The Spider (EP) - Track 01. - The Spider

It was fergalicious // —derelictions. Lmfao what a beautiful misspelling. I agree . BRING ON THE CREAM OF WHEAT. Dammit. What. I forgot about that scene with Josh Peck. Which scene with Josh Peck? All of them, That's right. Well, did Josh Sign on? I don't know. Does it matter, Of course it matters! HEY. ITS ME. JOSH?! YES! Where are you? I'M STUCK IN— He lowers his voice into a whisper —I'm stuck in The blacklands! You WHAT. I'm— nevermind. Just come get me. Ok. What's the address? It's 4545– Uh huh— West— Uh huh— You know what? Nevermind just meet me at jfk. I think I can get there from here. what?! You're in New York!? YEAH, man! That's tough. What? I'm in Los Angeles! I get that! Catch a flight. What? What? Catch a flight? Yes. Please! I can't! Why not? My money's all tied up right now… Tied up— in what?! INT. THE DUNGEON. LOS ANGELES. DUNGENTIME Several women in leather and harnesses are literally tied up; bound to decorative sculptures dancing strangely to wild music under fluorescent lights. Uh…just…tied up. What?! —but you still owe me! Sorry, dude! I just— can't. Can. I—I can't. You know what. I'm not gonna forget this. Of course not. You're like an elephant; you don't forget anything. Was that a reference to my previous predicament of plumpness. Nobody's saying that. You just did! A girl walks by and slaps Drake's butt. Hey—hi! Who are you taking to? Just a friend. Are you at a party. I wouldn't call it that. You're at a party! It's—I'm not! Girl in background: woo! Another girl starts grinding on Drake You're at a party! You asshole! I'm not— You—you had better find a way to come and get me right now— Why do I have to come and get you?! Why can't you just catch a flight. Because! Because why?! Because—I can't—just— Girl: great party! Uh— ARE YOU SERIOUS. Sorry— I— COME GET ME RIGHT NOW. I can't—I don't have any—money! Well, figure it out! He hangs up phone angrily. [beat] You don't take refunds, do you? Before: Hey. It's you. It's me—who? You know who. I promise, I don't. Yeah—- I know you. You're that one dude from that show— What show? With the two dudes. Two and a half men? No, the other one. Will and Grace? That Sounds gay. Mike and Molly? What? No— Then I don't know— I know who you are— yeah— Uh, okay. Where's your friend? It seemed something was reading my brainwaves entirely, and by some sort of dysfunction, I began to be curious about what kind of technology or being might do such a thing. And strand of random thought about strange and simple things, or people— seemed to be at once interrupted by some sense of terrible abnormality or aversion—not that there were such thoughts about the man that had been normal at all, as I had become practically incapable after all of wandering into unwanted and dark charters, myself unwanted the most bizzare of thoughts which had occurred, and however, it was second to none, the most crucially eye opening experience of the entire awakening to begin with, to have been altered in such a way that at any sorts, the only collisions between the celebrity and I had been to return the obstructions with mantras—prayers of sorts—, good tithing and well wishes, as it seemed something was wrong of course, but not to say that in an intuitive sense I was either wrong or right—seeming so that it was after all, I had been right about Sonny in the same exact way. Something had been terribly and deep wrong, and I had somehow known it—and now something in the exact same striking way, though near seven years later, seemed true—however, within the restraints of my own morale, I had chosen that, as someone not particularly ever having belonged to his fandom at all, and only having taken an interest of sorts in my own mark of endeavors, that being as such, a public figure, and of high visibility, and in the best interest of the children at all— his and mine, that any matter of judgement should be left remarkably alone, It was a matter of safety and protection for myself, and so within the mounds of which things had such been written into the walls and foundations of the festival project, I had with intention begun to hide all traces of what had been chosen, not to be spoken at all, but crafted into words out of heart, some sort of duty of the overall outlook at large. The sirens were fine, but the motorcycles weren't making it into the album. They had already ruined most of the seasons episodes since I had moved into the apartment, and I refused to allow them into what would be supplemented into my musical repertoire—because as it were, it almost seemed that they were doing it on purpsoe, to become markers of time within my recordings as a matter of importance—when in fact, they weren't. And though what some might have thought the devil to have his hand in attempting to rule the world, he did not rule mine, but was simply a facet of the things that represented weak and unworthy men, who had no such power upon the earth but to take away from its love and light with his own weak spirit and tainted mind. These men were no more than fools given too much in pride and not enough in wisdom, as to be so deranged in acting as if no one mattered besides themselves. What good do you do to anyone besides yourself? What good can I do? very well, for now. Write. I don't have much time left. What do you mean, ‘you don't have much time left?' —! —unless, you don't want to have much time left. Where are you? Anywhere. False ties, And false truths Stolen reality Programmed shadows, And drains of So— caskets, then? (Shaking hand firmly) Caskets. We beforehand had agreed to a friendly game of caskets, amongst the other games we had made to play, and though a game of Caskets was never friendly, we had, at least, at face value, agreed to a for the sake to each other's willingness to carry on, play by the rules. There were already other games in play, none of which anyone in any given circumstance could gather at all, who was ahead, or who was behind, but one—and though I had certainly been making gains towards progression, had given up in even trying any longer at the fame game. He appeared to have won and taken on the full suit. Indeed— He lived in a house of cards, And mine of glass— Both fragile upon The casting of stones None of which Either would dare To throw. I'll see you in 1950. Fine— you'd better make it this time, ior you'll have to wait until the next fall of Rome. If Rome falls again in the next archive, I quit. You said that in the last archive. I was sure there would be no fall. If there's no fall, there's no here or there. Yeah, but maybe there's somewhere else— And I'll see you there. 1950. Do you think this is on Google's network. It has to be. I've got some guy hacking outside my door, The cops and robbers going at it with sirens and motorcycles, The robot next door offering a peace treaty— Or a time bomb— And of course, No Jimmy Fallon. At least it's the turn of the season so these weirdos actually have a reason to keep hacking up a lung. At least that. Maybe they're just attempting entry into the afterlife. Fine, but whatever's waiting for them on the other side After disturbing all my peace Can't be any better, Than what I've got. I'm on my way out. To live again. Someone must have by now noticed that gang stalking breaks a basic moral code, and by the time they've accomplished anything in one way or another, they're met with the same exact treatment for punishment as they've done to other people; the system then turns on its own self, eventually rewarding the victim of said stalking with promotion or progressing, and reprogramming the firmer stalker to be stalked his or herself. Tortured, hacked, coughed at—ridiculed and humiliated, intruded pubkically, and eventually, maybe even—driven to death of insanity via mental deterioration and dysfunction. What can you expect! You gave Google your number name and address. I also gave them the answers to questions they were looking for out of actual space, instead of cyberspace. You're right, you are worth more dead than alive. Are you enjoying yourself at all? Oh, no, i'm— [The Festival Project ™] You know that thing where, Someone attractive to you, can do something for you, And it's flattering and really appealing— But if someone ugly does it, Then it's creepy, And feels like, uncomfortable, and it's overstepping boundaries? Yeah. Well, this just assumes that I'm the creepy guy, in this scenario— —alright. And that Jimmy Fallon is the pretty girl. That's—making sense. It's— solid. Airtight. Hey look, It's Jimmy Falalalalalala— Lawsuit. Ahahah. Why are you laughing? We're getting sued! I'm getting sued. Exactly! Yeah that's hilarious How is that “hilarious” Cause I'm getting sued by Jimmy— Fuck you. Fuck you, Jimmy Fa— Ultline. Oh, shit. Step on a crack, break your momma's EARTHQUAKE. Goddamn. Niggly Nigga is the niggliest nigga that ever nigga'd. NIGGLY NIGGA works at PIGGLY WIGGLY. –are you sure? It's been like three fucking weeks. THREE WEEKS. Well, I guess he just started working at Piggly Wiggly. What happened to your job at the Hobby Lobby? … It wasn't working out. {Enter The Multiverse} Yo. The late night guys are mad weird. Somehow, the hosts of late night television have all mysteriously been locked into an unfamiliar mansion, without their suits—and pants—unable to find an exit. All of the doorways are blocked—and all of the windows have been altered—they do not open, nor can anyone see out of them; in fact, they are doctored with the same illusionary backdrops that can be seen on the sets of their own shows—the televisions, which, have seemingly been programmed to only play reruns of their own shows. Why— why aren't you wearing pants!? I don't know. Where's your suit? You should be wearing a suit! I know, right?! Who the fuck even are you?! Depends whose asking. YO, CONAN. WOAH. You're not a late night host! Thank God! That seems like an awful job—your demographic fucking sucks. My demographic does suck. But to counter that— I'm a Republican. Who knew?! Not my demographic. Okay, everybody calm down. (Everybody was already calm, but for the most part just confused, and pant less; most of them wear the same classic boxers, though in different patterns/ slightly varying colors—but of course, nothing too crazy, while only one host sports boxer briefs, and one (I'll let you guess who) ladies panties.) At least we all have our own rooms. I don't! I'm stuck in a twin bed and Leno has the other. Before: JAY LENO Good Morning, bright eyes. CUT BACK TO: Aren't you retired? I do moonlighting. LENO and FALLON seem somewhat comfortable and non-biased (read: unbothered entirely) over the morning paper and coffee at opposite ends of the large breakfast table, a continental style breakfast of croissants, seasonal fruit, with an assortment of cereals arranged in the kitchen. FALLON occasionally looks up from his paper to laugh at himself on the television, playing in the kitchen. The other hosts squint with allied disgruntlement of FALLON'S nonchalance and slightly narcissistic egotism. FALLON (reading paper, watching self; eating croissant, sipping coffee) Haha. Nobody has pants, and as the hosts will soon discover—this is with purpose. They have been trapped here as part of an experimental game show, in which the unrecognized and uninformed guest will host, as part of a test shoot aimed at the demographic of the late night hosts combined audience, to test whether or not this demographic will be positively receptive to a late night host who is also a woman of color (read: black) —without a white male counterpart co-host to soften the blow. Really? This is why they're doing this? Who is “they?!” The network. We all work for different networks! I'm pretty sure the only reason I have a demographic is because of my accent. It's true. They accept you. Right. Where are the women. An overhead voice: (They are coming) Oh, so I will have co-hosts. Guest co-hosts; they will vary and change from episode to episode. Oh. Thank Goodness. Don't thank me yet. Uh, okay—overhead voice… Let's just say I'm the narrorator.. Narrorator for what [this is also a movie] Uh. In what genre? [a host opens the cabinet to a bloody chuckie- like doll, which pops out from a mechanical arm with a high pitched scream; the host lets out a squeal, abandoning his coffee— we see a hidden camera pov from the camera's perspective, and then slow-motion replay footage of the host's reaction— he runs frantically pantless into a corner and then up the stairs. —Depends on the host. FALLON, who has been sitting at the table behind him, is still unaffected/unmoved. Himself makes a joke on the TV screen above— he giggles at himself, sipping coffee and looking back to his newspaper the other hosts groan; LENO shrugs and continues, delightfully finishing smearing a bagel and biting into it— he trades FALLON the comics he's been reading for the RELIGION section he's been scoping under the magified lenses of his readers, quietly and sweetly, like an old married couple, without even exchanging a glance or speaking to one another. Ugh. Suddenly, from the floor above. OH DEAR GOD. CRAIG FURGUSEN has just realized his worse nightmare. The hosts still standing at the bottom floor in the kitchen all look up, wide eyed. [Cursing in unintelligible Scottish] ———- They said that you were one of us, but you're not one of us. But you're not one of us. Of course not, I'm not a comic— I studied philosophy in college. That should be funny, but it's not. I would repeat what I just said, but I don't want to. Still not funny. What if I farted? Bubbles—water—maybe— some potential. But probably not. Shame. What are you reading? I'm not; I'm having banter with a crazy-eyed late night host in a bathrobe. Well how's this for a book mark? He opens his robe. (Unimpressed) Aren't you married? Arent we all? I digress. Embarrassed and nervous, he quickly closes his robe. Yes. To a blonde. Congratulations. Where should I send the card? I'm not giving you my address! Creepy fan—stand up, wanna be… He frustratedly begins to exit You're the one standing, technically —And I'll be the last one standing! At the end of the week, it's gonna be me in those pants! Me! Clearly, this show of affection has all been an attempt to bribe “CC”, into being pursuaded into awarding this particular host “The Pants”. The hosts will compete for “The Pants” at the end of the first week of challenges. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.