LEGENDS: ENTER THE MULTIVERSE - The Secret Life of Sunnï Blū

LEGENDS:

ENTER THE MULTIVERSE

Fuck. What was it?

It was a p—

Well it was a *PR

Lol.

*PT cruiser

Yeah, but it was—

It was purple.

It was a purple PT. Cruiser

It was—but what else was it?

Ugh. I forgot.

Yeah, I bet.

GOOGLE SEARCH

shades of purple.

Ooooh.

PERIWINKLE.

You fucking dumb ass.

I mean, Jesus.

How long has it been?

At least a lifetime.

No, past that.

It was a perfect periwinkle PT cruiser.

So, start there.

‘Start there' what?

Everything since then, till now—

For what?

Enter The Multiverse.

That show is still on?!

YES.

What day is it?

Fuxk. What time is it?

What—the fuck.

What?!

CUPCAKES AND A MUFFIN?!

I don't care how fat I am.

You're not fat.

QUASIMOTO

Can I just say, your ass is like —woah.

CC/SUPACREE

Oh, thank you.

QUASIMOTO

I mean like—DAAAAAAMN.

CC/ SUPACREE

OK.

QUASIMOTO

i mean like—what the FAAACK.

CC/SUPACREE

Yeah. thanks, bro.

[an awkward silence]

QUASIMOTO

…Good job, though.

[light fist bump]

EARLIER:

MORE CUPCAKES.

NAH.

OHH, OREOS?!

Oreos are the G.O.A.T.

I WANTED CUPCAKES.

SHUT THE FUCK UP—

Before that, at the gym:

—do the butt machine again.

Again?!

Get the glutes.

But I'm tired—

GET THE GLUUUUUUUUTES.

Calorie Deficit Calculator:

-3423

Oh shit. Well how many calories did I eat?

BEFORE:

…chocolate chip cookies?

NO—

—CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIESzzxz—

[CC/SUPACREE robotically and autonomously ditches her bicycle outside of sprouts, not giving a Fuck.]

—s—noh! stop it! Stop controlling me!

THEY ARE VEGAN.

SO? STOP IT.

Ooh, what's this.

I don't know—

get it.

CC/SUPACREE stands awkwardly at the checkout with a varied selection of vegan baked goods.

*beep*

Yeaaaahh.

So wait. SUPACREE is controlled by aliens?

WE ARE GODS.

Knock it OFF!

[NEW ABILITY UNLOCKED: SUPASTRENTH ]

Nice.

Yeah dude. Watch this.

The Legend of Supacree is the #1 MMORPG in the world; it is also happening in real-time, in multiple worlds within the multiversial constrict of the actual Omniverse.

AGHHHHH

In fact, nobody even plays GTA or call of duty anymore.

YAH!

[Random objects falling from the sky. ]

SUPACREE

Oh, nice.

INSTANT MANIFESTATION.

JUST POST THE FUCKING EPISODE ALRIGHT?!

this bitch is fucking crazy. Watch this.

Watch what?

SHIA LABEOUF discovers The Legend Of Supacree franchise and becomes villainously obsessed with It, hatching a heinous and meniacal plan to hunt her down and capture her—tracking her every move and learning everything about her he can.

Wtf.

I don't know.

Is he a villain?

I don't know. I guess.

I'M A SUPERVILLAIN.

…He's a supervillain.

I guess. Why?!

I don't know.

This is creeps.

It is creeps.

[lifts one eyebrow.]

SUPACREEps.

Scary monsters and supacreeps.

Heh.

NO, NO MUSICIANS.

Heh.

SHIA LABOUF is straight up gangster.

HE'S CRAZY!

[SHIA LAUGHING MANIACALLY.]

Oh, wow–

That dude is a straight up psychopath.

You're a straight up psychopath.

I'm not arguing.

What is THIS part of the story?

Well, son, you made it through.

WOODY HARRELSON? WHAT.

Woody Harrelson?! WHY?

I don't know. He just fit the part.

WHAT PART?! WHAT/!

Nobody quite understands what's happening in ENTER THE MULTIVERSE, however, THE LEGEND OF SUPACREE has taken an incredible turning point, intersecting with the world of LEGENDS and THE SECRET LIFE OF SUNNI BLŪ/ THE SUITE LIFE OF SUNNI BLŪ.

IT HAS?

YES?

WHERE?

I WANNA DIE.

OH!

That's not SUPACREE!

[CC HULK SMASHES her bike onto the rack on the bus. THE HULK, sitting just in front stares at her wide-eyed as she boards the bus over the rim of his sunglasses.

Oh, maybe, nevermind.

Wait! Is it THE HULK, or MARK RUFFALO?

I don't know! I don't give a shit!

Why are you even writing this?

Uhhhhhhhh.

[CC's brain is slowly melting as she rides the bus to work. THE HULK–

OR IS IT MARK FUCKING RUFFALO!?

I DON”T FUCKING CARE–

THERE'S A DIFFERENCE

WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE

IT – DOESN”T– MATTER!

‘It doesn't matter.'

Chal's words echoed in my head almost too loudly–as boldly blind and sometimes even dumb as he was, he was also wise, and as it turned out, right–it really didn't matter. Nothing mattered at all. I had gone through the motions of reaching out to him, to of course as expected learn that he and whatever her name was had gone their separate ways;I understood that would be the case nearly immediately back in Mazunte, but as he was insistent he would woo her–and persistent in doing so, that I thought maybe after all love– or what really turned out to be his obstinate lust would win the day–and yet, it hadn't; he was again single and on the prowl– and although at one point I had even lusted after him briefly, trailing behind him in nonchalant platonic carelessness as he obsessively followed another woman, had allowed me to become comfortable enough in the friendzone that i could just simply exist next to him; Now, again faced with homelessness and factoring in my inability to travel much further than south of the border, especially now knowing well how to travel throughout mexico and into Guatemala, I wondered truly if my own self-worth had really been lowered to the point of allowing myself to meet Chal in Guatemala–even full well knowing that he, too, preferred perfect and illy white to my dark skin and quite seemingly matronly features, and, knowing for myself that I wasn't hsi first choice– as he and I had of course met in Mazunte around the same time he had met whom he considered to be ‘his Goddess'-- albeit while on a topless beach and thus hynotized by her breasts. Men were hopeless.

Then, here I was, waking up every other sleep cycle in the cold sweat of a wet dream, the subject of which I typically at least tried to keep deeply hidden in my subconscious psyche as secrets, although by now it seemed there really were none, and all that I knew and that I thought were known and seen by some other than myself–though somehow still holding true to my belied that there really was none other than myself–in my own broken and twisted world, alone and punished in the depths of mediocrity and shame.

Woah.

Riding the bus.

There's nothing lower.

There's walking.

To the bus.

Yah.

And all the sick people. And all the crackheads. And all the–what are those?

Demons

[demon hacks.]

Ugh, fucking–ugh.

SHIA LABOUFF'S obsession with SUPACREE is helga petaki-meets Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah's couch.

Oh, wait, we're back on that storyline?

I mean– I don't know how to write this.

Just write it.

he's a villain, right?

I mean, that suit.

SHIA LA–

FUCK.

WHAT?!

Worst last name EVER.

Well, not ever–

Wait, is he black?!

–It sounds french.

GOOGLE SEARCH:

‘How Jewish is Shia LaBeouf? ‘

–no, he's Cajun –

That's french-black–wait—

–what?

Cajun AND Jewish?

–Yeah–

Jesus!

JESUS

What?

(raises one eyebrow)

SUPACREE strategizes a plan of attack.

Attack for what?

{ATTACK}

YOUUUU INCEPTED ME!!!

AGH!

{COUNTER ATTACK}

NOT ME! DISNEY!

(DODGING COUNTER ATTACK}

Yeah, Blame “Disney!”

I JUST DID.

Oh, yeah, right!!

RAVEN SYMONÉ

It was Disney.

THEY OK'D THIS?!

They bought Marvel!

THEY OK'D EVERYTHING.

—Even the SKRILLEX?

Especially the Skrillex

—Especially the Skrillex.

AGHHHHHHHH——

———-AAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!

SHIA LABEOUF VS SUPACREE:

FIGHT!!!!

Everything looks good—

—everything looks good.

Everything looks fine—

—Everything looks fine.

But wait—

What?

What about that guy?

Oh My—

—oh my…

Is he gonna be alright?

Is that guy

—gonna be alright?

Is that guy gonna be alright?

Is—that guy gonna be alright?

Is that guy gonna be alright

Is that guy—

Gonna be alright?

Is that guy gonna be alright??

Is that guy gonna be alright?!

Is that guy gonna be alright m?

Everything looks good—

—everything looks fine

Looks good—

But what about that guy?

…I don't know about that guy.

Is he alright?

Yo.

Yooo.

Stop writing songs about Skrillex.

((I literally can't.))

What?! It doesn't have to be about Skrillex! It could be about anybody!

Here, they call with disco balls

Stars in my eyes, but stars do fall

First true love dies hard after all,

No star shines bright as morning comes

—(for) Sonny

…I didn't write that.

CUT TO: CC writes automagically between sets of heavy lifting.

IMAGINARY FRIENDS, PART III

DEADMAU5!!!!

okay—one more—then cupcakes—

Cupcakes? No cupcakes!

I WANT CUPCAKES.

Uh—No way!

YES WAY.

Mmm—no

I'm sick of this diet!

I'm not on a diet! I eat!

You eat GRASS.

I'm a vegan.

This shit sucks.

I told you, grass tastes bad.

RICK?!

(I also want cupcakes. )

Mmkay—ohh.

You said that was the last one.

No, more more.

NO “one more”

But I like this one—and it has the right amount of weights on it already—see?

Jesús Christ

He's not here.

(Yes I am).

Why the Fuxk.

I also want cupcakes

Okay, one more

No “one more”

The power of Christ compels ye!

…

Is that how that works?

No.

Maybe.

(((Yes.)))

AGHHH.

The celebrities of Hollywood are gang stalking SUPACREE

Can we—

No.

But I didn't even get to ask the question.

The answer is no.

THE CELEBRITIES OF HOLLYWOOD, after assembling with the Bampheramphs and Morherfuckers, have formed a supergroup tasked with bringing SUPACREE to THE HOLLYWOOD PEOPLE—so far, they have cunningly out-bested and outwitted THE US GOVERNMENT, including but not limited to THE FEDS, THE CIA, THE FBI and THE SECRET SERVICE.

REALLY?

I GUESS.

HOW?!

—

DRAKE snoops on SUPACREE as she writes working half heartedly at THE NECK MACHINE with peaking curiosity, peaking over the time of his sunglasses.

Whats it called.

“Nautilus 4 way neck “

BPM: you're a jerk

Do the Drake

Do the Drake

Do the Drake

Work that neck

Work that—

Neck, Becky

Work that neck,

Work that neck

Do the—

“new note:

Purchase

‘Honestly, nevermind'

I had worked an entre month at LVAC before the circus went underway; Not a single drop of Skrillex had ever been played over the loudspeakers at any moment, for any of the time I had been employed there, nor had it burdened me any of the other time I had spent bettering myself within what I once cherished as sacred walls–now the illusion shattered, as nowhere I could seem to run – even the rural coastal jungle of Mexico-was far enough to escape the clammerings of something I quite honestly very much still loved, but wouldn't allow myself to enjoy—

Or maybe, now, couldn't.

BANGARANG.

‘Fuck this shit.'

I wanted to move, but didn't—I wanted leave, and probably should have, but wouldn't. I just sat there through it as my coworker, standing at about 5'4 ½ in a pair of tight black skinny jeans sang along and bounced rhymically.

What the fuck.

Then, as it had just been earlier that I was thinking of Sonny himself, and how, be it that any of my premonitions were actually accurate and true as I had once thought them to be, there would perhaps come a day that I regretted not listening to his works, just as one regrets not spending time with a loved one before their passing not giving enough attention to the little things, the tiny details, the time they had missed, but never missed without missing their loved one until it was too late. Then again, for me, any time in the then- present was too late, as I had only been followed, taunted, and ridiculed, openly humiliated and embarrassed, and never really paid directly for anything I had done, whether it did have to do with Skrillex or otherwise –and so I had made it more than a point to distance myself from it, anything having to do with it, or him, or anything really, music related—of course besides relying heavily on deadmau5 just for my own existence–that is, willingness wake up, move about the world and its endless, pointless constructs, and even so, completing a worthwhile workout with enough satisfaction that I could allow myself to leave the building–and now, with my commute taking up a grand total of 4 hours of my entire day—I didn't have the time or the energy to stay late into the days and even afternoons as I had before, or to arrive early as I had in the days and weeks before; Now this job was amounting to nothing at all, and I was surely less than breaking even.

Whats the worry?

You've got 20 minutes to write a story!

Don't be sorry

Mind your orders.

You're a war chief

Marry me,

Oh pretty please—

I plead to you, just sing for me

Just think of me as a

Never ending fantasy,

At the very least

When you bury me

—and you buried me alive,

Just for the look of things

What makes us even

Slitting wrists

Or splitting things unevenly

(Either thing benefits me,

And my penis,

I think.)

Make me famous—

She said

Hate me or debate me,

I have everything I need

And I have everything you have,

But I can leave,

All with my dreams intact

I do believe

You think I'm evil

Either way, unnecessary

Why would I sit down and write a story—

When you just did it for me?

Why would I pledge sllwgence to old glory

She's ignoring me;

Why would I change my name to satisfy your needs

When mine sit idly by waiting

Why would I dream of you,

When you dream of me

I have all I need,

You have all of me in the other room

While you watch cartoons wirh your lady

I hate anime and now I hate you to,

But I'm so stupid,

Nothing soothes my moods,

Except playing your tunes,

Or music

Whoop De Fucking do

Would you Marry Me?

He said

(He never did, he just let her—)

She said,

I do

And now they're doomed

I built a tomb for two

The bride and groom

In music

Two by two

And used by Tuesday

Music I presume

To the beautiful

Music I presume

For the usual

Music I presume

For those who —-

SHIA LABEOUF

JUST DO IT.

That is not how the end of the song goes.

No, but this is how the end of the episode goes.

Really!? How?

[CC stares lifelessly forward out of the front window of the double decker bus; a man dressed in all blue catches her attention—another telepathic shapeshifter.]

You brought…an umbrella?

I told you there was a shit storm coming.

Oh, nooh.

Where's yours?

I— don't care?

That's right you don't.

I don't.

That's good you don't.

I really don't.

You don't give a Fuck, or a shit.

I—don't give a fuck or a sh—wait—

DILLON FRANCIS?

I'm good at what I do.

What do you DO?

THIS.

“A Silent Partner”

Oh.

I like that.

That has all kinds of insinuations.

Doesnt it?

Hermph.

Youre a creep.

A Supacreep.

PAUSE

ITS MISTER MAGOOoOOOOOOOooO0oO.

No, it's the IRS.

Fuck.

HOLY SHIT SUNNI.

WHAT.

HOW DO YOU OWE 100,000 IN BACK TAXES?!

Student loan debt.

WHAT. THAT DOESNT MAKE ANY SENSE.

Yes it does.

HOW.

Calm down Marci

—MY ÑAME IS—

[Sunnī Blū subdues her instantly with one if Supacree's mysterious rave weapons]

Sit down, please.

…what is that?

You like it?

Yeah.

[she gives her another dose of strange vapor, she relaxes even further.]

See.

Yeah.

Now that you're happy—

—am i “happy” ?

[she gives her another relaxing dose]

—are you Happy?

Yeah.

Ok. So. I never filed my taxes because I had so much student loan debt, I would never get a tax return because the stupid government would just take it away.

…They're so stupid.

It's s supercomputer.

Huh.

The government is a supercomputer—it's a giant—unfeeling—

Huh?

Nevermind;

But Sunni—

Yes, Manuel—

You finally got my name right!

Yeah. I did.

—but you're rich now—

I'm very rich. Yes.

So then (hiccups) it doesn't matter if the stupid government computer takes your tax return away, cause you're—rich.

Yeah! Rich people don't pay taxes dummy!

Shhhhhhhh…be happy.

[sunni sighs and takes a large huff themselves of the mysterious vapor, however still quite visibly insetttled.

MEANWHILE,

(IN A PARALLEL DIMENSION)

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCKING—FUCKSAUCE

Ooh—fuckity fucksauce?!

FUCK!

Haven't tried that one. Is it purple too!?

SHUTTHEFUCK—UP.

Ooh. It must be really hot. Let me try.

Hello, Dillon Francis.

Oh, no.

Ha.

Did you fuck my best friend?

…I didn't know you…had any friends.

I don't now.

[he hangs his head.]

ALSO MEANWHILE:

(IN ANOTHER PARALLEL)

DIPLO, in a villainous rage nearly murders DILLON FRANCIS, stealing his portal gun and a vast supply of his magic to track down SUPACREE and all of her living incarnations.

Is this along the same timeline as Shia La—

Fuck this dude's last name for real.

For real

_!%]_€

Is it on the same timeline?

I mean, that's insane—SUPACREE is being stalked—

—Hunted—

Hunted by not one—but TWO super-buff celebrities—

Hey, to be fair—I didn't know Shia La—

Whatever—

Whatever. I didn't know he was that buff.

Who expected this?!

Literally no one ever.

How did this happen?!

CUT TO:

What if I threw myself in front of a school bus!?

That would be the 16th time you've died, since you committed suicide

So is that 16, or 17?

Does it matter?

I thought it was 10 to get to Skrillex.

I thought we weren't trying to get to Skrillex

I thought we never left.

We never left.

Fuck.

You've got to run.

It's not a race.

He's very fast.

What if he's spent as much time in the gym as you have?

Huh.

What if he's spent as much time in the studio as you have in the gym?

That's it.

That is it.

This album is really.

Golden.

Golden? Really?

Probably.

Ive never seen gold before—

Oh—

Look.

Look.

What would they even tell the kids?

“Some of you will grow up to amount to nothing and, and out of those some of you, at least one of you might just have the guts to throw yourself in front of a speeding vehicle which represents the very institution which disregarded your existence entirely in the first place.”

Oh.

That's…a lot for a bus full of kids.

Not high schoolers.

Benny Benassi (and the biz) was the word of God today.

Tell me what your spirit says

Show me what you pray

Teach me every single part

I'll be your guide

You are a prisoner

Looking for to be.

Like heroin through a junkie's veins, the song poured through my Hesh 3's like the golden waters of a sacred fountain of wisdom; it made me reflect on the everythingness of all at once, and I was at bliss, even if only for a moment, briefly recalling how I had almost allowed it to be a bad day—but there were no more bad days, I had decided. Everything was in synchronicity, and exactly as it had to be; everything was going along just the way it was supposed to, and I had nothing to worry about. All was in time with the motion of the great flow of life—then, just suddenly—thinking of such synchronicities, as I pulled out my phone to write in the moment—

You can change your face

But can't change your mind

No matter what do you do

No matter what do you do

No matter what do you do

No matter what do you do

No matter what do you do

No matter what do you do

No matter what do you do

No matter what do you do

11:12.

‘FUCK.'

I cocked my head in complete awe to the side

‘Hard flex, Dillon Francis.'

It was still hard to compute that such a man had become my literal muse—and though I knew not the exact meaning of the word—I knew what it meant. It was fascinating to me, and astonishing that something so simple could in my state of once fragile and benign vulnerability, be used as a tool to help complete this hypnotism, whatever it was meant for. I wasn't exactly making music, or anything good really—and I felt like I was bleeding money and certainly not making my worth in dollars for all the effort and energy I was spending just getting to work at all, let alone to work out—but there was still this, though I could finally falter to being irreversibly in love with Sonny Moore, or at least who he might have once been ( or the idea of such, anyway—) I did very much think of Dillon quite fondly and quite repetitively through each and passsing day, and oftentimes in my dreamworld, quite uncontrollably and involuntarily, in whatever way I was, it was forever. It didn't seem to matter, and though I purged myself from actually becoming as obsessive as I had once been with Sonny, I simply left it alone;

‘It doesn't matter!'

Chal's voice sometimes overcoming my own, in the way that I did now wholeheartedly believe that pretty much nothing mattered, especially my emotions or feelings, which I wished would disappear like the title of the album I had actually written and completed but never had the chance to release, and had just the night before eaten in record time 4 entire vegan cupcakes to myself,

—even when I had at least thought to share with my coworkers—a feast which usually took between 24 hours and 3 to four days, if I was moderating correctly. But I hadn't been—I was over stressed from riding busses full of people who didn't care that as the natural empath I had always been, I became gross and dysfunctional as anyone else who rode the bus just off the Las Vegas strip between the hours of 8 PM and 8 AM. Gross.

I successfully pretended not to know who deadmau5 wash and upon being asked what I was listening to on the bus, I simply replied ‘progressive house'—and just later that night, as my coworkers, most of whom were about 10 years younger than I was, clammoired about fame and famous Individuals; dead-mau-five came up randomly in conversation; to which I coyfully resigned from correcting the falsity that it once had “actually” been the correct way to prounounce the artist's name, and that he had “actually” changed it—and still, later on, when for the first time over the loudspeakers, a song by deadmau5 (besides the new kx5 track) came on, nobody but me could seem to recognize that it was him playing—and though I had heard the song by now at least hundreds of times, I couldn't name it…which embarrassed me, and I failed to even look upon the screen to fact-check or correct myself—it was deadmau5, it was good, and at least it wasn't Skrillex…

—who had also, though just behind deadmau5, also “coincidentally” come up in the conversation—this time less sarcastically forging a “who the fuck is that?”—of course, only to be met with what had to be a good minute and a half of my gullible coworkers explaining to me who Skrillex was, as I shrugged and nodded unassuminglu as if I didn't want to shoot myself in the foot just to dance to the tune of my own funural music.

(Whatever that means.)

Back to Benny Benassi

Are you sleeping? Ooh. I'm sorry.

Back to the Diverging lateral pull down, st a weight that looked too heavy, but was actually almost too light.

Whose job is that?

Ehmm— Skrillex!

Is that what he does?

Is that what this is?

—BABY, ID LOVE FOR YOU TO TOUCH ME BAAAAABAY—

ALSO:

THE US GOVERNMENT has gotten a new fleet of JEEPS.

Who is this.

[American flag automatic antenna extends from the back of the vehicle.]

Ooh.

What is that?

WE GOT HER

GO ARMY, BITCH!

Why is the Army following me?!

You can time travel!

So!

They can not.

Oh. I can shapeshift, too—why didn't they follow me when I started doing that in public?

They sent navy seals!

They did?! When?!

Flashback: SUPACREE is swimming when caught in a rogue wave, quickly transforming into a whale, before washing up on shore and transforming back into her human self, right before the eyes of the navy seals team.

What the fuck.

ABORT.

WHAT?! She's right there!

I SAID ABORT.

MORPHEUS.

What. I'm retired.

I know, look—

Don't call me—

I need a pill!

How did you get this number?!

It's The Matrix.

Touché.

I know, huh.

Don't call me. [hangs up]

[she calls his other line, he picks up unwittingly ñ]

Hello?

I need a pill!

You—have them!! Don't you?!

No!

What is “no”?

I don't need the red pill, or the blue pill!

Then I can't help you!

You're the only one that can help!

Have you tried Jesus?

Jesús is busy! Listen to me!

—Jesús is always listening—

I need the purple pill.

The what—what?!

The purple pill!

…you know what?

…what?

Dont—call me anymore.

[hangs up]

What the fuck!

[redials]

Call from: MOM

Hey Mom—

Hey, Morpheus.

What the Fuck!

You what the fuck! Help me!

God Help You! WHERE's my MOTHER?!

I AM GOD.

WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY MOTHER

—I Am your mother, Morpheus. And I just made your favorite: pecan pie—…

…

—without pecans.

…

…

…

Meet me at Fatastik.

Uh…the swap meet?

Near the Rugs.

What?!

—bring the pie!

[hangs up]

Damn, what's gonna happen now?!

I don't know. Ask Dillon Francis.

What does Dillon Francis have to do with this?

I dunno. Apparently a lot.

[shrugs]

MEAHAHILE:

DILLON FRANCIS screams uncontrollably.

CUT TO:

BEYONCE is a big fan.

Oh wow, that's incredible.

No, LITERALLY

BEYONCÈ, mastering her shape shifting abilities has transformed herself into a giant fan.

WOW.

That is cool.

(Literally.)

Get it?

SHUTUP.

[CC in a high intensity workout-induced trance merges with the character DUFF as she locks her legs across the rotary torso machine. ]

DUFF is paralyzed from the waist down after crash landing feet-first from her pod; She has landed in present day earth, first spotted by millions as a UFO; upon rescuing her from the fiery crash, recovering the remains of her futuristic vehicle raises questions from the whole world about her true origins and mission's purpose—however, stricken wirh Amnesia, she only recalls that her name is DUFF, and has very few memories preceding her discovery—it is clear that she is a human, and a high-ranking military trained space explorer—but remembers nothing of her own origins. It is suspected that she may indeed be a time traveler from the distant future.

WOAH

I know, huh.

That's what's happening in that series?! Damn!

I know, huh!

Sometimes I surprise muself.

And I'm not even listening to deadmau5.

So what's Beyoncé got to do with this storyline?

Something, I'm sure.

Synesthesia.

Oh—yeah, that.

She's so pink!

Don't be gross.

I— whatever. duff.

DUFF!

DUFF!!!

[DUFF is caught in a lucid dream; the original SUPACREE is in a coma after her failed suicide attempt—their worlds collide.]

Beyoncé's voice looked to me as if butterflies had long streams of silk woven wings, fluttering eloquently in hues of fluorescent pink and painted shades of rose-tinted streaking blues, auroras of bubblegum entertaining with breezy mellow waves of yellow and flooding bursts of bright purple—a pure joy in my ear sight, which meant nothing to the world, but everything to me.

Creating literal auroras I had only ever before seen in the frigid arctic night skies of Alaska, sometimes I simply had to close my eyes and breathe in deeply the fluid and sometimes glowing and velvety cascades—more so pronounced than the ones I had observed in finally linking kaskade's unique electronic sound to his name—probably because rather than having come from a synthesizer, it was Beyoncé's naturally unnatural voice—and by unnatural, I only meant that it was such a singularity that divinity itself had to have put her hands into allowing such a phenomenon to exist.

I had indeed fallen In love with the talent and aura of this too-perfect southern belle—but one doesn't simply aspire to be Beyoncè at the ripe old age of 30; a lifetime of dedication to artistry could only result in such an immaculate perfection in performance—perfection I humbly honored, but tried my best not to crave.

[CC, on the brink of being BLŪ but not having yet arrived in the true belief of her own accomplishments or potential. emotionally stuffs her face unforgivingly with Oreo cookies; a silent, friendly ghost, the ghost of the late great COOKIE MONSTA seats himself softly beside her on the bed. Another guardian Angel.]

What up, Cookie Monster.

I Am Cookie Monster— ugh—

[Realizing she is once again confronted with a ghost DJ, after having been visited by Avicii and I_O now years earlier, but still an ever-present memory.]

COOKIE MONSTA?!

[He shrugs as she stuffs another cookie in her mouth, literally overflowing with cookie and reeling in the discomfort of double-stuffiness.

Ughhhhh—I cant feel my face.

I can't feel anything.

Consider yourself lucky.

I consider myself ‘dead'

Yeah, me too.

Well, you shouldn't.

Says the ghost.

Youre the gh0st.

Oh yeah, huh…

[he shrugs and nods]

Huh. Yeah right.

But it seemed like I would never make dubstep—working two jobs, riding the bus—and despite my sweet tooth, my shrinking waistline and quest for physical perfection in the peak of my absolute loneliness, distrust for the world, and disdain for the injustice of society. All it seemed like I did really have that was mine, was deadmau5 blasting through my ears at any given moment as my dirty little secret—Oreos, my synestetic facination with Beyoncé, and, of course, one of the best athletic clubs in the world at my disposl, given that I had the time or energy to use it.

Altogether self-serving, señf-soothing, and best of all self loathing—navigating life had become more outwittinglu experiencing infinite death thsn not—an endless ego death in the confines of my own limitations and judgements. I had put myself in a shelf entirely—and now, I didn't know what I was writing for, but I was still writing. Even without making music, music seemed to make itself out of the words that could connect with my broken and tired spirit in whatever synchronization it took to type out a song, or a novel, or a suicide letter, or a screenplay—whatever it was. I didn't know.

And…

‘It doesn't matter.

COOKIE MONSTA fades away into the reminiscent whisper of a ghost, as CC falls asleep, hugging a pillow and still clutching an Oreo in one hand and her crystals in the other. The room spins as she fades into the dreamworld, lost in her self and the world within.

Might be a saint,

But the back doors open and

The oven's on so,

I won't close it,

If it gets too warm, you know

I'll want you to hold me

I might be lonely

I might be lonely

I might be

(((A)))

S-s-s-superstar,

Where are ye?

Real nice car,

A mazzarati you bought me

High speed dodging the paparazzi

I got to be lucky

I got to be the lucky one

We sure are lucky, aren't we

Darling, you're sparking

Park this thing

Spark me up

Let's party

What are we?

S-s-s-superstars,

Yeah

Red carpet party

Set the alarm,

No harming a full carbon body

Yah

You want this blonde fawning for your autograph?

Or you want me?

What are we—

Let's party;

Just us three

Right here in the lobby

Oh my god,

That's just raunchy

Stop to talk

The audacity

Or night at the odyssey

Whichever one

Haunts me less awfully

C'mon! We don't follow the models!

They follow me!

What the Fuck

Kind of husband

Does this

1x1 = nothin

The marriage was loveless

But honest,

I'd honor it over another,

And that was the start of

Another concept album

FADE TO BLUE

TO BE CONTINUED.

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