowing to this or their own worth, would still do it anyway,

Some of the bikers had girls on the back; I always felt bad for the girl on the back of the motorcycle rather than jealous—I would rather be at the helm of the thing, riding it for myself.

Then, thinking back to a time before I realized how crowded cities were, sighting that there should be laws against loud vehicles in urban areas such as this— there was at lot more open road than not in LA—highways, that is, and bikes were easy to maneuver through heavy traffic. New York was another story—congested, overpopulated, and now filled with a disease which added to its decay at a quicker rate than ever. The illegal immigration crisis was much like a rodent or insect infestation, but harder to control—one simply could not exterminate millions of actual humans, and yet, the problem was still the same— this was a disease, a pest infestation, as most of the immigrants weren't working, but simply subsisting on the taxpayers dollars they were allocated and finding ways not to work; they were parasites, many of them set to explode with more parasites. We had indeed been infiltrated, and made to pay for it, both in restlessness, and in dread. Culturully inept to most decencies as even the crudest Americans had been bred with, many although not all roamed around like feeble minded children in brand new Nike wear, munching on fast food and candy as if guests to some kind of amusement park—however, to the thoroughbred tax paying Americans, this was no amusement; it was a distressing, eye opening wake up call that something had gone terribly wrong, on the already overworked working class' time and hard earned money. It might have seemed cold and calloused to think of them as rodents—but, always observant, I also much believed in calling a duck a duck; most of them were not respectful, pushed and shoved, threw trash everywhere— and left their minor children to roam about or even put them to work, unaware of what child labor laws were; they used their unborn children as anchors to be able to stay where neither they were truly welcome or belonged, bloating the welfare system and benefitting from funds that had been laid to them with taxpayers dollars.

The United States of America had its own problems, and its own citizens being overlooked, once again the needs of continually systemized blacks and other minorities falling victim to this new wave of people to care for.

The capitalists had sold out the working class once and for all—the immigrants needed to go, and probably would, eventually tiring of the unattainable American dream we all had been sold, but they had been gimmicked into attempting to create— all to supplement an oncoming election. An election which really gave the people no choice at all, besides gawking, debating ignorantly about misinformation, and of course—intrinsically siding with the good old American narcissism which would force them to take the side of whoever supported who looked like them— the Latino vote was obviously an important factor—and of course the polished machismo and Latin pride of those being supplemented by the income of their friends and relatives come to stay, though unknowingly, chunks of money out of their own tax paying pockets, would vote for the most lenient immimigration plans—probably the safest bet, the presidential office mere puppetry at all anymore. However, it had been obvious that the Right has set The Left up for disaster by allowing the black to have been shifted blue—though the rational explanation for the reallocated funding fell directly and logistically to the right. The Oval itself, empty and the actual control belonging to the wealthiest billionaires and corporations whose hopes of the thousands of migrants becoming their corporate slaves had mostly backfired terribly. With any hope, many of them would take what they could, and travel back below the border where life was simple, food was fresh, and without need to play the part of the facade of the American dream—no need for the material goods and fashionable street wear supplied by the American taxpayers—no need for iPhones and all of the decorations the taxpayers had supplemented for them—no need to live up to the ridiculous standards of actually being an “American”, which in reality, by now meant working so much that there was no peace, there was no rest, and there was no real freedom—and as a working class or poverty level citizen, having to compensate for everything and everyone around you, always working harder for less— and purposely being kept back and behind as the wealthy elite closed their circles tighter, shutting out the ugly, the brown and black, and those deemed unworthy out of their precious world.

{Enter The Multiverse}

Secret President

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

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.

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.