{“Ah. We Meet Again.”}

CARL COX curses BLŨ out in an extreme show of brilliantly vile COCKNEY FASHION.

CARL COX
[unintelligible cockney]

BLŪ

I have no idea what you just said, or why you're yelling at me!

CARL COX
(Sarcastically)

Well how's this—? “Ello, poppet!”

In THE DJ storyline )which is technically storyline a, we've just discovered DJ DILLON FRANCIS used BLU — (originally CC) as a sort of horcrux for his darkest magical intentions.

Now the DJS are in a rush to extract this device before time runs out.

Wtf did Dillon Francis do?

YO HE LITERALLY MADE HER INTO A POPPIT.

What the fuck is a poppit.

It's like a little fuckin— thing— witches use to store magical energy and when the spell is over you're supposed to destroy them— but he DIDNT and it came to life and it merged with CC!

Yooooooo!

Who is now blu Tha Gürū, because Chak Chel dissappeared— or sort of dissappeared— to aide in the magical assasination of

Let me guess—

No don't guess, you could ruin it.

What.

Don't literally ruin it. The show exists in a multiversial construct which means anything you say, or think, or guess could unintentionally alter the plot, and skew it into an array of infinitely possible dimensions!

Oh no! But I already thought!

Shh! No you didn't! Just replace those thoughts— with better ones z—

I don't have any better thoughts!

Well, make some up.

Uh— ok!

Shh, it's coming back on this is where it gets intense.

I thought you've never seen this before

I know! But I know it gets intense!

Well, how do you know that?!

BECAUSE I KNOW THAT ALREADY.

{Enter The Multiverse}

ENTER THE MULTIVERSE is getting intense.


BLŪ
WHAT. NO ITS NOT!

I can't take it
I just can't take it
I just can't take it no more
I just can't n

THE SKY IS FALLING!

WHY?'

I don't know. Seems pretty intense though, doesn't it.

FUCK YOUUUUUU DEADMAU55555555!

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!! I am DEADMAU—

*powers down*

Ah, fuck.


KATT WILLIAMS is coaching the NBC GAMES.

KATT WILLIAMS
Alright, b-ball time! Shirts! Versus skins!

you can be skins, Jimmy Fallon. *winks*

Ew.

She's so fucking gross.

I don't get it.

Uh— what? No I can't. I'm wearing a suit. I'm sure it's fused to my skin, or something.

(This is actually the VICE AGENT version of the dude, who is wired head to toe. If he takes his shirt off, it will blow his cover.)

SKINS.

Fuck.

L E G E N D S


HE DUPED YOU!

I BELIEVE THAT! He's good at everything! Especially things like that!

WE'LL KILL HIM!

NO ONE CAN KILL HIM. HE IS IMMORTAL.

–doesn't mean we can't try.

*dramatic music*

[beat]

WHAT?!

I SAID–

I CAN'T HEAR YOU, THERE'S A HELLICOPTER LEVITATING DIRECTLY OVER US!

I KNOW! THAT'S WHY I WAS YELLING TOO, IT'S JUST–

[Suddenly they realize, it is the he of who they speak hovering in the helicopter.]

*GASP*

DOn'T.

{it's too late. He unloads a clip from an automatic rifle]

THOSE ARE BANNED IN EUROPE.

YOU COULD HAVE FOOLED ME!

I KNOW I COULD HAVE! BECAUSE YOU ARE QUITE OBVIOUSLY EASILY FOOLED!

ENOUGH.

The helicopter scoops down and unrolls a ladder.

W–wait! ARE YOU GETTING IN THE HELLICOPTER WITH HIM?!

(dramatically)

It appears so.

WHAT.

YES! YES I AM GETTING INTO THE HELLICOPTER. ARE YOU GONNA SHOOT AT ME

*confused*

*shurgs*

(he gives up)

..of course not.

Well then, I believe it is YOU that has been duped.

WHAT!??!?

GOOD DAY, SIR.

Lil Bitz

They really nominated Stephen Colbert for an Emmy, and then fired him the next day.

What on Earth.

What did you do at the party, bro? Be honest!

They literally we're like,

Wednesday: You're nominated for an Emmy award!

Thursday: You're cancelled!

Cancelled, bro.

How do you cancel the late show? That was David Letterman.

The whole point of a show like that is so it goes on forever!

Nope, cancelled! Daaaamn.

You better win that Emmy now, bruh.

{Enter The Multiverse}

HOW THE FUCK DID WAYNE BRADY GET IN HERE!

I dont know how Wayne Brady got in here!

Keep an eye on him. I heard he's polyscientific in his sexual proclivities.

Oh. Okay then.

L E G E N D S

CARL COX curses BLŨ out in an extreme show of brilliantly vile COCKNEY FASHION.

CARL COX
[unintelligible cockney]

BLŪ

I have no idea what you just said, or why you're yelling at me!

CARL COX
(Sarcastically)

Well how's this—? “Ello, poppet!”

In THE DJ storyline )which is technically storyline a, we've just discovered DJ DILLON FRANCIS used BLU — (originally CC) as a sort of horcrux for his darkest magical intentions.

Now the DJS are in a rush to extract this device before time runs out.

Wtf did Dillon Francis do?

YO HE LITERALLY MADE HER INTO A POPPIT.

What the fuck is a poppit.

It's like a little fuckin— thing— witches use to store magical energy and when the spell is over you're supposed to destroy them— but he DIDNT and it came to life and it merged with CC!

Yooooooo!

Who is now Blū Tha Gürū, because Chak Chel disappeared— or sort of disappeared— to aide in the magical assasination of

Let me guess—

No don't guess, you could ruin it.

What.

Don't literally ruin it. The show exists in a multiversial construct which means anything you say, or think, or guess could unintentionally alter the plot, and skew it into an array of infinitely possible dimensions!

Oh no! But I already thought!

Shh! No you didn't! Just replace those thoughts— with better ones z—

I don't have any better thoughts!

Well, make some up!

Uh— ok!

Shh, it's coming back on: this is where it gets intense.

I thought you've never seen this before

I know! But I know it gets intense!

Well, how do you know that?!

BECAUSE I KNOW THAT ALREADY.

{Enter The Multiverse}

ENTER THE MULTIVERSE is getting intense.

BLŪ
WHAT. NO ITS NOT!

I can't take it
I just can't take it
I just can't take it no more
I just can't n

THE SKY IS FALLING!

WHY?'

I don't know. Seems pretty intense though, doesn't it.

FUCK YOUUUUUU DEADMAU55555555!

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!! I am DEADMAU—

*powers down*

Ah, fuck.

{Enter The Multiverse}
ICONS

KATT WILLIAMS is coaching the NBC GAMES.

KATT WILLIAMS
Alright, b-ball time! Shirts! Versus skins!

…you can be skins, Jimmy Fallon. *winks*

Ew.

She's so fucking gross.

I don't get it.

Uh— what? No I can't. I'm wearing a suit. I'm sure it's fused to my skin, or something.

(This is actually the VICE AGENT version of the dude, who is wired head to toe. If he takes his shirt off, it will blow his cover.)

SKINS.

Fuck.

L E G E N D S


HE DUPED YOU!

I BELIEVE THAT! He's good at everything! Especially things like that!

WE'LL KILL HIM!

NO ONE CAN KILL HIM. HE IS IMMORTAL.

–doesn't mean we can't try.

*dramatic music*

[beat]

WHAT?!

I SAID–

I CAN'T HEAR YOU, THERE'S A HELLICOPTER LEVITATING DIRECTLY OVER US!

I KNOW! THAT'S WHY I WAS YELLING TOO, IT'S JUST–

[Suddenly they realize, it is the he of who they speak hovering in the helicopter.]

*GASP*

DOn'T.

{it's too late. He unloads a clip from an automatic rifle]

THOSE ARE BANNED IN EUROPE.

YOU COULD HAVE FOOLED ME!

I KNOW I COULD HAVE! BECAUSE YOU ARE QUITE OBVIOUSLY EASILY FOOLED!

ENOUGH.

The helicopter scoops down and unrolls a ladder.

W–wait! ARE YOU GETTING IN THE HELLICOPTER WITH HIM?!

(dramatically)

It appears so.

WHAT.

YES! YES I AM GETTING INTO THE HELLICOPTER. ARE YOU GONNA SHOOT AT ME?

*confused*

*shurgs*

(he gives up)

..of course not.

Well then, I believe it is YOU that has been duped.

WHAT!??!?

GOOD DAY, SIR.

Lil Bitz

They really nominated Stephen Colbert for an Emmy, and then fired him the next day.

What on Earth.

What did you do at the party, bro? Be honest!

They literally we're like,

Wednesday: You're nominated for an Emmy award!

Thursday: You're cancelled!

Cancelled, bro.

How do you cancel the late show? That was David Letterman.

The whole point of a show like that is so it goes on forever!

Nope, cancelled! Daaaamn.

You better win that Emmy now, bruh.

{Enter The Multiverse}

Look at the pale ass people who can afford this place— I'm probably not even allowed there
With much dishonor and bad distaste-
You'd better stop coming around there

If I spend my time out buying your price
Mercy to the highest bidder
You can call me anything you'd like
But just don't call me a quitter
If it's talk you want, I've got all the words
For a stake, I'll buy you dinner
In my house of hands, I've got all nine cards
Hey Mary, your husband's a sinner

I play all nine holes
I lived all nine lives
I spend all night
In the The Panorama Room

Smoke a parliament, parliament
I just haven't the heart
(The heart)
To tell her

You were part of it
(Part of it)
But I just sat down
To write my love a letter
When you know it's over
(You know it's over)
But you know you can't
Forget her
When you know it's over
(You know it's over)
But you also know
That you just can't
Forgive her

And I just sat down
And I just sat down
And I just sat down
To write my love a letter

I write all my best lines
In The Panorama Room
And I'm back on prime time tonight
But it's just lights out
If I get back now
I just might be up by noon
But if I pass out
In the town car
I went that far
As to turn back out
For an hour, or a barback

Oh wow, I —
Look at the time
Have a long night out
I just lost my life
At The Panorama Room

It wasn't exactly the phantom
But it just might have been Patrick
And just like that,
I need a back rub
And a ballroom gown
And an hour of heart talk
But I just don't want all that, God
I just gotta keep talking
Outback from one
But what's after all out?
I'm no longer lost,
I just wanna know
How far till the next exit?
When's wind a kite to fall back on?
How many faxes till it makes sense?
Cause it ain't been ten days yet,
But I faked maybe seven or eight
It is dangerous!
A high stakes game, nothing makes sense
Till just the end, then it hates to—
Just rolls over, the next day raises
And all you know is a tunnel
And the smoke rising up from the long tail
And really no hope goes there at all,
But the words to a song
And then they cut the lights off
It is over;
You don't know her,
You can't love her—
You can't move here,
And there's no home sprung out of Hollywood;
It was all a hoax,
It was all just marxists,
And now you really all are on your last dollar to spend, because in the end, truth is currency and we inTelevision really ain't in the business of truth in media;
The honesty is honestly just as lost as you and I all are and yet— as proposed,
We really are not as one, but so separate that it's possible, your stardust, and my horcruxes
Are not that foreign to one another in terms of matter, but fall on us as gospels of one world to a whole other.
You know that?
It really has been a long drunk drive up the 101 in this classic car with the bucket seats and honest,
I'm dying in the intertwined and reading these radio waves just as any old controller, but who knows really when it goes into the ocean,
Seemingly out of control,
But just turns back to shore,
Such as a surfboard.

— Seth Rogen.

No, no dust— keep moving—
It's just sandy beaches and trouble warring
No, not now, keep off us—
If trouble waves and shadows park this car,
A storm is coming.

And we were off to shore in the blue classic car, U-turned into her shore like a surfboard on the water.

Don't ever do that again.

I won't bother.

You said “off road.” I didn't know that meant ocean.

No, it doesn't go in the ocean.

I spoke too soon.

{Enter The Multiverse}

Do you want me to die,
Or bury your love like a secret ther I betray you,
And portray you here in such a way as are kings and god, but of ruthless man, you are no honor or, or— worthy of such prize, as I, you ponder?

Death seeks you and slowly surely is approaching and is as upon us the dog that barks and the wind that calls and the kiss that waits not as dusk but morning light, and do our calls upon us.

And wait you then, these things I have here in my gate, and the knowing of the tide that does not moon, put sorrow? Like a lake it is thus ruined and by my time passed and even ye you, there hath it been not told, as told before the earth will shake with envy, and with pity, and with bore her such pride as slain thy son?!
No! You do not any but gasp in these, my words as so you wore but tattered clothes as truths to these, no in mine wealth of heart and rich of soul, yet these bearing little truths have sown our end I wait

Here slithers here the snake for singing crickets followed thy sound and thy voice to betray you;
And thee I harp as though not to wait my tongue, my pride has pondered on this moment.

O, I know and shall to thee my praying the honor of know not I that seek in weighing many days upon us;
And though ye as many embark in flight and make my way and wonder where is but here the road to such a comet.

Oh shit, he's asking about the other planet.

Thank you.

Yeah I—
There's absolutely no chance in making it.
It, by all standard and concept in the construct of time, is not possible.

Your kind will be washed and diminished, and our time has come to again rule over our, to she whom you call “Earth”, not as our home, but as our daughter.

You have known wise to honor her, our coming.

Like omg what the fuck does this have to do with Jimmy Fallon.

right.

L E G E N D S:
ICONS

I guess it came through.

Yeah, you're right.

Yeah.

CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR EMMY.

Uhh…

Thanks? I uh— we didn't win yet.

Not with that attitude.

Huh.
Look at that.
I guess you're right!

[beat]

—but wait, who are you up against?

[The Festival Project ™]

This is intense.

Yeah, I'll say it is…

We gotta get to the other side of that portal.

I don't think we should be making any—

— we should go through the portal—!

—plans very seriously— and honestly I'm thinking—

Or maybe— you stay here, and I'll go through the portal, and you tell me if you can hear anything once I make it to the other side!

I don't know if that…works.

What? Why not dude? It'll be great—

Cause I don't know anything about portals, and honestly—

—I'm thinking—

I just want to make it past the Emmy's so I can get laid again—like really laid— I've been… paying… for it.

—you want to skip going through a portal so you can get laid?

By a decent— and by decent I mean free— lady who just happens to be single and in attendance of the Emmy's or any of the after parties— yes, actually! Yes!

No! We have to go through this portal to see what's actually on the other side!

I don't have to do anything!

No, you don't have to do anything— because I'm going through the portal, and you're just—staying and making sure you tell me if you can hear me!

I don't think it's that easy actually!

But you don't know until you try.

I'm not trying. You're trying. And I'm letting you because you're pressuring me!

Shut up. You're starting to sound like one of my interns.

If I was one of your interns I would be quitting, and hash tagging you already.

If you were one of my interns you wouldn't be paying for company.

What's that supposed to mean?

Just—-

{Enter the multiverse}

Stop.

What if all whores are just bored workers
And all escorts personal massagers—
What if all message boards are mating calls
And all honor rolls are leader boards,
And all board rooms are horse drawn carriages
For faraway battlefields,
What if nothing I offer even comes close
To the dollar value of your most cherished call girl
And what if anything I know about her
Doesn't conform to my idea of a comfort zone?
What if the anxiety you're eyeing me and getting high behind me with is just designed to bind my mind enlightening the lightning strike dividing my entirety?
What if I want to know you know my known worth without words or surfaces?
What if all I don't know is all of my whole world,
And just the dollop of a thought could push you off the wall to fall from the top of the Rockerfeller plaza into art upon the crosswalk?
What if I could touch that cross, and walk with the palm of the sword stretched out like a…

What were you saying?
I don't know something about the handle of a sword turning into another object?

What if I could hypothesis not one, but all the conundrums in one stroke of nonsense?

Stop already?
For what.
I was told
I could have been bought and sold
Had I dressed the part
To drive off in the pretty corvette
But how dare I not
Look just as hard earned
As her for dollar signs
Although
Somebody bought her all of that?

What if all you are is just bullets in the gun
And a wound for my brain
And a heart to heal
Without home or a umbrella
As the rain comes down so hard
It sends whole homes floating?

What if all the remarks in my smart ass couldn't call you up in the form of laughter?
How about that one?
How does your back ache?
How was your hour glass.
Much much
Longer
And
Harder
Than
An hour.

How I broke my spell?

I just shook her hands.
I just put my tail
In between my legs
And departure
Marks the time of
Our new travel archive
But
With just the dust of lust
From dusk till dawn
The one you wanted
Climbs upon the forest
In another song
Or story
What you—
One,
Two,
Three dice—
The riddle
Four, five,
Six mice, the honor
Six, seven—
Someone's disrespected;
Lessons!
Eight, nine—
Oh my,
Someone's right behind us.

Nor can I stop writing or whining about my desires, and deadlines coming up and signing off, but I'm still crying.
So I never sold my sole,
And yet,
The light from it was stolen;
Slamming doors and hard earned apartments,
Multipliers and real bad liars
And one liners
And one sells signed autographed autobiographies
Now how about that for a rabbit hole,
Seth Meyers?
You should work harder on your crossovers
Then again, the rule of thumb is to just
Put them all on the old drum code
And it's just no fun
If it's not on suicide watch
Don't bother

I don't brother,
But I learned to love her.

You know?

Silly little game, this inconsiderate confusion, wind washed galleyways and fisherman to put you under,
Degrading you very awaking for the patrons, faking it—
No things haven't made sense since you ate it
With which way
Is the birthday cake?
Mistakes the Ace as Satan
Lately, anything don't matter but that's a laugh
Still no dollar though, no
Don't call her out— she just wants courage
And witness to slaughter
Hers the very lamb of truth
And mother's daughter.

Put your art to work,
This is not a war, it's a fairway
And it and your worth,
It's a fair game
It ain't make sense
Till you get 8-6 out a bar that you own
Under A. An Alias,
B. Under the Name of an Accomplice or otherwise trustworthy partner to which not you call love, but perhaps a co-owner.

(Or co-author.)

Remember the time now?

A shit. I gotta run.

Where to?

I don't know yet.

Grey suit.
The whispers of a game
Blue tie
White stripes
Red lips,
One aim and he doesn't think twice
One name and he doesn't give once
Two trips to the hallway,
One gun in the holster,
One bullet in the chamber,
And one number you thought of.

Four?

…yes.

I've got a secret, a dirty little secret.

The Rock and The Kite XI


{Enter The Multiverse}

Copyright The Collective Complex ©

[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]

© 2025 All Rights Reserved

-Ū.