CIRCV5z.

…If you haven't seen him at his worst… WHERE'S MY SHIT?! …yo…you are so evil… [*breaks everything*] …Then you don't deserve him at his best. I'm your host, Jimmy Fallon And this— Is TRUTH OR DARE?! ‘ This dude is easily the best villain ever. Easily. {Enter The Multiverse} Blue eyes, it is. I wish, I wish, Be careful what you wish for, Or cook in a Petri dish The world is a stage, The people a plague The magic was gone, The days were the same. [The Festival Project ™] Blonde hair, blue eyes; Live once, lose twice— Brown skin, brown eyes Die inside. (Or just die.) {Rewind} Captain Captain! Oh, Good, come in, Cannon. You've—changed. …as you know, Monday we disembark. Yes, I'm aware. And as you know, the details of the mission have been classified, even to us. Yes. I find that alarming. And so, without anymore thought I've decided to masquerade as my old self. How old are you, anyway? You should never ask a woman her age, LT. Sargent. * or the other way around, I clearly don't know. Sorry. Your recent promotion keeps slipping my mind; I…haven't been myself lately… Obviously not, if you've decided to publicly dress like that. I'm still very much in the privacy of my office. You can consider me the spokesperson on behalf of the public. Never as a woman her age! You're not a woman; you're my captain. We'll see about that after tonight. Being a woman, or being my captain? Both, probably. Hm. By any chance would you be interested in joining me? As your subordinate, or as a man. Both, probably. Or neither… presumably. As my escort. I beg your pardon. I've been known to become rather out of sorts in this condition. —er, your condition, captain? Dead drunk and blind with fear out of my mind. [he ponders for a moment, knowing that the mission could very well be their last.] Consider it done. Great. Get dressed, and meet me with the car out front in half an hour. Half an hour? Sharp. Bonus points for showing up early. We're earning points? We are now. Very well then. What am I wearing? Something sharp. Sharper than the inside of a half hour. On your mark. I'll—see you soon. He exits the captain's office, letting out a sigh of relief otherwise previously congested, he looks around as if not to be caught, regains his composure with the shake of his head, somewhat in disbelief of what he's witnessed. He casually places his hands in his pockets, walking down the hall and passing one of his crew mates, who quickly stops to salute him. Sergeant. Almost forgetting to salute back, mindlessly drifting passed in ‘off' mode, he slowly and squarely, almost still casually, salutes back. Oh. I had glimpsed at a picture of the man once more that had forced me to wonder— “Jesus Christ, is he okay?” It would be odd to think of a man who has spent a better part of the last two decades and most of his careers on camera as unphotogenic, then again—I had been tricked by the media before into thinking a certain way, and therefore was cautious, and still—I began to wonder about the man and his misery, and his mistresses—not out of jealousy or obsession, but simply because I knew he had them. He was old Hollywood, or old New York—or maybe a bit of both, and there was something about it all, perhaps even my own darkness, that danced with the flicker of sinful lust that motioned me towards not a yearning, or the act of doing so—I was at least wise enough to know nothing good could come from doing harm to oneself or another— but with the intensity of burning desire to know the man behind the mask—the actor inside the actor, to whom all the world's a stage. Whatever, though. Doesn't matter. At least I was still somehow youthfully resilient to what might have otherwise been torture, TVP S2- after Esha's promotion to head writer. DAEMON DALLAS, aka “DASH” is a quick witted, fast-talking comic powerhouse— his legendary stand up and acting career has made him a legendary force in movies, film, and television; he has been booked on the show to sit down with his longtime friend Patrick about his new stand up comedy tour. — Who's this beautiful sister. My head writer; don't even think about it. I dont think. I just do. Esha approaches— Dash politely bo s and kisses Esha's hand Should I get tested? —and funny. Against Patrick's wishes, Esha accepts a date with daemon dash, furious Patrick means to interrogate her Why would you even date that asshole Because—Pat. He's a comedian. I'm a comedian! So? So, he's funny. And? And he said things to me— What kind of things Charming, funny things— Okay? Things he wouldnt say to you over dinner— because, I'm —you're a woman. —and your head writer. So naturally. Esh, you're a genius, So is he. We have—some new material to work through. Ahq! Your monologue tonight. Oh yes. Oh yes. You can thank me later. Broken bottles. :9'd one stop her Walkin walking God knows I don't belong here And I don't want to Passover was April 21-30 Global War on Terrorism Aka WWIII Oh, indeed. Don't look left Take a deep breath My heart beats differently I think it might be the end I think it might be I think I might be the enemy. The pushing mechanism When i breath him in I levitate And gravitate to what it meant The sake of the art, The hurt of the heart As sacred as it ever was The turning or the Torah talks of Gestures, since the fall of Rome The toga on the alter Solid hands unwrap us all From falling over Old and awkward No award for wisdom No rest for the wiser No love for the troll Since thunder struck from under us, Delivered all but what we wanted So we talk of karma sutra, Surely we can't talk at all Of what we know As once was bonded Laughed it off To come from what The call to us, Fair serve governors fortress I work up in mentions Carved the scarlet letter out of Cannons, of course MA. WHAT. I'm BUSY. ITS ON. The what? The show we watch! The one that— YES, Oh, my GOD. Yes. YESSSSSSSSS. Usnavi, get your popcorn This is some worth watching Up in arms for forwards Causing sore arms, Numb thumbs From crucifixes Are you wondering what God Would walk about the horned carving A kamazake walk of tall corn— Follow me, dear mantra Your whole house is watching. Sacre. It's happening again isn't it. I do want ice cream. All I need is a divorce And an Amazon woman 10 foot tall To rub me off at the stroke of Nevermind what the clock says In God's house they're all wrong The blsphomoous for Catholics Has begun, So strum your number into the teleprompter And just hope no one gets hurt By the hook on the next song —like the hook of my last surviving bra digs into my back does, Or the skin on my lack of tummy Has rubbed off under the suicide Of the cycle— It's getting tighter A loss of interest is equal to A loss of conciousness And I'm 21 days drunk On the alternate, though— I'm sober and feeling less Loved. The animal I've become is all cardio And karma sutra For karma comes To the weak of heart To use the world as swords To cause harm To the calm artists I thought I told you off once. (Already) You look awful. lol. You look terrible, broh. But my album sound fire. #producerholes [portal] It's coffee time!! It's not coffee time! It's not coffee time. Iiiiits coffee time. Damn. Where's the cat. Gestating. {Enter a the Multiverse} Wake up in a wet bed, sweat pouring engine strikes Disaster, roaring Ranting, raving,, Lunatics, icons Ione, eye color No warning: I want you Adonis New Adonis I got something for you; It's got four doors, I know you can't afford it, Come on, Only one offer Come on, You know I want you What I want a car in New York for? Even the scorecard, Cork off the bottle, huh? Go figure. I got sharp numbers, No harm no foul ball; Still stick in the Capstone, There's a sandstorm On the first montage. Pitch up, With the fever pitch With the fever pitch downstroke UP Pitch down With the force With the force Or What have you Play ball, No– playfair Payboy model Wayfair value Strict non-orders Foreigner syndrome Alcohol bottle Palinstrome, Astronomy No, Farquad Noah's Ark and all Going door to door, the doctor Doing more and more The Talk show host Losing more the Mortimer, Call it Losing more, The Watchamacalit, Chocolate bar, So far, Hard to forget No, Hard Ball, Soft pitch Watch this. THE COSMIC AVENGER (V.O) I cannot resist a chocolate cake! Huh. Seriously, I'm telling you. *sniffs* hm. {Enter The Multiverse} Yo, i'm telling you: she's spot on. Like, scary accurate. Precise. Always right. Even on Tuesdays. Why would it matter if it's Tuesday or not? Most Psychics are wrong on Tuesdays. Really. You didn't know about this? Never heard that. Most of them. Last I saw Kurt he seemed to be okay—doing well for a place so cold, and still, almost enjoying his time, somewhere cold enough that the chill on his breath grasped at mine, as I was prone to waking in these moments. Anymore ghosts? Who'd you want!? More players. And as it turns out, Strike force five was nothing but a simple game, Played by a group of— MOM Boys?! Supper! INT. BASEMENT- THE SUBURBS, ANYEAR In a distant parallel, it is a nondescript year of a indeterminable past time— in non linear time, we could be anywhere, but for period's sake, it appears to be anywhere between the 1930's and the early 1960's, the home itself adorned with qualities of any of these given eras; the clothing classic, dreamlike— pre or post war? Was there a war at all in this parallel; and it seems a partially imagined place altogether — it is, in fact, a dreary and almost comic book other world— a cross- parallel. The boys vary in ages from 8 to about 12, and between the five of them, brash little Irish lads, besides one English chap, whom anyone would probably bet at least at some point in his lineage was probably also Irish (or Irish enough) have summoned up, though amidst a flurry of baseballs cards and other boyish relics, seem to have assembled from old newspaper cuttings and superhero memoriabilia—some sort of game on the basement floor, though, they bicker and argue so much about how the game should be played that it is unclear whether they're playing any game at all, or just rapid-firing ‘jokes' at one another with absolute disconcert for anyone's feelings. They call themselves — Nevermind, it can wait. {Enter The Multiverse} What is this nonsense You fucking dork. I'm a key player. Speaking of keys— Wasn't me. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. The Complex Collective ©