The Disorganized Poet of Images: A Novelette

(As in a sequel to something abandoned.)

Mister Schwimmity-tang does a routine jig in front of the espresso machine, anticipating a nice buzz, foreshadowed by the hypnotic dance moves of tightly coordinated arm movements, in unpredictable yet highly stylized acrobatic patterns. He's got a nice Cuban wife there or some shit. Her face gets a sharp birdeye's view of everything, as if whatever she zooms into with her eyes blooms into focus like that of a sniper rifle's lens. Her face is abnormally small for her body and, in a shrunken way, is always prepared for occasional mirth, but sometimes at the wrong angle you find plotted within her skin-deep curfews a cherrytoffin moakinshop burfing the nurplestorm. In other words, her breasts are very sensitive, and she don't like them gremlin claws of his reaching for her fucking pecans.

Outside their trailer in the ColdGhoster community is a staunch Mexican man playing foosball by himself in an empty lot of yellow grass. Some AI-generated vehicle drives past him as his body curls up to formation. At first he runs confidently. Then initiating a swift kick to his own balls the dude failed to hit the foosball with his foot, and crumpled up like some scrap paper getting thrown as a basketball into the trash. The only difference is he did it to himself. He became one with his metaphysical substance, literally kicking himself square in the johnson as a gust of false wind swept his crumpled self afloat and across the lot, and still missing the goal. Instead, his papier-mâché bodychang turns into a folded paper airplane, and the flight of his occasion onward summons incomprensible alveolar trills from the staccato tongue enthusiasm of someone getting high for the first time. He then eventually finds his poor family at a picnic bench eating and sharing an eraser off a #2 pencil, existing only for the sake of recycling bins; where good people often get discarded due to their lack of divine calling. Blame the algorithm.

Needless to mention his son picks up a Happy Meal trashcan and finds inside of it the glowing light from an exit sign inside a movie theater, and the movie playing on screen in 12K resolution is the parallel future fate of his own inheritance, that of pathetic absurdity, and has nothing to do with race or gender identity or any of that Haagen-Daz faggotry vape technology. Luckily no one is in the audience but a yearbook that flaps open with a wet fart sound to the page where his father is accidentally printed twice and appears as his own name but also above the name of someone else. That person was known to hold a fart machine during science class and gained a following of those who appreciated his timing to disrupt Miss Candito's exotic rear-end at the chalkboard.

Speaking of whom, back inside the bedroom of the former game contestants, Mister Youknowwho and his God-delivered Cuban wife, well—what seemed to be the AI-generated vehicle was actually driven by him himself, while he daydreamed of Elon Musk's Mortal Kombat arcade machine shooting off through the fungal atmosphere, which runs off an Earthworm Jim, Sega Genesis graphics engine behind an RNG script that generates a new NPC named Mister Hoaganchomp who, in slow-motion, zoinked off salt nicotine, returns to learn that his alienware wife is frothing at the mouth because of her teeth-whitening strips.

"I mean I was afraid of that happening. Is it really the end of the world if you have to go to the gym 3 hours later instead of right now?" Hoagantoad spoke the language of rolling marbles clacking together at random. Who's Hoagantoad?

His Cuban wife answered yes. Followed by much scrutiny towards his procrastination to speedrun painting the outside patio. She stomps through a narrow hallway unbothered by physics while her ass mimics expanding marshmallows in a toaster oven, and checks in on her nephew's spare bedroom. Her nephew is away shooting innocent turkeys inside of his Playstation Vita handheld VR headset. Not that that matters much or pertains to anything significant. She still needs to give the boy his belated Best Buy gift card. However, Mister Hoaganchomp goes outside again to set up the paint roller, but during its assembly realizes he forgot to buy one of those brackets for the paint roller, which means it can't fasten itself on the roller without one. His wife had an intelligent laugh at this, remarking on how he fails to do anything right.

It's okay though because their simulated black cat plops itself down on the carpet and yawns sarcastically. A cinematic vignette circles around the cat's profile pic, and its petite feline face appears almost human-like for a brief moment, then morphs back to the Animorphs book cover it belongs to.

A young woman (whose head resembled that of what a 3D printer might make) in freshly washed sweatpants didn’t bother drying them. She was at the laundromat. Nobody asked any questions. No one blinked. The dryer was taking hours to dry her clothes, so at a certain point she simply removed the sweatpants mid-cycle after hearing the sound of a local moron. When she first got there, security cameras captured her completely nude. She already knew that. There wasn’t an alarm that went off or anything. And it turned out the storage on the backroom computers didn’t have enough space to capture the recording of her. Hence why she didn’t care. She knew that, too. Why she was naked in the middle of the night? For the sake of nurturing freedom. She lives in a town that has a population of ten. It’s this laundromat that is left unattended at all times. The actual owner is Pike Mitchelson, and he usually appears during the afternoon riding past the bungalow cottages on his drivable lawnmower. He goes, "Flipper the shanoo into my forking mufflebat," on repeat for hours while riding it. Sometimes he slowly increases the tempo till he stalls out. The engine doesn’t make any audible noise. So instead of going all oingo boingo he sadly imitates the rotation of the lawnmower wheels, supplying the noise himself. Aside from that he doesn’t bother a soul. The white noise is deafening.

Clarrisa is the only budding woman in her town, aside from old housewives that leave half-finished Pall Malls around. She’s drawn the conclusion that she can go unseen to places. For the lack of action in her life she makes up her own dares. That time she went to the laundromat naked was a dare only she made herself do. The town was really that dead. Maybe she was hoping someone would catch her, or that there would be a suitable man inside doing his laundry at 4:40 in the morning. At the time she was 19. Her baby fat made her self-conscious. She didn’t think a man would look at the butterfly flaps of extra skin folded down over each side of her midriff as attractive. Yet there are some men who do admire those features. Men who even observe the rash formed from the bra chafing under the midriff flaps and welcoming it with earnest understanding. It’s those very things that might make a woman feel insecure that another man will be supportive of. As Jommy Jerkins got older, the more he wiggled his thumb out of his zipper. You have a place to make a woman happy by making her feel choofy. You’ll love the strangest things about her, things you wouldn’t have thought to notice as a teenager that you do as you enter your late 20s, early 30s. Assuming you are a cisheterosexual male named Jommy Jerkins, who has a penchant for MILFs. Those cisheterosexual teenage males only care for plus-sized K-mart models in cheetah lingerie anyway.

As for Clarissa Know-It-All, she eventually moved on from her small town laundromat and found herself in a big city laundromat, as they say. She went from being a free 19 year old woman running to the laundromat naked at night, to a shy woman about to turn 30 who caught men looking at her bending over so much throughout adulthood that she can see them in the reflections thinking she doesn’t know, or the ones who freeze into place at the supermarket, pretending to look for a shelf item but wait for her to mosey on by to then crane their necks and see her asschecks jounce as she walks into the distance, until her prized possession is the last thing to set over the horizon. There were times she expected it and did it on purpose, if it were an attractive fellow with his girlfriend. She’d sometimes notice the man’s girlfriend catching him checking her out and the girlfriend shielding her hand over his eyes. It was later on at the big city laundromat where she met Jommy Jan Jerkins or whatever, and he struggled not to stare at her. She saw him resisting the urge, but, in fact, he was the best at never getting caught checking out a grown woman’s choofy. He was so good at it that he left his number telepathically at the coin machine. The mental note had written on it: Hi, my name is Jommy. I saw your ass and liked it. Here is my number. 867-5309. Ask for Pike Mitchelson.

To be continued probably.

It’s really something to bet on middle-aged white men drinking Jägermeister inside Chuck E Cheese. You see them huddled together using their locker-room falsettos to see who can collect the most fossilized dentures at the bottom of the ballpit. It’s sorta like bobbing for apples and musical chairs combined. There goes Freddy Fuckernugget drowing in the ballpit, blood dripping down his ears, when a mascot for the Windows 97 paperclip toots a referee’s whistle twice and announces (without any eye-contact to anyone) that someone’s grandmother was clapping her hands too fast. A spotlight phased over to her as everyone in the audience backed away. The grandmother suddenly shits her pants right there in front of everyone.

2 minutes and 49 seconds later a game show host’s silhouette appears in a dusty orb animation, and apparently represents the loading screen. And the way it depicts the loading progress is by having the shadows dissolve to reveal some bald man in a trenchcoat sporting a freemason icon, who alternates between shaking his head left and right and moving his shoulders down and up, within delayed motion blurs and cheap strobe-light effect, which goes on for an uncomfortably long time.

An autosave subtitle flickers as a cymbal crashes to startle the bald freemason awake. He takes a sip of Pepsi Crystal nonchalantly and stretches his mouth out incredibly wide before narrating to the five or six claymation people in the audience:

"This particular ballpit is about a mile deep to the bottom. A man by the name of Cheddy Munchie is said to be stuck down there, doing jumping jacks and meditating on why Shel Silverstein became reincarnated into a naked crayon. Two weeks later, the FBI raided the place and confiscated the tongue of Cheddy Munchie. He knew too much about denturology. His hot wallet had a bunch of NFTs that were stolen x-rays from his dentist’s office, but the FBI wanted to understand just how old all those dentures were. Cheddy Munchie wasn’t able to speak on the subject, so he let his dentures do the chattering. The puppeteered dentures told official sources that he choked on a mozzarella stick, and, therefore, should be dead already. And like that, he died. Anyone who showed up for his funeral was only there to witness an imitation Dimebag Darrel float up from a clogged toilet, reenacting Cemetery Gates pinch harmonics on blast."

A kid with down syndrome started to breakdance in the background and was weirdly aggressive about it. And then this cursed puppet magic game show got canceled for obvious reasons.

Last time on The Black Family II…

A new player spawns in the world of Tampoon Pooni. Mr. Machuckaney shows up in the reflection of a gold trophy, his body distorted and muscles exaggeratedly bulging, and says with a rudely monotone voice, "Whogadie boogie, my funkle lost the gamblestork." It leaves the impression of someone yelling out the window of a moving SUV to some random chap from Youngsville on the roadside. Why it’s no other than Mister Hoaganchomp in retrospect, who has the ability to bilocate somewhere near a toy pool table in 480p resolution, only to insert a tampon inside one of those pirate ship-in-a-bottle devices.

Meanwhile on the pirate ship-in-a-bottle, the bald freemason in a trenchcoat stumbles out of a shed wearing tombstone sneakers. He steps on a loose plank with a dull nail poking out from it. The dull nail reverberates out of context as if communicating to him specifically. Vaguely annoyed by the decaying twang he takes on the spirit of Tiberty Libertsky, who famously said in a stark, patronizing tone, "Richard. . . stop playing that guitar!" There was no one around named Richard. It was only relative to Pike Mitchelson nibbling on a piece of desaturated cotton candy; his lips smacking together with ketchup and mustard until it forms superglue. Then he calls a 1-900 number to hear some corny satanic voice deliver a lecture on tata duende, which interrupts itself to play a Zob Rombie song at 128kbps mp3 quality.

Jommy Jan Jerkins kicks open the door to a Seinfeld apartment in Monticello. In a Krameresque sense he winks one eye very intently, as Clarrisa Know-It-All playing Elaine rolls her eyes hummingbirdlike. But the cameraman is that Mexican father again smoking exactly 3 clove cigarettes at once, with an explosion of those movie theater candy Crunch bites smacking his temple, leaving miniature Blair Witch cracks all over his forehead, until it breaks the fourth wall of his third eye, but then the scene pauses to a powerpoint slide that has an inappropriate hardcore fontype on it for the name Kevin Mimnic. Kevin Mimnic is the Mexican father whose wife resembles a gothic Mona Lisa that practices free astrology lessons online. Her best friend is a Jewish witch who comes across more like Jerry Seinfeld than she does Elvira, and together they have a hidden PornHub treehouse that Kevin Mimnic is unaware of. Until one day he gets an ominous card in the mail from his internet service provider. There’s an eerie, muffled "You Got Mail" sound, followed by a montage of Kevin Mimnic making bizarre faces in the mirror with the glass shattering. Kevin Mimnic ends up with a broken spine and has to be put in a wheelchair. They say a glass skeleton mumbles chifflemeepi. Evidently it’s a rare neurological disorder where your body can’t internalize stress anymore and you begin to make bizarre, seizure-like faces till your spine snaps. A true case of the chimchad forkentudes.

Welcome to the Exorcist 32. Where the devil tried to tell God once and for all to stop testing mortals. God showed up in a makeshift Party City egyptian costume, interpreting the macarena poorly, and flipped the devil off fifteen times during so; each time layered with a different Snapchat filter, and said, finally: "Hey Bart Sampson, smell my fanger!"

Once in an orange evening at the churg of sonichris, an elderly preacher will whip out a cattle iron, and shout to the dehydrated mummy of Michael Jackson participating, “I thereby summon hieroglyphics of Enochian introductions to be branded onto a VHS tape made of flesh. With God as my witness, yes, I am but a little puppet in search of my little tomy turbo darshbot!” The curtains close for the magic trick to take place, but instead drop loudly and pancake across the floor, injuring the elderly preacher along with it. The mummified Michael Jackson gets up for the 500th time to flee towards an antique Ford pickup truck outside in the desert dusk, which is quietly playing the riff from Enter Sandman, anticipating his arrival. Since the game was on the hardest difficulty, this time he successfully unraveled through the desertscape of giant hourglasses and nostalgic Victorian churches. When he makes it to the antique Ford pickup truck, our dehydrated mummy, our Lord savior, cracks open a cold one and remarks, “Thank Jaysus for Pepsi Crystal,” and gets restored to a younger version of himself before all that Bollywood facial reconstruction nonsense.

Why, though?

After Michael Myers abandoned the magician scene in a pickup truck to sandman riffs, that Martellica album started to increase its tempo each time singer Jet Hamesfield used an I in his lyrics. Consequently, this gave Michael Myers a bad case of the heemy jeemies, trying to steer but compelled to fight off the shooting pains in his chest and running over a hitchhiker singing moonlight sonata acapella. Regardless, Michael continues driving through the New Vegas wasteland from dusk till dawn. By morning Myers turns back into Jackson. Although some lycanthropy lingers, instead of turning into a howling boy scout Michael Jackson becomes Myers on a foggy night. You never know until you do, and then you know.

The elderly preacher from the churg of sonichris resumes his story-mode career in a half-assed Pro Skater perspective, loading into a cutscene where theater curtains are wrapped around him like a deaf straightjacket. He is paralyzed from the waist up, which leaves him no choice but to deliver his farewell as an apostrophe:

"All of this happened in between the wink of Jeremy Jane Jonklesmeth. Jommy Jan Merkleblip. Jommy Jam whatever his name is! The guy who appeared creaking his head from behind the Kramer door, having a staring contest with the full moon! Well, he was always the kinda Jan Jerkins to ponder on his intuition—you see, my dear boy, there he was a-speculatin’, thinking about how he comes across to others, that if he has the notion of a certain thing he gone done, that them there other people talked smack behind his back at that precise moment it occured for him to use foresight on what it was that became a topic of interest somehow through synchronicity. Maybe they thought him tomfoolish when he himself got on a Cheddy Krueger school bus early moaning and overhead some folx sitting down speaking out loud in high regard about him. In theory his delusional narcissism that streamed out his—tock tock—noggin' was factually others, In Real Life, mocking how he sounds either transgender or androgynous at the drive-thru speakerbox, then cringing about how he widdles his fangers in front of the stock charts like a game of rock/paper/scissors: sure, my bastard made some coin, sure they didn’t know that, but uhhh, ye, them there folks, those other people, if you will, still assumed the worst of him. Now what was I yarning aboot?"

An elongated rogue shadow extends from the Cuban wife standing still at the foot of the gated entrance, open; the shadow is casted with 25% transparency on the elderly preacher down the aisle wincing, whose voice beckons through the sleepy hollow rows of splintered benches, "Richard, is that you?"

"My name is Countess Elizabeth Báthory, and I am here to harvest your memories." Rumor had it she consumes the souls from her victims to take on their personality. Here she maintains the form of Mister Hoaganchomp's Cuban wife, but then…

"Wait a darn second, you say what now?" The elderly preacher misses the implication of what's happening.

"Ex nihilo nihil fit," the Countess whispers to herself. The Cuban wife’s soul defragments into a glowing ethereal webwork of branches outwards throughout the casted shadow. It slinks forward and crawls up over the elderly preacher’s disabled body, punished by zaps of interdimensional static electricity, which ignites the curtains aflame as the preacher’s bulging eyes plop from their sockets and drape like melted wax on his cheek, or what’s left of it.

The burning curtains had such a restraint on him that he couldn’t wail and flail his limbs nor twitch postmortem. All he had to say was, "Ow," in a very stiff and abrupt way, to the Countess' disappointment.

"You aren't moral after all. And your soul is faceless and unsuitable for my liquidity pool." She raises her fist like an awkward NPC character that wasn't motion-captured properly, and clumsily rotates her raised fist in a dumb, repetetive, oblong way. "Next time I won't approve the smart contract transaction using Bitconnect—damn, that's some expensive ass gas."

A laughtrack played in reverse cues the transition back to Mister Hoganchomp’s ever-changing situation. For what it’s worth (considering this is the first-fledged collective subconscious MMO game released) he grinded his toon to the level cap again. Despite that it launched with a world-record number of bugs and glitches, the drunken Hoganchomp was opening an advent calendar out of season for each time he made his Cuban wife feel choofy. It took almost a year from the last merry chrysler, but just in the nickelfang of time he proposed to her on the wedding cake game board from an N64 Mario Party, and like clockwork the advent calendar hovered in the air, coming into focus above the blurred birthday cake background, manifesting a lucky mweemwee type entity riding a rocket emoji that popped out rolling open a scroll. Congratulations, Sire. You have reached the highest level attainable. On the scroll is an evolution chart depicting the natural progression of Hoagantoad to Hogantoad to Hoganchomp to Hoganchamp. The Cuban wife takes on the role of Imitation Peach as Mister Hoganchamp mumblebrags to her, "Check out this rare book I earned as a reward. It’s called Chimchad Forkentudes. Written by an established 'misanthropical realist' based author that contributed the worst ad libs in literary history."

Imitation Peach says yes and steals the book from his grip to get in 1st place. On the book cover is a painting of Countess Elizabeth Báthory attempting to harvest the soul from an old religious person in pain. Imitation Peach has the look of someone who just touched the anarchist's cookbook for the first time. Not sure whether that's a good or a bad thing.

In the spiral galaxy next door the married parents from the original Black Family novella are noticing their daughter Persephone growing an addictive inclination towards this VR MMO metaverse game called SoulFactory. Her parents threaten to bring her to the school IT counselor to patch out those addictive tendencies.

In SF Persephone plays the legendary Mr. Machukaney that she got in exchange for her Social Security Bluetooth Biochip, a freesync wetware technology that connects to nearby government monitors that auto-download mental blueprints to track civilian behavioral patterns. She did a trade with this young entrepreneurial black boy who started his own fortune cookie business. He was looking for a way to hack into blockchain infrastructure to flatten and compile dependencies from predeveloped solidity code into these human-processor chips as a social experiment, which then became this huge boon for decentralized finance communities. Persephone Black’s parents one weekend had enough of her digital hermetism. They took her external SSD away and brought it to Circuit City to have it wiped. There was $500 million fiat worth of Tron on it, as it had the only saved copy of her wallet keyphrase on it. When Persephone discovered her external SSD missing and found out what her parents did with it, she killed herself less than a week later.

In memoriam to Persephone Black and the biochip she extracted from behind her own cranium to trade on the digital blackmarket, marking a series of events which secured the future of cryptocurrency gaming, but has been compromised in protest to Frederick Gregory, the young black boy who was also the catalyst for that paradigmatic shift in gamifying crypto; well, Gregory had been sentenced-to-life to a district known as the citadel undercity, where the government partitions all the metadata from your mental being and locks it into a chatroom with a gaggle of racist degenerates and a few rich, undead noblemen. Social media warriors initiated a movement for the souls of any black folx, arguing that the Gregory case was a cruel and unusual punishment and that justice could be restored by creating a charity for the Black family as a way to repair personal damages on the late Persephone’s parents' behalf—given her suicide and whatnot. Eventually F. Gregory won a retrial and carried on driving lambos with photoshopped Instagram models in Dubai, giving a sales pitch at conferences once every four months to nepotistic investors looking to make a cash cow out of Persephone’s inadvertent sacrifice. The irony is that they’re all still plugged in with their biochip, but that Persephone Black had become a symbol for those who choose to be unplugged.

To which a black, football-headed nigga named Chornie Morphus enters The Matrices subreddit. He writes:

"Humans use language—an expression of abstraction on sensory experience—often as a trap for social predation. In this example Web 3.0 is the language trap; the humptydumptyism. An infinitely plastic cognitive map designed specifically not to have any corresponding territory. Con 'artists' use this technique all the time; the weaponized contradiction. Politicians are adept at it, media propagandists as well. Prey will suffer the reification fallacy when attempting to confirm their bias and believe the conman is selling them exactly what they need. They mistake the map for the territory. Couple all this with the human addiction to Meaning via neurochemistry and any third-party observation of the long-term harm this will produce. Easy to ignore by the myoptic bunglesharded, story-addicted chimeguys... By then the damage was due to Chekov’s gayass gun that fired blanks."

Neo Rio, a doppelgargle of Cheddy Curban, who models himself after Keanu Reefer, replies to the aforementioned autistic subreddit slam, one that offends a normie moantard's tickledick:

"Well yeah the nature of reality fundamentally is chaotic, an intangible mess of clutter independent from the mind—what are we but apes, frogs, and fangs bundling together sensory experience and making up elaborate guessing games that catch on and become some social construct of truth, or a psycholinguistic kind of collective truth (depending on the universal grammar defining it). Without further sophistry, lol, I associate Web 3 with dApps and smart contract -enabled cryptocurrencies. I know from experience that Phantom is Web 3 in the sense that it’s an Ethereum Virtual Machine, which functions on an interoperable smart contract platform like Etherscan, through solidity code, to create custom tokens that can be traded amongst other custom tokens within dApps; ranging from ERC-20, -721, to -1155, etc. For example, ERC-20s range in their utility; meme coins, seigniorage/algostables, lending protocols, buybacks, farming LPs or proof of staking, -locking. Most of them are copy/paste governance token type smart ponzis or hard rugs / scams; some are soft rugs, pump-n-dump, excessively high-yielding APY farming tokens; and then there are NFTs and DAOs. But I prefer non-negotiable, refundable, tangible, fungible tokens. NNRTFTs. Nah but you gotta watch for dem Conbase scams tho. Heard of one today where you go to connect your hot pocket to the dApp but then a fake Metamask login comes up and phishes your login info ✓"

Mr. Machickedallamaforyotoschmone joins the Discord channel and asks for Pankter Smig on his generative voxel beanbag chair art. He then calls someone a bitch at the sacrificial blackening club and gets banned from there...

Furthermore, everyone else leftover, like Clarissa Know-It-All, Peter Damnaditch, Tiberty Libertsky, Michael Jackson reborn again, the Cuban wife that's secretly Countess Elizabeth Báthory, as well as the immortal elderly preacher, and the Jeremy Jan Jerkins lost to obscurity in a Seinfeld apartment, et al., all voluntarily overdose on embalming fluid at an occult Craigslist decimation party, unprepared to die. That must be what hell is. That feeling of not being ready to die when you do. If there is anything evil, wrong, or schizophrenic on metaplanet Tampoon Pooni, it is that concept of fearing your death when it genuinely occurs to ya, which might be clichè, along with a cutout of Dannie Dorko advertising Tide Pod enhanced, microwavable beef jerky at the family dollar tree.

Countess Elizabeth Báthory was the one who tricked them into smoking embalming fluid at the decimation party. She did it as a ploy to gain Clarrisa Know-It-All’s sassy soul. The immortal elderly preacher recited some Sanskrit rhetoric to resurrect everyone from their Craigslist fate, but incidentally pulled Persephone Black in, too. The former Clarissa is wrapped in toilet paper and placed into a bootleg harmonica case sort of sarcophagus to take home.

As the supposed novelette fades, Clarissa Know-It-All 2 is walking by the Dannie Dorko cutout, and it says to her with a tiny moving mouth, "What kind of monster are you?" She looks back and parrots, "What kind of monster are you?"

An age-progressed, incognito Persephone Black is there at this family dollar tree as a mystery shopper, spying the prominent tush of Countess Elizabeth Báthory, and gets caught from looking away too slowly. And so the Countess lunges over in a flash and casually pulls Persephone’s hand up close and licks it, and says, persuasively, "If I give you my number, ask for Pike Mitchelson. I’m about to steal his soul."

Persephone Black, pressed to make an impression, says to Clarissa Know-It-All 2, "I’ve been dying to meet you." But Countess Clarrisa already knew that. She knew Persephone Black already died once in another spiral galaxy. The two are cross-compatible soulmates. She further comments to Persephone Black, "I’m the Hoganchamp to your Machuckeny, if you know what I mean."

Someone who is mistaken for part of the Rocky Horror Picture Show yells above the crowded audience, "No! We don't know what you mean!"

Persephone clutches Clarrisa Báthory's upper arm in surprise. "So I heard you sucked your husband's soul out at the birthday cake wedding! I got the notification on SoulFactory..."

A claymation audience member from the sacrificial blackening club jumps up impatiently and shouts at the hypothetical Unreal Engine 6 theater, "Enough with the Aunt Jemima foreplay already!"

Kevin Mimnic returns last from the dead, in the body of the bald freemason trenchcoat-wearing game show host, spawning on the empty seat next to that frustrated claymation audience member, and says to the fractured mirror on stage, "Oh, come on already!"

In the fractured mirror a reflection of Cheddie Curban or Cheddy Munchie fades in mockingly, then vanishes. He always was a Krueger.

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