[The First Episode] (Season 6- Act Iii, Part I)

THE LEGEND OF SUPACREE LEGENDS GERALD'S WORLD OWSLA CONFIDENTIAL: THE INFINITE SKRILLIFILES ENTER THE MULTIVERSE DEATHWISH ASCENSION THE SECRET LIFE OF SUNNÏ BLŪ SCARY MONSTERS & SUPACREE THE INSOMNIAC &MORE FROM [The Festival Project.™] SEASON 6 ACT III Part I MONTAGE: Clique, Cruel Summer Kanye West, JAY-Z & Big Sean EXT. DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES. BROAD ASS DAYLIGHT SUPACREE has unlocked 100% Of her ABILITIES GOD MODE UNLOCKED SUPACREE EXITS EQUINOX FITNESS CLUB AT LIGHTSPEED, Hitting the pavement with swift force, splitting into three dimensional selves; SUNNI BLŪ to her left and A MYSTERIOUS, unknown ALTER EGO to her right, she shifts quickly to the beat of the music, morphing into and out of parallels of the outer world, opening and closing portals, and encapsulating anything and everything within her force field—which happens to be the whole of GREATER LOS ANGELES. Damn. If I put my heart inside a box; Maybe I'd forget how cold it was Or how far you are Or how much it hurts There's no harm in God, If there ever was one Then, reality sets in: God was my only friend No armor on, I'm at the end Of a long, long walk I'm off again And on again Nothing's impossible— stop at the alter and scoff a bit I left my coat on, I left my heart on the rooftop, A sacrifice, love At the alter, I wonder a song, Or a sonnet A song, No, what's wrong? Something's off a bit God, I woke up in a coffin once Isn't that awful? The rest or the song wrote itself, At the alter No, I can't stop and talk Got to get off, Cause I've never been on I've never belonged in the world What have we done? This is bad, brother. That's a construct. Everything's a construct! Get ahold of yourself. Get ahold of—you know what? I do know. You think you're fuckin' clever. I am clever. You're a sick man. That's my business. Yeah, well—you made it my business. I am you. What a concept. *construct. God, help you! [sideways evil smirk] Hehe. SPAM! ON TACOS! BUTTERS Oh—Jesus! WHO PUTS SPAM ON TACOS?! A smart man. C'mon, Butters. We gotta get lost in the sauce before we try this out. I'MMA TRY IT OUT. OK. GOD, OH, GOD, PLEASE— MERCIFUL GOD IN HEAVEN— (WhT.) JUST— DON'T LET IT BE SKRILL AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. Fuxk. What. She took the train. Which fucking train. I don't know. The train. THE A TRAIN, or the B TRAIN?! HEY. WHAT, you motherfucking idiot? I THINK I LOVE YOU. Well, stop thinking. Ok. JIMMY FALLON THE COSMIC AVENGER has been kidnapped— He's like 50 years old. He's been dad-napped. —by the MOB. The MOB?! He's into some dark shit. Wait, he is?! In this series. He has been tied to a chair, which sits under a single spotlight in a shabby, dark room in NEW JERSEY. Ew, New Jersey. JIMMY THE MOBSTER Hi, Jimmy— JIMMY FALLON —uh—hello. JIMMY THE MOBSTER I'm Jimmy. JIMMY FALLON Oh, that's ironic. [beat] JIMMY THE MOBSTER I'm gonna kill you, Jimmy. GOD If I give you a serious role, how are you gonna handle it? JIMMY FALLON like a pro. GOD don't lie to me, Jimmy. JIMMY FALLON What?! I'm not! My body, heart, mind, and soul was being attacked— I had 15 minutes to vacate the property and couldn't even focus—I had to use the bathroom so badly it hurt my soul. I was pacing back and forth, choking back ugly tears—the rude man in the room across the way still occupying the bathroom which I needed, both to clean and relieve myself—but it had been hell, after all, and needs like these had been proven to be in short supply. Fuck. This is a gun to your head. Just do it. [he moves the pistol into her mouth] Now it's in your mouth. [she unhinges her jaw to open it wider, never breaking eye contact and relaxes; he studies his hand on the grip of the tripper, ready to lill] You'll die today. [A comfort; as she relaxes, he as well changes—this seems to take the fun of killing away from him, he exacts the gun from her mouth] CONT'D You like that? I love it— You're dead, bitch! Yes, I am! A penniless whore. Whores get paid— Then, even less— What's less than this? A dead bitch. Think again. I don't think, I just shoot; Sounds like a man. Oh, I am. Then kill me with your hands. Jesus Christ, man. He can't help. No one can help you. So just shoot. [he can't] SUNNI. )&2&;@2@2$ YOU ARE OUT OF CONTROL. SUCK MY DICK. AGHHJJJ. Well. TMZ is here. This is a disaster. NEXT, WE LEARN: THE Oh my God. WhT. This is probably the worst thing I've ever written. Not the worst. Nope: it is the worst. Maybe it's just bad on paper. It's bad no matter how you — CONTROL, JANET PRIVACY. Here. Wtf is this. LEGENDS: FAME SCHOOL Christopher Walken was one of my professors in fame school For acting? For music. For music? That doesn't make any sense. Please, don't make me explain this. A FACE BATTLE CHRISTOPHER WALKEN vs. SUPACREE -_- —__^ *_- ^__\ \__/ *_* >< … —-__—- Ok. Alright. Show me what you got. SUPACREE plays a beat. You know where this is going. We all know where this is going. CHRISTOPHER WALKEN that was OK. “OK”?! Yeah. *shrugs* OK. You know what— You know what it needs? …what's it need? —-more cowbell. I beg your pardon. Please, don't beg. It was perfect. It was OK. You're not OK. —maybe I'm not. You're definitely not. —know what helps? Don't tell me: More fucking cowbell. Lol. ⅔ ain't bad. Wait, two out or three?! Which one didn't I— —FUCK. What, what happened? They're onto me. THE BAMPHERAMPS, MOTHERFUCKING BAMPHERAMPHS, and THE ASCENDED MASTERY has assembled in NEW YORK CITY to stage a coup. It's a coup d'état. There sure is a lot of French shit over here. Well yeah, it's Paris. Wait. What, what now? If SUPACREE is in Paris. NIGGAZ. Right—then— Who the fuck are they chasing in New York. [just waking up] Why am I in New York? WHOOPI GOLDBERG you got anyplace else to be? …no. MEANWHILE, IN ROME. Fanculo! Really, dude. Apparently. A tear in my head; A rip in my soul, And the fabric of— Coming undone at the whole; I make sense of it all at the alter, The fall; To have fought in the war, And then lost, or to suffer at all Love was lost, I was never a martyr— Blood on the cross, And the crossroads, The frost and the stardust, “There's no God” For the honorable, Stuck in New York, But defrosting my toes, At the forefront I haven't once wondered or thought Of the love that I was, Since I stopped throwing rocks at the church Or got off on the wrong stop; What a puzzle, To jump off, Or rot in the heart of The hub— World of wonders, A mother of suns, Never wanted a daughter so much Unpunishment, Loved was the Duchess; To carry a crutch or a cross— So unbothered, untouched, So heartless and dark, For the marksman—a spark Or the dog does not bark At the horses You're in the clear, hero. Heartless, she was! Now, now—settle down. This is an absolute outrage. Is it, now? I say so! Maybe you shouldn't. Faro, a word, I've got three. I'll go first. [a smug look] What's happened here? A ressurection, sir. Care to explain? I said ‘three.' Where's the King? My palms grew numb as my throbbing heartache welled up into the back of my throat and sat perched up against my growling stomach, stuffed with beans and rice, perhaps to fill the sadness or satiate my need for protein, either one. ASCENSION If you're going to vomit, step away from me. —I'm not sick. Actually, step out of my house. This is your house? —I live here. —no one lives here. What did you think it was? an elaborate cave. It is—an elaborwte cave— —excuse my ignorance. You're excused entirely. —I appreciate that. I meant, from here. You should go. Faro, wait. No more waiting; you were uninvited. Trust me—this visitation is more necessary than voluntary. That's—a lot of words. I don't speak caveman. Just—get out. Listen: No more listening— It's about C'esme't. It always is. This is important. It always is. It concerns you. It always does. —? Wait. [a heavy sigh] [a long silence] Come with me. FARO leads GÍAN towards the back of his quarters. Close the door. I— what? Nevermind. You're useless. Ehrm—excuse me. Excused, your majesty. FARO opens a SECRET PASSAGEWAY into a FUTURISTIC CORIDOR, leading GÍAN into a vast FORTRESS. balls. Uh. My stomach in knots And my life is in ruins Constellations all gone, And my heart, on the border of hurt— And mistrust So unlovable, loveless— Promises, scars and the art was devoured Ah— she was awful; Ah—she must have lost her mind God, she was homeless, And loveless, And wild eyed All that I wanted, Was to get lost in the lobby, Before the whole ball dropped —and watch the false phropet Collide wirh the comet Stop: I lost God at the crosswalk, The punishment was Homeless Now watch this: This is what I wanted: Doesn't really matter now, Does it? Oh, doesn't it. God, this is Lucifer. Son, it's an honor. No God for a mother, who walks on her own. Now it's over or under. It's over. It never got started. I locked up my heart with the piñata. How irrelevant. How awkward. How curse words turn to mantras. How I have half a heart Or, like ⅓ We're being honest, now. I thought Illuminati wanted hotties and Caucasians. Well, I guess that'll explain, Why you've been stuck inside a cage, then. NICK CAGE is an extremely skilled time traveler. Ok. WHOOPI GOLDBERG has freed herself from the cage in which SUPACREE had skillfully trapped the OWL OF THE GOLDEN EYE. WhT a prophecy. MEANWHILE, AT HOGWARTS. HOGWARTS, 2023. ANANDAR is HEADMASTER. Ah, fuck. I'm gonna puke. All I wanted was to shamelessly watch the man's balls swing like a pendulum... Well, here's this instead. Oh no, it's Skrillex. Now you have to— —now I have to watch this. Why. Cause I've already seen that. I hate you. I hate you. SOLD, to the lady in red. Damn. Slavery is cool. Yeah, I guess. FUCK. What. Idk. BITCH. GET OUT THE BASEMENT; I'm in the attick What you think this is? Lights, camera, action: Now that attractions been well established I should get back to it, I'm in the attic Lighting up matches, Fixin my holes up with patches Callin it classic Call me an asshole, I can't be mad man, I am a mad man, I bring the mask back To Handle a trash can Get out the basement. I told you he could dance. A GIANT DRAGON Oh shit, here it comes. FIRE. DILLON FRANCIS I Well. We're gonna die. DILLON FRANCIS II If she throws up, I get a pickle. DILLON FRANCIS III That's a deal. DILLON FRANCIS II And if she cries, I get a French poodle named Angelina Jolie. DILLON FRANCIS III Righteous. DILLON FRANCIS II Yur damn right. A GIANT DRAGON FLIES OVERHEAD, SWEEPING THE SKIES WITH FIRE AND LIGHTNING. DILLON FRANCIS I (CONT'D) Yeah, we're definitely fucked. Why are you dressed like Froto. FROTO (in background, dressed exactly alike) That is offensive! SHUTTHEFUCKUP. It's the end of the world! (At least as we know it) IS THAT SKRILLEX? FIRE BREATHING DRAGON. Well, it was. What the fuck HAPPENED?! Is that its final form? Yes it is. I'll give you one million dollars. That's not enough. This card is priceless. What is this. Like a Pokémon game?! This whoops Pokémon's ass. This is LEGENDS. LIL' BIIIITZ Yo! New York is CRAZY First of all, how is it all of a sudden CLEANER THAN LA?! New York's like: here —we sent all the nasty people to LA. All better. Polarity shift! LA is gross now! New York cleaned up! The trains are nice —shit— All the trash is in BAGS. I was like “Whaaaaaaat” this is nice. What the fuck. This shit different! Unh. they exported all the nasty, crazy motherfuxkers to LA. On GOD. Cause every other psychologically twisted individual I talk to in LA is like: “I'M FROM NEW YORK” *hawks loogie, spits* Uhhhhh… I was going on a little European adventure; New York's like: “You know, you never stay long…” I'm like “There's a reason for that…welp, gotta go.” The whole universe fucked around and was like— “You know what? We like you here. Stay. “ What. “STAY.” Fuck. New York is different. Won't say I love it — But goddamn, I like it! People are rude. People are rude as fuck. I'm used to LA where people are fake nice For fuckin tips and shit, you know? Everybody's trying to get famous for something, Or something. Idk. Fake as fuck. Fake nice. Fake happy. Fake titties. Fake lips. Just fucking fake. fake everything. Everything is plastic. —and it's not tied up in garbage bags, either. It's just plastic, and trash, and piss everywhere. It's so gross. You see Venice Beach on the movies: It's all clean and beautiful, and picturesque. You get there, it's like Skid Row + Skid Row Coastal. LA has millions of homeless people everywhere. In cars, in tents. Under bridges. Everywhere. And I love LA! I really do. But it's fake. Everything is fake. New York is real as fuck. Yeaaah. Almost too real. But I like it. You don't have to fuckin fake shit. People don't say “excuse me—“ No. You're never forced to say “good morning “ before you had your coffee! Yuh! New York is doing it right. People sleep on the train— But nobody lives on that motherfucker! I was in New York like a week before the shock wore off that there were not hundreds of individuals on every train wreaking of piss and smoking crack openly—YES—illicit drug use on trains in LA is extremely casual. Everything in LA is casual. People wear pajamas to work. Yeah—that. Everyone in New York looks like they're going to eat at a five-star restaurant. Like all the time. No socks-with-slides. EW. I swore to God socks with slides was a sign of the apocalypse; I get to New York, none of that—but the cringy thing in New York is Crocs With Socs. Now mmmm we're bi-coastal. Socks-with-slides; Crocs-with-socks. Knock that shit off. TACKY. other than that, though… NY is cool. It's chic. It's fun. You gotta be careful though. You gotta watch out. I thought LA drivers were crazy. New York drivers are fucking psychotic. Pedestrians don't have the right of way. At all. If you're in a crosswalk in LA even if the light is red, people will stop and let you go. In New York you better wait for the fuckin walk sign. They will kill you. It's okay. 6 millions ways to die: choose one! Just kidding. That's some west coast shit. But I did see a whole ass mural of Snoop Dogg in Brooklyn and get slightly confused— Till I realized everything on it was the color blue, and I was deadass in the middle of Brooklyn going “What? Ohhhhh! Wait! The Crips!” “Those guys are everywhere!” Lol. Its a nation wide disorganization. Lol. Whatever. I like New York. Doing my best not to love it, So the universe doesn't balance me out by showing me what to hate about it So far, so good New York drivers don't play. I never seen a school bus drift before! DAMN. Almost got hit by a short bus. Oh, the irony. I saw a dude do a whole ass wheelie on an electric scooter. Not a moped, by the way. An electric scooter. Yup. New Yoooooork. BEDFORD AVENUE, BROOKLYN, NY. THE BAMPHERAMPHS have initiated SEQUENCE C I like New York. I gotta say. It IS like LA In the way that I know I can't live in New York if I'm not just filthy fucking rich. Cause, you know—there's still homelessness; But unlike in LA, where you just wander around, smelling like piss, begging for change— You freeze to death. A quick solution! Haha! (It's not funny.) but whatever. America. I thought I was leaving; I got trapped in the matrix. I was like “Fuck this place.” They're like: “stay! We need slaves!” I'm like FUCK. So I got stuck in New York. Ugh. At least it's a “free state” I made it north, ma! Not exactly the safest place to get stuck with no money, either, is it? Really nowhere is safe with no money. I mean, I know of some places south of the border you can live, basically free and just, you know—sleep in a hammock, sing for change and shit. Roam the beach. I know people that do that— it's just- I like showers. I don't love showers. Cause then, I'm sure God would find a way to take that away, too. I don't love anything anymore. Once you love something—it either goes away, or it burns you. Or both. Can't love things. Can't love people. No more love. Just—appreciate—things. Just—like—things, you know? Don't love anything. Speaking of suicidal tendencies. Hahah. You know what else is cool about New York? The trains actually come into the station fast enough to kill you. Like—you've had enough? Okay: here it is. Just to save you a trip to the Empire State Building. This train is coming in at 304 miles an hour and is somehow gonna stop in 3 seconds. —maybe 2 seconds, if you do jump— Better think fast! They almost come too fast, for suicide. Ready, set— Dammit. Missed it again. They're so fast. The trains in LA stopped going suicide-fast like, a couple years ago—maybe, just before the pandemic—I think. They're like “You know what! This is happening too often. I am ALWAYS late to my other two jobs ‘cause someone killed themselves on my train! Fuck!” LA's like: “Well fuck this, all the slaves are killing themselves on the trains.” “Damn, that sucks” LA's like “Yeah, okay so: here's what we do; we'll put up signs for a suicide hotline at the popular jumping points” “LA's like: okay” “And—we'll tell the train operators they gotta slow down coming into the station—“ “That'll do it!” “—that way, If they still do decide to jump, they'll just get paralyzed, and contribute to the opioid crisis: more funding for big pharma!” “Yes, it's genius!” “—unless they're black, or on Medicaid, then: we'll send em home with some ibuprofen and make sure they collect disability, so that they can become addicted to crack, or something like that —you know.” “Yes. That's perfect.” Good Job LA. I get lost in New York. I'll be on New York like “YO, WHERE THE FUCK AM I AT?” “In New York” GODDAMMIT. You know what else is weird about New York? Personal space is not a thing. I mean, “space” is not a thing at all, anyway. But “Personal space”? No. People will not only sit by you; The'll siT ON you. Yo. I had just got to New York— I had all my luggage with me— And this lady gets on the train; She's got a broom. Idk what for, but okay; She gets onto the train, She looks around, and I guess she decides she wants the seat next to me. So like I said, I have all my stuff l so I'm a little spread out, but there's room— But you know what she does? She looks me straight in the eye And then just hits me with her broom. I was like —-?!? I'm thinking, “Okay is she racist or is that just a New York thing?” Like, “you can just hit people with shit!? damn!” What's funny is, I kinda respected her for that. She was old. Didn't say a word, just “bam” Like—- ‘move!' I'm like “okay!” New York is so classy. Girls wear panty hose, and stockings. I'm like “wow, that's actually nice. That's so wholesome! Tights?! Yeah!” It's so classy. I don't think girls in LA even wear regular panties. Let alone panty hose. Get it—panty—Hoes. I see correlation. You know what else is cool about New York. It's less racist. I mean- There's so much diversity, there's almost no room to be racist. It's crazy. So many people. So many colors. So much culture. So many languages! I hear languages I can't even place. I thought I was good. I'm in LA, I'm like, “Okay, that's Chinese—“ “That's Japanese” “That's Korean” “Farsi” I get to New York— I'm in the Delicstessen. Thats another thing. Nothing like a real, New York delicatessen. That's what “deli” is short for, by the way, everyone not from New York. It's “delicatessen” Lol. Anyway. I'm standing in the Deli and I hear some shit that—I'm not gonna lie— was actually quite alarming, as a native English speaker. I'm standing there, and this guy behind me literally over my shoulder says, “Blooppnsmabhoan ammaoakb amansbaiL aannaoka snkaoakmnlblblblnlnl!!!!” I'm like what the FUCK. This isn't REAL. “Blblblana. Akakma alak Akakamaamna!” I'm shoooook. What IS that!!? I like New York. The girls aren't all evil soulless heart eating demons. They're just “regular” I have to run back to LA and tell all my guy friends, they're like “Women are evil” I'm like— “Nooo, that's just out here.” Maybe. I don't know. I like New York. I bet it's wonderful when it's warm. I don't know! Maybe that's when shit hits the fan! Maybe it's like Chicago. EVERYBODY DIES IN THE SUMMER— Who said that. Chance the Rapper, I think. I don't know. LEGENDS: FAMESCHOOL This move is called: The “Slap-Dicksuck.” [carefully taking notes] “slap-dick-suck”…okay… hmm.. Now, class. [raises hand curiously] Yes? Um. SUPACREE— —PROFESSOR SUPACREE. Um. Professor SUPACREE— Yes! Why is it called the “Slap-Dicksuck” I was about to explain that. //SLAP-DICKSUCK// NEXT: we learn THE “SLAP-DICKSUCK-SLAP” Let me guess. No, no guessing. This class is gross. I like it. Yeah, you're gross. The world is gross. Get over it. GET OVER IT, DILLON FRANCIS. *sniffes* Please, stop crying. She— *sniffles* It's okay, Dillon. She took my piñata! Your piñata set your house on fire. He sets—everything on fire— Have you ever stopped to think— —no— thinking is bad. Go get dressed. No, not today. You look like a bloated chicken nugget. —I used to like chicken nuggets. hey, Tofu daddy. This is sick. This is a sick bitch we're dealing with. I'm not dealing with anything, I quit. Quit, you can't quit. I just did. DEADMAU5 Okay, no more bodies. Ū Okay. No more bodies. DEADMAU5 Really? Ū —No. DEADMAU5 Goddammit, this is not a GAME. Ū It is a game, though—and I'm a damn good marksman. DEADMAU5 Dammit, you're right. Ū I'm always right. Come, take my hand— (I took off my ring) Do you want to do a half, or a whole thing Come, take my hand Let's sit on this swing Do you want to do a half, or a whole thing? I powered on my phone to find the digital clock exactly at 1:15, which had seemed to be creeping up again as a recurring theme, along with some other unsettling figurines—if it was a race against time, I was losing—and If, perhaps, a Holy War, I must have been some sort of Holy, as it had seemed the world's good graces had turned her back on me, and that faith dwindled more quickly in the cold than any other condition. Lay your head on my shoulder, Your cheek on my cheek, Wrap your arm round my waist, You can think what I think You can skate on thin ice You can sing what I sing And when the ice breaks; You can sink when I sink Come, take my hand— (I took off my ring) Do you want to do a half, or a whole thing Come, take my hand Let's sit on this swing Do you want to do a half, or a whole thing? It had been strange waves of everything—more than I was ready for and much more than intentionally took on, all things considered. I burned my tongue on piping hot oatmeal, trying to eat rather than write, as it seemed the time had come that I could no longer skip meals and properly function. Nearing thirty like a bullet—and at least metaphorically bleeding as if I had actually been shot, my heart and soul throbbing and gushing into a paralyzing twist or fears and woes, trapped in a foreign city with almost nothing to my name, lugging around my music equipment and very few belongings, which—when put away neatly even in the smallest room— seemed like almost nothing, but was certainly too much to carry around, especially alone. And I was, so very alone. Drake Bell and the Hollywood Spell My newest and strangest muse yet had again insisted on appearing into my dream world, for the third time, anyway—which seemed a cruel and almost disturbing subconscious attempt to conjur up what might have been the entirety of my energy to complete the 6th Season of Enter The Multiverse, at this point which had even interested me, reinvigorating my senses and at least partially restoring my faith in something, even if it was just Hollywood being Hollywood. But now, even miles away from Hollywoodland, and stranded far, far away with no conceivable way to find my way back, even if I did have a home there waiting for me—and there wasn't—there didn't seem to be a home anywhere for me at all, and with my money running well towards dry I had spent most the week dry heaving into panic attacks about where I would go, or what I would do/—especially dragging around all of my luggage and equipment, and while it was true my equipment could have easily found it's way into a pawn shop, to at least offset the impending homelessness by maybe a couple days, and a couple hundred dollars—it didn't seem quite worth it to sell my dream again, especially for the miserable existence of sharing a hostel room with whoever decided to snore or cough their way into my hellish realm of corporate slavery, lovelessness, and lack of privacy. Yes, my conciousness had summoned up this man into my dreamworld now three times, and for whatever reason, if there was one — I could consider it a charm. Had I not been working at the smokeshop what now seemed like ages ago, I might have forgotten entirely that such a person had ever existed—which I had, since the experience, for the record, at least tried to—but for some reason, disasterously couldnt; it had all awakened something serious and spiritual within my outer world, piquing my ultra conscious into a rare and bewildering curiosity that had done well to slay and murder the cat in all of its nine lives, and then some. It wasn't entirely on purpose, or without guilt that my mind seemed to inquisitively structure an entire hidden world and to form a strange and illicit bond with this fragile man creature, not that my social status or overwhelmingly average, unattractive, stranded and abandoned wastebasket of a demon, or diety whatever I was in whatever kind of light, would have much at all to do but suffer the result of having missed the bar by far, stumbling into the lower realms of the world by mere circumstance, on occasion, without notice. I was certainly thinking about it too much, and hating myself for it, a certain spark or inspiration for the Timmy Turner timelines met with the sudden flash of what may have even been a lost memory of not for all this Hollywood trauma, or dogma, whichever made sense—because none of it did, at all, besides to reverse what time had done by allowing me to forget my turbulent childhood, which couldn't matter anymore in this moment as it ever had; and though I was producing a fruitful workout at Equinox, squatting deeply into the Smith Machine and breathing deeply into my lower back, where the tension from the weight of my leftover skin met the pain in the whole of my torso, an apparent rush sent a splash of slobber out of the side of my mouth, my third eye a gaping and burning hole streaking heat across the middle of my forehead—all of a sudden the high of Nitrous Oxide filled my mind, if only for a moment—flung back into a memory nearly two decades old. “That's it.” I remembered thinking. “No more of this.” I sat down the can of keyboard cleaner on the bathroom floor. I had scared myself straight, long before I even knew what I was doing—and I didn't know at all, having been nine, or maybe 10–long before I would ever *want* to get high, not understanding that or why I needed to, anyway—or that getting “high” was what I was doing at all. No, at the time, it simply ‘felt really good', until it didn't—the particular memory which struck me in the dead center of the Equinox floor—and snapping back into my body, shaking myself out of it and leaning into the bar to stretch, taking in a deep breath and choking back an ocean of tears. “Idiot.” I'm still lost in your eyes I'll be in love with you forever Dreams Wil Be Dreams. Since departing LA, all my dreams had been strange, and I found myself growing more distant from myself, or from anything real at all, my dreams skewing into a horrid soundscape of rampant memories and false hopes of love. Finally able to seek refuge in meditation, I had been bombarded with images of Dillon Francis balancing some pretty little white girl in his lap—and though I couldn't quite unhinge the Amethyst from my possession, I had been giving it the distance I needed for something like peace of mind, without the actual peace itself at play. There had been quite the spell to break, and though it hadn't even been moderately broken—I at least knew now what magic I was dealing with. Dillon Hart Francis was a powerful magician—perhaps too powerful, and with that I took my strides into gatekeeping at the very least, since no peace could be made. I could love with a wholesome heart, but a tarnished mind and a gated soul would simply not outlast the infinite journey. Though I had been illicitly carfeful not to look him in the eye last we did meet, there was a remarkable force in place far beyond control—or at least my control— which kept such power from being apprehended; I had done my best to let go, knowing it was indeed a spell at play, and rather than a curse no need to worry or fear it's users intentions. Magic was a give-and-take, and so much had been at this point taken from me that the bruises of jealousy for whatever it was being waved about my psyche as ‘better than' could do no more than to rip the rest of my heart from its crevice as I pondered on what I might have done right, or might have done wrong—if there were such things. ‘White girls get all the love.' It was only true in my heart and my mind, and so it must have sat in my soul a certain way. I had never intended really to fall into what I had fallen into with Dillon Francis—not that it couldn't or wouldn't be undone, eventually, as I was inraveling myself into an unremarkable, unastonishing whisp — a fracture in time to do much less than even be though of, or forgotten. I'm still lost in your eyes I'll be in love with you forever A piece of my rock had shattered on the floor of the shower at Equinox—the only stone I kept for myself, and often forgotten about, as I did myself, not that i mattered much. It shattered unevenly into three pieces, one of which I left in the sauna, quickly before departing—and the other which I had dropped in Times Square, begrudgingly under the LCD American flag by which I felt betrayed: How could our nation not only allow, but create homelessness as a scare tactic to keep the working poor working as slaves, to saciate the wealthy's wants and needs? “Whatever.” I'm not going to hurt you, You can't hurt me anymore than I can hurt myself. I'm glad you know that. I don't know anything. Suicide fucking sucks. I know that. It might be time for me to go But I just want to let you know I still got love for you; And there's still hope; I left the door open I gotta go, you know, It's hopeless for some At the end of my rope —and it's a long way home, But it's home at the end It's home at the end of a long, lond road I took the wrong one, But at least now I know you I'll go on It seems that I still have a soul, somewhere I walked in on thin air, And now I'm here; I don't know where I'm still lost in your eyes I'll be in love with you forever LEGENDS EDDIE MURPHY opens the heavy Victorian style door, after three solid knocks from under the GLOVED HAND which lifts the golden-brass door knocker. To what do I owe the pleasure? WHOOPI GOLDBERG Business, not pleasure. -_- Well, which business. All of ‘em. [She gestures to pass through the doorway.] Please, come in. Coffee, or Tea? Coffee this late? [beat] Coffee. This is serious. You look serious. I've been—confined. Drake Bell, you son of a bitch. Oh, so you do know my name. I know all your names. So it is. So I am. — How'd you get in this? I've always been in this. What is “always”? How did you get in this? I am this. What a philosophy. Call it what you want. What if I don't. Then don't. See you on the other side. Someone once told me, the grass is much greener— on the other side. —and when I paid a visit, (It's possible I missed it) Seemed different, yet exactly the same. DILLON FRANCIS I didn't want it to end this way. I didn't want it to end. Well, it did. You let it. I had to. Just let go. No, I can't. Hah! What's so funny? You're fucking impossible. Nothing is “impossible” you said that. But you “can't” Let this go? Ah-hah. No. This here will keep slowly unwinding until there's no more. —and then what? There's no more. Damn. This is foul. Hm. Take a time out, Timmy. I'm a take a t-t-taxi I pay my t-t-taxes The actor and the actress. Oh, He's Big Hollywood; Doesn't Have a Job, But the work's real good – His lines are smooth and his days are long, Gotta make it right, For a whole lot of wrongs He's Big-Big Hollywood Doesn't have a job; But the work's real good Coming in hot, Like he's fresh out the box That's a real big nugget, With a whole lot of sauce. Stop. What. What is this. It's a song. This is awful. FUCK IT. I DON'T CARE. Damn, Oreos AND Ben & Jerry's?! IT'S DAIRY-FREE. Tf kind o f Oreos is that. They're GLuten FrEe. FUCK IT. Sunni, get a hold of yourself. YOU GET A HOLD OF YOUR SELF. Stop yelling from across the room. I'LL YELL WHERE I WANT. Fuck this job. FUCK YOU MARIANNE. AGGHH. AGGHHHHHHHHH. Fuck What. What's up. I need a smoke break. I'M GONNA RIP YOUR HEART OUT. YOU DOn'T HAVE A HEART. SHUT UP, DILLON FRANCIS. GOd. WHO INVITED HIM, ANYWAY. I didn't. NOBODY INVITED HIM. The inspiration to music hit at just the right and the wrong time—I had finally found my way to the butt machine, only after visiting every other floor and guessing incorrectly—only to make it to the machine in just enough time to realize that I was for some reason exhausted—perhaps having just blown my last fuse, realizing I was literally down to my last, few pennies— and, unknowing of how to escape the hole I had dug myself into, falling into a carful and unsecured ‘lust' with New York, surely never to fall in love with another city as I had LA, learning my lessons well, and knowing all too well that nowhere and no one like me was safe from homelessness in the US—now having proven itself to be a hostile entity, in a full police state. It didn't seem to matter, though, as I had narrowly missed my escape nearly on purpose, but not— it seemed something entirely outward was keeping me at bay and in the US, not that I had wanted to leave out of fear for my life as much as I wanted adventure and exploration—but either way was going nowhere at all fast, and running out or money even faster. “Fuck, I hate my life” I had probably over caffeinated, at least half the reason I couldn't budge to top speed, even blasting bangarang into my eardrums at nearly top volume—this day, it only emotionally weakened me, having demoted myself entirely from any sort of elite status, back into the realm of obsessive fandom, and perhaps even schizophrenia, per Dane Cook's shenanigans. Yeah, I'm tired and I need to take like ten shits. Just finish then. If I leave early I have to come back early. Well, go, then. Muscle fatigue, check Dehydration, check Psyche completely shattered Check. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -THE LEGEND OF SUPACREE LEGENDS GERALD'S WORLD OWSLA CONFIDENTIAL: THE INFINITE SKRILLIFILES ENTER THE MULTIVERSE DEATHWISH ASCENSION THE SECRET LIFE OF SUNNÏ BLŪ SCARY MONSTERS & SUPACREE THE INSOMNIAC &MORE FROM [The Festival Project.™] SEASON 6 ACT III Part I MONTAGE: Clique, Cruel Summer Kanye West, JAY-Z & Big Sean EXT. DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES. BROAD ASS DAYLIGHT SUPACREE has unlocked 100% Of her ABILITIES GOD MODE UNLOCKED SUPACREE EXITS EQUINOX FITNESS CLUB AT LIGHTSPEED, Hitting the pavement with swift force, splitting into three dimensional selves; SUNNI BLŪ to her left and A MYSTERIOUS, unknown ALTER EGO to her right, she shifts quickly to the beat of the music, morphing into and out of parallels of the outer world, opening and closing portals, and encapsulating anything and everything within her force field—which happens to be the whole of GREATER LOS ANGELES. Damn. If I put my heart inside a box; Maybe I'd forget how cold it was Or how far you are Or how much it hurts There's no harm in God, If there ever was one Then, reality sets in: God was my only friend No armor on, I'm at the end Of a long, long walk I'm off again And on again Nothing's impossible— stop at the alter and scoff a bit I left my coat on, I left my heart on the rooftop, A sacrifice, love At the alter, I wonder a song, Or a sonnet A song, No, what's wrong? Something's off a bit God, I woke up in a coffin once Isn't that awful? The rest or the song wrote itself, At the alter No, I can't stop and talk Got to get off, Cause I've never been on I've never belonged in the world What have we done? This is bad, brother. That's a construct. Everything's a construct! Get ahold of yourself. Get ahold of—you know what? I do know. You think you're fuckin' clever. I am clever. You're a sick man. That's my business. Yeah, well—you made it my business. I am you. What a concept. *construct. God, help you! [sideways evil smirk] Hehe. SPAM! ON TACOS! BUTTERS Oh—Jesus! WHO PUTS SPAM ON TACOS?! A smart man. C'mon, Butters. We gotta get lost in the sauce before we try this out. I'MMA TRY IT OUT. OK. GOD, OH, GOD, PLEASE— MERCIFUL GOD IN HEAVEN— (WhT.) JUST— DON'T LET IT BE SKRILL AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. Fuxk. What. She took the train. Which fucking train. I don't know. The train. THE A TRAIN, or the B TRAIN?! HEY. WHAT, you motherfucking idiot? I THINK I LOVE YOU. Well, stop thinking. Ok. JIMMY FALLON THE COSMIC AVENGER has been kidnapped— He's like 50 years old. He's been dad-napped. —by the MOB. The MOB?! He's into some dark shit. Wait, he is?! In this series. He has been tied to a chair, which sits under a single spotlight in a shabby, dark room in NEW JERSEY. Ew, New Jersey. JIMMY THE MOBSTER Hi, Jimmy— JIMMY FALLON —uh—hello. JIMMY THE MOBSTER I'm Jimmy. JIMMY FALLON Oh, that's ironic. [beat] JIMMY THE MOBSTER I'm gonna kill you, Jimmy. GOD If I give you a serious role, how are you gonna handle it? JIMMY FALLON like a pro. GOD don't lie to me, Jimmy. JIMMY FALLON What?! I'm not! My body, heart, mind, and soul was being attacked— I had 15 minutes to vacate the property and couldn't even focus—I had to use the bathroom so badly it hurt my soul. I was pacing back and forth, choking back ugly tears—the rude man in the room across the way still occupying the bathroom which I needed, both to clean and relieve myself—but it had been hell, after all, and needs like these had been proven to be in short supply. Fuck. This is a gun to your head. Just do it. [he moves the pistol into her mouth] Now it's in your mouth. [she unhinges her jaw to open it wider, never breaking eye contact and relaxes; he studies his hand on the grip of the tripper, ready to lill] You'll die today. [A comfort; as she relaxes, he as well changes—this seems to take the fun of killing away from him, he exacts the gun from her mouth] CONT'D You like that? I love it— You're dead, bitch! Yes, I am! A penniless whore. Whores get paid— Then, even less— What's less than this? A dead bitch. Think again. I don't think, I just shoot; Sounds like a man. Oh, I am. Then kill me with your hands. Jesus Christ, man. He can't help. No one can help you. So just shoot. [he can't] SUNNI. )&2&;@2@2$ YOU ARE OUT OF CONTROL. SUCK MY DICK. AGHHJJJ. Well. TMZ is here. This is a disaster. NEXT, WE LEARN: THE Oh my God. WhT. This is probably the worst thing I've ever written. Not the worst. Nope: it is the worst. Maybe it's just bad on paper. It's bad no matter how you — CONTROL, JANET PRIVACY. Here. Wtf is this. LEGENDS: FAME SCHOOL Christopher Walken was one of my professors in fame school For acting? For music. For music? That doesn't make any sense. Please, don't make me explain this. A FACE BATTLE CHRISTOPHER WALKEN vs. SUPACREE -_- —__^ *_- ^__\ \__/ *_* >< … —-__—- Ok. Alright. Show me what you got. SUPACREE plays a beat. You know where this is going. We all know where this is going. CHRISTOPHER WALKEN that was OK. “OK”?! Yeah. *shrugs* OK. You know what— You know what it needs? …what's it need? —-more cowbell. I beg your pardon. Please, don't beg. It was perfect. It was OK. You're not OK. —maybe I'm not. You're definitely not. —know what helps? Don't tell me: More fucking cowbell. Lol. ⅔ ain't bad. Wait, two out or three?! Which one didn't I— —FUCK. What, what happened? They're onto me. THE BAMPHERAMPS, MOTHERFUCKING BAMPHERAMPHS, and THE ASCENDED MASTERY has assembled in NEW YORK CITY to stage a coup. It's a coup d'état. There sure is a lot of French shit over here. Well yeah, it's Paris. Wait. What, what now? If SUPACREE is in Paris. NIGGAZ. Right—then— Who the fuck are they chasing in New York. [just waking up] Why am I in New York? WHOOPI GOLDBERG you got anyplace else to be? …no. MEANWHILE, IN ROME. Fanculo! Really, dude. Apparently. A tear in my head; A rip in my soul, And the fabric of— Coming undone at the whole; I make sense of it all at the alter, The fall; To have fought in the war, And then lost, or to suffer at all Love was lost, I was never a martyr— Blood on the cross, And the crossroads, The frost and the stardust, “There's no God” For the honorable, Stuck in New York, But defrosting my toes, At the forefront I haven't once wondered or thought Of the love that I was, Since I stopped throwing rocks at the church Or got off on the wrong stop; What a puzzle, To jump off, Or rot in the heart of The hub— World of wonders, A mother of suns, Never wanted a daughter so much Unpunishment, Loved was the Duchess; To carry a crutch or a cross— So unbothered, untouched, So heartless and dark, For the marksman—a spark Or the dog does not bark At the horses You're in the clear, hero. Heartless, she was! Now, now—settle down. This is an absolute outrage. Is it, now? I say so! Maybe you shouldn't. Faro, a word, I've got three. I'll go first. [a smug look] What's happened here? A ressurection, sir. Care to explain? I said ‘three.' Where's the King? My palms grew numb as my throbbing heartache welled up into the back of my throat and sat perched up against my growling stomach, stuffed with beans and rice, perhaps to fill the sadness or satiate my need for protein, either one. ASCENSION If you're going to vomit, step away from me. —I'm not sick. Actually, step out of my house. This is your house? —I live here. —no one lives here. What did you think it was? an elaborate cave. It is—an elaborwte cave— —excuse my ignorance. You're excused entirely. —I appreciate that. I meant, from here. You should go. Faro, wait. No more waiting; you were uninvited. Trust me—this visitation is more necessary than voluntary. That's—a lot of words. I don't speak caveman. Just—get out. Listen: No more listening— It's about C'esme't. It always is. This is important. It always is. It concerns you. It always does. —? Wait. [a heavy sigh] [a long silence] Come with me. FARO leads GÍAN towards the back of his quarters. Close the door. I— what? Nevermind. You're useless. Ehrm—excuse me. Excused, your majesty. FARO opens a SECRET PASSAGEWAY into a FUTURISTIC CORIDOR, leading GÍAN into a vast FORTRESS. balls. Uh. My stomach in knots And my life is in ruins Constellations all gone, And my heart, on the border of hurt— And mistrust So unlovable, loveless— Promises, scars and the art was devoured Ah— she was awful; Ah—she must have lost her mind God, she was homeless, And loveless, And wild eyed All that I wanted, Was to get lost in the lobby, Before the whole ball dropped —and watch the false phropet Collide wirh the comet Stop: I lost God at the crosswalk, The punishment was Homeless Now watch this: This is what I wanted: Doesn't really matter now, Does it? Oh, doesn't it. God, this is Lucifer. Son, it's an honor. No God for a mother, who walks on her own. Now it's over or under. It's over. It never got started. I locked up my heart with the piñata. How irrelevant. How awkward. How curse words turn to mantras. How I have half a heart Or, like ⅓ We're being honest, now. I thought Illuminati wanted hotties and Caucasians. Well, I guess that'll explain, Why you've been stuck inside a cage, then. NICK CAGE is an extremely skilled time traveler. Ok. WHOOPI GOLDBERG has freed herself from the cage in which SUPACREE had skillfully trapped the OWL OF THE GOLDEN EYE. WhT a prophecy. MEANWHILE, AT HOGWARTS. HOGWARTS, 2023. ANANDAR is HEADMASTER. Ah, fuck. I'm gonna puke. All I wanted was to shamelessly watch the man's balls swing like a pendulum... Well, here's this instead. Oh no, it's Skrillex. Now you have to— —now I have to watch this. Why. Cause I've already seen that. I hate you. I hate you. SOLD, to the lady in red. Damn. Slavery is cool. Yeah, I guess. FUCK. What. Idk. BITCH. GET OUT THE BASEMENT; I'm in the attick What you think this is? Lights, camera, action: Now that attractions been well established I should get back to it, I'm in the attic Lighting up matches, Fixin my holes up with patches Callin it classic Call me an asshole, I can't be mad man, I am a mad man, I bring the mask back To Handle a trash can Get out the basement. I told you he could dance. A GIANT DRAGON Oh shit, here it comes. FIRE. DILLON FRANCIS I Well. We're gonna die. DILLON FRANCIS II If she throws up, I get a pickle. DILLON FRANCIS III That's a deal. DILLON FRANCIS II And if she cries, I get a French poodle named Angelina Jolie. DILLON FRANCIS III Righteous. DILLON FRANCIS II Yur damn right. A GIANT DRAGON FLIES OVERHEAD, SWEEPING THE SKIES WITH FIRE AND LIGHTNING. DILLON FRANCIS I (CONT'D) Yeah, we're definitely fucked. Why are you dressed like Froto. FROTO (in background, dressed exactly alike) That is offensive! SHUTTHEFUCKUP. It's the end of the world! (At least as we know it) IS THAT SKRILLEX? FIRE BREATHING DRAGON. Well, it was. What the fuck HAPPENED?! Is that its final form? Yes it is. I'll give you one million dollars. That's not enough. This card is priceless. What is this. Like a Pokémon game?! This whoops Pokémon's ass. This is LEGENDS. LIL' BIIIITZ Yo! New York is CRAZY First of all, how is it all of a sudden CLEANER THAN LA?! New York's like: here —we sent all the nasty people to LA. All better. Polarity shift! LA is gross now! New York cleaned up! The trains are nice —shit— All the trash is in BAGS. I was like “Whaaaaaaat” this is nice. What the fuck. This shit different! Unh. they exported all the nasty, crazy motherfuxkers to LA. On GOD. Cause every other psychologically twisted individual I talk to in LA is like: “I'M FROM NEW YORK” *hawks loogie, spits* Uhhhhh… I was going on a little European adventure; New York's like: “You know, you never stay long…” I'm like “There's a reason for that…welp, gotta go.” The whole universe fucked around and was like— “You know what? We like you here. Stay. “ What. “STAY.” Fuck. New York is different. Won't say I love it — But goddamn, I like it! People are rude. People are rude as fuck. I'm used to LA where people are fake nice For fuckin tips and shit, you know? Everybody's trying to get famous for something, Or something. Idk. Fake as fuck. Fake nice. Fake happy. Fake titties. Fake lips. Just fucking fake. fake everything. Everything is plastic. —and it's not tied up in garbage bags, either. It's just plastic, and trash, and piss everywhere. It's so gross. You see Venice Beach on the movies: It's all clean and beautiful, and picturesque. You get there, it's like Skid Row + Skid Row Coastal. LA has millions of homeless people everywhere. In cars, in tents. Under bridges. Everywhere. And I love LA! I really do. But it's fake. Everything is fake. New York is real as fuck. Yeaaah. Almost too real. But I like it. You don't have to fuckin fake shit. People don't say “excuse me—“ No. You're never forced to say “good morning “ before you had your coffee! Yuh! New York is doing it right. People sleep on the train— But nobody lives on that motherfucker! I was in New York like a week before the shock wore off that there were not hundreds of individuals on every train wreaking of piss and smoking crack openly—YES—illicit drug use on trains in LA is extremely casual. Everything in LA is casual. People wear pajamas to work. Yeah—that. Everyone in New York looks like they're going to eat at a five-star restaurant. Like all the time. No socks-with-slides. EW. I swore to God socks with slides was a sign of the apocalypse; I get to New York, none of that—but the cringy thing in New York is Crocs With Socs. Now mmmm we're bi-coastal. Socks-with-slides; Crocs-with-socks. Knock that shit off. TACKY. other than that, though… NY is cool. It's chic. It's fun. You gotta be careful though. You gotta watch out. I thought LA drivers were crazy. New York drivers are fucking psychotic. Pedestrians don't have the right of way. At all. If you're in a crosswalk in LA even if the light is red, people will stop and let you go. In New York you better wait for the fuckin walk sign. They will kill you. It's okay. 6 millions ways to die: choose one! Just kidding. That's some west coast shit. But I did see a whole ass mural of Snoop Dogg in Brooklyn and get slightly confused— Till I realized everything on it was the color blue, and I was deadass in the middle of Brooklyn going “What? Ohhhhh! Wait! The Crips!” “Those guys are everywhere!” Lol. Its a nation wide disorganization. Lol. Whatever. I like New York. Doing my best not to love it, So the universe doesn't balance me out by showing me what to hate about it So far, so good New York drivers don't play. I never seen a school bus drift before! DAMN. Almost got hit by a short bus. Oh, the irony. I saw a dude do a whole ass wheelie on an electric scooter. Not a moped, by the way. An electric scooter. Yup. New Yoooooork. BEDFORD AVENUE, BROOKLYN, NY. THE BAMPHERAMPHS have initiated SEQUENCE C I like New York. I gotta say. It IS like LA In the way that I know I can't live in New York if I'm not just filthy fucking rich. Cause, you know—there's still homelessness; But unlike in LA, where you just wander around, smelling like piss, begging for change— You freeze to death. A quick solution! Haha! (It's not funny.) but whatever. America. I thought I was leaving; I got trapped in the matrix. I was like “Fuck this place.” They're like: “stay! We need slaves!” I'm like FUCK. So I got stuck in New York. Ugh. At least it's a “free state” I made it north, ma! Not exactly the safest place to get stuck with no money, either, is it? Really nowhere is safe with no money. I mean, I know of some places south of the border you can live, basically free and just, you know—sleep in a hammock, sing for change and shit. Roam the beach. I know people that do that— it's just- I like showers. I don't love showers. Cause then, I'm sure God would find a way to take that away, too. I don't love anything anymore. Once you love something—it either goes away, or it burns you. Or both. Can't love things. Can't love people. No more love. Just—appreciate—things. Just—like—things, you know? Don't love anything. Speaking of suicidal tendencies. Hahah. You know what else is cool about New York? The trains actually come into the station fast enough to kill you. Like—you've had enough? Okay: here it is. Just to save you a trip to the Empire State Building. This train is coming in at 304 miles an hour and is somehow gonna stop in 3 seconds. —maybe 2 seconds, if you do jump— Better think fast! They almost come too fast, for suicide. Ready, set— Dammit. Missed it again. They're so fast. The trains in LA stopped going suicide-fast like, a couple years ago—maybe, just before the pandemic—I think. They're like “You know what! This is happening too often. I am ALWAYS late to my other two jobs ‘cause someone killed themselves on my train! Fuck!” LA's like: “Well fuck this, all the slaves are killing themselves on the trains.” “Damn, that sucks” LA's like “Yeah, okay so: here's what we do; we'll put up signs for a suicide hotline at the popular jumping points” “LA's like: okay” “And—we'll tell the train operators they gotta slow down coming into the station—“ “That'll do it!” “—that way, If they still do decide to jump, they'll just get paralyzed, and contribute to the opioid crisis: more funding for big pharma!” “Yes, it's genius!” “—unless they're black, or on Medicaid, then: we'll send em home with some ibuprofen and make sure they collect disability, so that they can become addicted to crack, or something like that —you know.” “Yes. That's perfect.” Good Job LA. I get lost in New York. I'll be on New York like “YO, WHERE THE FUCK AM I AT?” “In New York” GODDAMMIT. You know what else is weird about New York? Personal space is not a thing. I mean, “space” is not a thing at all, anyway. But “Personal space”? No. People will not only sit by you; The'll siT ON you. Yo. I had just got to New York— I had all my luggage with me— And this lady gets on the train; She's got a broom. Idk what for, but okay; She gets onto the train, She looks around, and I guess she decides she wants the seat next to me. So like I said, I have all my stuff l so I'm a little spread out, but there's room— But you know what she does? She looks me straight in the eye And then just hits me with her broom. I was like —-?!? I'm thinking, “Okay is she racist or is that just a New York thing?” Like, “you can just hit people with shit!? damn!” What's funny is, I kinda respected her for that. She was old. Didn't say a word, just “bam” Like—- ‘move!' I'm like “okay!” New York is so classy. Girls wear panty hose, and stockings. I'm like “wow, that's actually nice. That's so wholesome! Tights?! Yeah!” It's so classy. I don't think girls in LA even wear regular panties. Let alone panty hose. Get it—panty—Hoes. I see correlation. You know what else is cool about New York. It's less racist. I mean- There's so much diversity, there's almost no room to be racist. It's crazy. So many people. So many colors. So much culture. So many languages! I hear languages I can't even place. I thought I was good. I'm in LA, I'm like, “Okay, that's Chinese—“ “That's Japanese” “That's Korean” “Farsi” I get to New York— I'm in the Delicstessen. Thats another thing. Nothing like a real, New York delicatessen. That's what “deli” is short for, by the way, everyone not from New York. It's “delicatessen” Lol. Anyway. I'm standing in the Deli and I hear some shit that—I'm not gonna lie— was actually quite alarming, as a native English speaker. I'm standing there, and this guy behind me literally over my shoulder says, “Blooppnsmabhoan ammaoakb amansbaiL aannaoka snkaoakmnlblblblnlnl!!!!” I'm like what the FUCK. This isn't REAL. “Blblblana. Akakma alak Akakamaamna!” I'm shoooook. What IS that!!? I like New York. The girls aren't all evil soulless heart eating demons. They're just “regular” I have to run back to LA and tell all my guy friends, they're like “Women are evil” I'm like— “Nooo, that's just out here.” Maybe. I don't know. I like New York. I bet it's wonderful when it's warm. I don't know! Maybe that's when shit hits the fan! Maybe it's like Chicago. EVERYBODY DIES IN THE SUMMER— Who said that. Chance the Rapper, I think. I don't know. LEGENDS: FAMESCHOOL This move is called: The “Slap-Dicksuck.” [carefully taking notes] “slap-dick-suck”…okay… hmm.. Now, class. [raises hand curiously] Yes? Um. SUPACREE— —PROFESSOR SUPACREE. Um. Professor SUPACREE— Yes! Why is it called the “Slap-Dicksuck” I was about to explain that. //SLAP-DICKSUCK// NEXT: we learn THE “SLAP-DICKSUCK-SLAP” Let me guess. No, no guessing. This class is gross. I like it. Yeah, you're gross. The world is gross. Get over it. GET OVER IT, DILLON FRANCIS. *sniffes* Please, stop crying. She— *sniffles* It's okay, Dillon. She took my piñata! Your piñata set your house on fire. He sets—everything on fire— Have you ever stopped to think— —no— thinking is bad. Go get dressed. No, not today. You look like a bloated chicken nugget. —I used to like chicken nuggets. hey, Tofu daddy. This is sick. This is a sick bitch we're dealing with. I'm not dealing with anything, I quit. Quit, you can't quit. I just did. DEADMAU5 Okay, no more bodies. Ū Okay. No more bodies. DEADMAU5 Really? Ū —No. DEADMAU5 Goddammit, this is not a GAME. Ū It is a game, though—and I'm a damn good marksman. DEADMAU5 Dammit, you're right. Ū I'm always right. Come, take my hand— (I took off my ring) Do you want to do a half, or a whole thing Come, take my hand Let's sit on this swing Do you want to do a half, or a whole thing? I powered on my phone to find the digital clock exactly at 1:15, which had seemed to be creeping up again as a recurring theme, along with some other unsettling figurines—if it was a race against time, I was losing—and If, perhaps, a Holy War, I must have been some sort of Holy, as it had seemed the world's good graces had turned her back on me, and that faith dwindled more quickly in the cold than any other condition. Lay your head on my shoulder, Your cheek on my cheek, Wrap your arm round my waist, You can think what I think You can skate on thin ice You can sing what I sing And when the ice breaks; You can sink when I sink Come, take my hand— (I took off my ring) Do you want to do a half, or a whole thing Come, take my hand Let's sit on this swing Do you want to do a half, or a whole thing? It had been strange waves of everything—more than I was ready for and much more than intentionally took on, all things considered. I burned my tongue on piping hot oatmeal, trying to eat rather than write, as it seemed the time had come that I could no longer skip meals and properly function. Nearing thirty like a bullet—and at least metaphorically bleeding as if I had actually been shot, my heart and soul throbbing and gushing into a paralyzing twist or fears and woes, trapped in a foreign city with almost nothing to my name, lugging around my music equipment and very few belongings, which—when put away neatly even in the smallest room— seemed like almost nothing, but was certainly too much to carry around, especially alone. And I was, so very alone. Drake Bell and the Hollywood Spell My newest and strangest muse yet had again insisted on appearing into my dream world, for the third time, anyway—which seemed a cruel and almost disturbing subconscious attempt to conjur up what might have been the entirety of my energy to complete the 6th Season of Enter The Multiverse, at this point which had even interested me, reinvigorating my senses and at least partially restoring my faith in something, even if it was just Hollywood being Hollywood. But now, even miles away from Hollywoodland, and stranded far, far away with no conceivable way to find my way back, even if I did have a home there waiting for me—and there wasn't—there didn't seem to be a home anywhere for me at all, and with my money running well towards dry I had spent most the week dry heaving into panic attacks about where I would go, or what I would do/—especially dragging around all of my luggage and equipment, and while it was true my equipment could have easily found it's way into a pawn shop, to at least offset the impending homelessness by maybe a couple days, and a couple hundred dollars—it didn't seem quite worth it to sell my dream again, especially for the miserable existence of sharing a hostel room with whoever decided to snore or cough their way into my hellish realm of corporate slavery, lovelessness, and lack of privacy. Yes, my conciousness had summoned up this man into my dreamworld now three times, and for whatever reason, if there was one — I could consider it a charm. Had I not been working at the smokeshop what now seemed like ages ago, I might have forgotten entirely that such a person had ever existed—which I had, since the experience, for the record, at least tried to—but for some reason, disasterously couldnt; it had all awakened something serious and spiritual within my outer world, piquing my ultra conscious into a rare and bewildering curiosity that had done well to slay and murder the cat in all of its nine lives, and then some. It wasn't entirely on purpose, or without guilt that my mind seemed to inquisitively structure an entire hidden world and to form a strange and illicit bond with this fragile man creature, not that my social status or overwhelmingly average, unattractive, stranded and abandoned wastebasket of a demon, or diety whatever I was in whatever kind of light, would have much at all to do but suffer the result of having missed the bar by far, stumbling into the lower realms of the world by mere circumstance, on occasion, without notice. I was certainly thinking about it too much, and hating myself for it, a certain spark or inspiration for the Timmy Turner timelines met with the sudden flash of what may have even been a lost memory of not for all this Hollywood trauma, or dogma, whichever made sense—because none of it did, at all, besides to reverse what time had done by allowing me to forget my turbulent childhood, which couldn't matter anymore in this moment as it ever had; and though I was producing a fruitful workout at Equinox, squatting deeply into the Smith Machine and breathing deeply into my lower back, where the tension from the weight of my leftover skin met the pain in the whole of my torso, an apparent rush sent a splash of slobber out of the side of my mouth, my third eye a gaping and burning hole streaking heat across the middle of my forehead—all of a sudden the high of Nitrous Oxide filled my mind, if only for a moment—flung back into a memory nearly two decades old. “That's it.” I remembered thinking. “No more of this.” I sat down the can of keyboard cleaner on the bathroom floor. I had scared myself straight, long before I even knew what I was doing—and I didn't know at all, having been nine, or maybe 10–long before I would ever *want* to get high, not understanding that or why I needed to, anyway—or that getting “high” was what I was doing at all. No, at the time, it simply ‘felt really good', until it didn't—the particular memory which struck me in the dead center of the Equinox floor—and snapping back into my body, shaking myself out of it and leaning into the bar to stretch, taking in a deep breath and choking back an ocean of tears. “Idiot.” I'm still lost in your eyes I'll be in love with you forever Dreams Wil Be Dreams. Since departing LA, all my dreams had been strange, and I found myself growing more distant from myself, or from anything real at all, my dreams skewing into a horrid soundscape of rampant memories and false hopes of love. Finally able to seek refuge in meditation, I had been bombarded with images of Dillon Francis balancing some pretty little white girl in his lap—and though I couldn't quite unhinge the Amethyst from my possession, I had been giving it the distance I needed for something like peace of mind, without the actual peace itself at play. There had been quite the spell to break, and though it hadn't even been moderately broken—I at least knew now what magic I was dealing with. Dillon Hart Francis was a powerful magician—perhaps too powerful, and with that I took my strides into gatekeeping at the very least, since no peace could be made. I could love with a wholesome heart, but a tarnished mind and a gated soul would simply not outlast the infinite journey. Though I had been illicitly carfeful not to look him in the eye last we did meet, there was a remarkable force in place far beyond control—or at least my control— which kept such power from being apprehended; I had done my best to let go, knowing it was indeed a spell at play, and rather than a curse no need to worry or fear it's users intentions. Magic was a give-and-take, and so much had been at this point taken from me that the bruises of jealousy for whatever it was being waved about my psyche as ‘better than' could do no more than to rip the rest of my heart from its crevice as I pondered on what I might have done right, or might have done wrong—if there were such things. ‘White girls get all the love.' It was only true in my heart and my mind, and so it must have sat in my soul a certain way. I had never intended really to fall into what I had fallen into with Dillon Francis—not that it couldn't or wouldn't be undone, eventually, as I was inraveling myself into an unremarkable, unastonishing whisp — a fracture in time to do much less than even be though of, or forgotten. I'm still lost in your eyes I'll be in love with you forever A piece of my rock had shattered on the floor of the shower at Equinox—the only stone I kept for myself, and often forgotten about, as I did myself, not that i mattered much. It shattered unevenly into three pieces, one of which I left in the sauna, quickly before departing—and the other which I had dropped in Times Square, begrudgingly under the LCD American flag by which I felt betrayed: How could our nation not only allow, but create homelessness as a scare tactic to keep the working poor working as slaves, to saciate the wealthy's wants and needs? “Whatever.” I'm not going to hurt you, You can't hurt me anymore than I can hurt myself. I'm glad you know that. I don't know anything. Suicide fucking sucks. I know that. It might be time for me to go But I just want to let you know I still got love for you; And there's still hope; I left the door open I gotta go, you know, It's hopeless for some At the end of my rope —and it's a long way home, But it's home at the end It's home at the end of a long, lond road I took the wrong one, But at least now I know you I'll go on It seems that I still have a soul, somewhere I walked in on thin air, And now I'm here; I don't know where I'm still lost in your eyes I'll be in love with you forever LEGENDS EDDIE MURPHY opens the heavy Victorian style door, after three solid knocks from under the GLOVED HAND which lifts the golden-brass door knocker. To what do I owe the pleasure? WHOOPI GOLDBERG Business, not pleasure. -_- Well, which business. All of ‘em. [She gestures to pass through the doorway.] Please, come in. Coffee, or Tea? Coffee this late? [beat] Coffee. This is serious. You look serious. I've been—confined. Drake Bell, you son of a bitch. Oh, so you do know my name. I know all your names. So it is. So I am. — How'd you get in this? I've always been in this. What is “always”? How did you get in this? I am this. What a philosophy. Call it what you want. What if I don't. Then don't. See you on the other side. Someone once told me, the grass is much greener— on the other side. —and when I paid a visit, (It's possible I missed it) Seemed different, yet exactly the same. DILLON FRANCIS I didn't want it to end this way. I didn't want it to end. Well, it did. You let it. I had to. Just let go. No, I can't. Hah! What's so funny? You're fucking impossible. Nothing is “impossible” you said that. But you “can't” Let this go? Ah-hah. No. This here will keep slowly unwinding until there's no more. —and then what? There's no more. Damn. This is foul. Hm. Take a time out, Timmy. I'm a take a t-t-taxi I pay my t-t-taxes The actor and the actress. Oh, He's Big Hollywood; Doesn't Have a Job, But the work's real good – His lines are smooth and his days are long, Gotta make it right, For a whole lot of wrongs He's Big-Big Hollywood Doesn't have a job; But the work's real good Coming in hot, Like he's fresh out the box That's a real big nugget, With a whole lot of sauce. Stop. What. What is this. It's a song. This is awful. FUCK IT. I DON'T CARE. Damn, Oreos AND Ben & Jerry's?! IT'S DAIRY-FREE. Tf kind o f Oreos is that. They're GLuten FrEe. FUCK IT. Sunni, get a hold of yourself. YOU GET A HOLD OF YOUR SELF. Stop yelling from across the room. I'LL YELL WHERE I WANT. Fuck this job. FUCK YOU MARIANNE. AGGHH. AGGHHHHHHHHH. Fuck What. What's up. I need a smoke break. I'M GONNA RIP YOUR HEART OUT. YOU DOn'T HAVE A HEART. SHUT UP, DILLON FRANCIS. GOd. WHO INVITED HIM, ANYWAY. I didn't. NOBODY INVITED HIM. The inspiration to music hit at just the right and the wrong time—I had finally found my way to the butt machine, only after visiting every other floor and guessing incorrectly—only to make it to the machine in just enough time to realize that I was for some reason exhausted—perhaps having just blown my last fuse, realizing I was literally down to my last, few pennies— and, unknowing of how to escape the hole I had dug myself into, falling into a carful and unsecured ‘lust' with New York, surely never to fall in love with another city as I had LA, learning my lessons well, and knowing all too well that nowhere and no one like me was safe from homelessness in the US—now having proven itself to be a hostile entity, in a full police state. It didn't seem to matter, though, as I had narrowly missed my escape nearly on purpose, but not— it seemed something entirely outward was keeping me at bay and in the US, not that I had wanted to leave out of fear for my life as much as I wanted adventure and exploration—but either way was going nowhere at all fast, and running out or money even faster. “Fuck, I hate my life” I had probably over caffeinated, at least half the reason I couldn't budge to top speed, even blasting bangarang into my eardrums at nearly top volume—this day, it only emotionally weakened me, having demoted myself entirely from any sort of elite status, back into the realm of obsessive fandom, and perhaps even schizophrenia, per Dane Cook's shenanigans. Yeah, I'm tired and I need to take like ten shits. Just finish then. If I leave early I have to come back early. Well, go, then. Muscle fatigue, check Dehydration, check Psyche completely shattered Check. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.