{Samantha Who?}

{Samantha Who?} (An Enter The Multiverse Mix) Samantha Newly, the young vice president of a real-estate firm, is forced to start life over after a horrific hit-and-run accident leaves her with amnesia. Got on $300 Jordan's But all three kids are wearing off brand crocs The fuck Get your kids some real shoes Or stop having them INT. APPLEKNOCKERS FLOPHOUSE. DAY. Fuck it, I'm gonna do it. —what else is there? Nothing, really. I knew Fallon was powerful, but not that powerful Ah dude —you shapeshifted into the superintendent? Had to. Come on! These eyes, The Guess Who I've never shed a tear, not even one. I stopped at the wedding ring. i searched up and down, left and right for any reason—my possible answer This could not, in anyway, anyhow— Actually be— [The Festival Project ™ ] Love. —it was, But it was something else. So far. There's no other way. —there's no way. THE KINGS are hosting an inter dimensional l poker match— Damn. So now I'm fighting the devil, But the devil is Jimmy Fallon? I guess. Damn. That's sucks. I almost wanted to like this guy. Like, like-like? You must to feed your obsession. Ok. Then, you must to starve your obsession. Right. Then, you must to compress your drums. DAMAGE. What. Nothing, it's just this man's toolkit. What's wrong with it. It's not even tools. It's just a bunch of random stuff and duck tape. Ah, dern. Gah, flarb. Idk what goes on in your head sometimes. What goes on is this: Oh, Fuck, I'm gonna die. Oh, fuck I'm gonna die. Oh, fuck— Something's wrong with Jimmy Fallon. Oh fuck. The problem is, that's not my problem. Is that a problem? It's definitely one of my problems, One of the others is something like— EDDIE MURPHY GIBLEDEEBIBBLEDEBEPEDEBOP. Uh. What. BIBELEBOOBEDE—BEBLEDEBO. Excuse me. BLBIBLEDEBOP. OH. YEAH. REMEMBER HIM? Uh, yeah. Well, so do I! “Chain of Fools” Every person ever tagged in the festival project is quite literally energetically chained to the extraterrestrial formerly known as supacree. Ū Bro, you know I live in the 10th dimension, right? I thought this was the 11th. It borders the 11th, but shit— why eggagerate? However, attributing these fantastical dreams and supernatural occurrences to environmental mental illness, she chooses to ignore these EDDIE MURPHY HELLO. HELLO. WhT. —instances; —-a triple bypass surgery… Goddammit, am I still on wi-FI? Fuck it. I gotta fix this Fallon problem. MEANWHILE, at THE POKER GAME What's the deal with Fallon? He's not invited. Of course not. This is a game of KINGS. Who invited you? Uh, shut up. Nobody. He came here through a portal. You would think a place like this —it's a fortress— — Exactly—would be more fortified. I hope I'm getting laid tonight //*paid ENTERTAINMENT INDUSTRY what's the difference? ILLUMINATI CREATIVE PRODUCTIVITY. is that it? Basically. Pretty much. I need a full markup on this guy. For what, I'm building a wall. I will kill you with everything I have to. If you have to, if you must— I can't stand you. I can't stand up. So what? It's a Swwewhjhhhhhhhjjjjjjjjjjjjjj——- INT. THE LOVE SHACK. DAY. Oh yeah, baby, groovy, baby— Groooooooovy. I told you what would happen if you would just Michael Meyerszsz Now I'm not going to forget it.x Oh goddammit. It's Skrillex again . What does he want AGJAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA KADIDJA ]>\% Goddamn dude. That little girl has a mouth on her. Parents these days. Are you telling me this hoodlum is. That's right. SK— something was attempting to recreate the conditions in which I had written the plot of [the television people ™ © ], but in all honesty. I don't know what happened. It was just-/ I don't know what happened! I was there— And then HELLICOPTR. As it turned out. The Jimmy Fallon thing was similar enough to the Skrillex thing that I had figured out that I was being attacked or shifted in some kind of way, and by that time, it only made sense to be well armed, in whatever sort of war it was—Sonny and Fallon were just tools for the devil—their bodies and status mere objects; malleble clay in design to fit the needs of the media's eye. Where do I fit into the picture? Well. It was funny, You know, Earlier, looking around the 3D I suddenly realized Or rather remembered That this was existing currently In an ancient time All of this was gone. One must learn to hide one's true intentions in order to safely navigate and survive the various realms and infinite interdimensions. So are you funny, or just attractive? Talented, sure. But are you— Funny. Dillon Francis is not a comedian. DILLON FRANCIS URGHF. —but, he's made me laugh harder than any other human being— I don't know, I laughed pretty hard at that one time where— Yeah no, seriously though. I'm learning lots of magic Playing with the little man in the television. I release you. I could have told you hours ago that it's not love I want— Is it not? No. Love I've got. I'll leave you all to your wives; the blondes and supermodels—the actresses and prostitots— but what I want, what I really want— Is a body— so I can be one of them. Not yours of course, We all know I'll never be good enough. But I want to be God enough to be able to earn your love, And still not need it— Cause I've got more coming from the others Who want my body, Nevermind the soul; All we are is words and words of music Not the music you like Just the music we've got But who cares about us We want to get drunk and fuck The seven souls stuck inside The seven sides Of Sai The Saige I swear to god I'm gonna die I'm gonna lose my mind I'm gonna tell my story I'm gonna dance all night I'm gonna get high I'm gonna take that knife out my back I'm gonna take that knife right out And slit my wrists The left, Then right— How's that For a very long ride In the back of an ambulance? I don't want no corporate job I just wanna get drunk And fuck End up In the back of a trunk With duct tape over my mouth With duck tape over my mouth With duck tape over my mouth These cut- takes Take a real long time Cut! CUT TO: It's a cult clsssic I hate you —you hate me too I hate you I hate me too I hate you You hate me to I hate you I hate me too I hate me too I hate me too I hate me too Oh, Stephen Colbert. I forgot Steven Colbert. Great Scott. fuck. What happened *vampire* This is music? This is music. FUCK. It's music; I have to go get it. This won a Grammy. Uh, yeah! Go, home, Grammy's. you're DRUNK. GRAMMY. AHH, eat S—[CENSORED]—T I told you not to look. That's okay, I'm never gonna actually be famous anyway. Might as well eat away. I let it eat away at my soul Made of light Like I already sold it I tend to run away fast With my hands in my coat Like I stole it Rowing a boat With no gold mine It's too cold here I don't know, I, Don't fear the reaper I fear sheep as people Giant wieners in Times Square And The Bear, For the fear of redactions. ACTION. You know it hits different When you know in him Is miserable and it manifests in you; It hits different When I cross myself at night As if I'd said a prayer, But really I just beg for it to end With indifference I've got protections over me Above and in the underworld Something was wondering about At the plaza Wonder what Wonderfuck, wonderful world Klusterfuck, doubtful though Don't need the tube socks Don't need the popcorn I'll kill my self you know Because of this You want it to be gone, Then so will you And then it's over What you wanted Was your own demise The whole story was mine The world was lost In your empty blue eyes Something weird did happen with Fallon. The first host of The Tonight Show— amongst many names, was named Patrick. Well, his name was Steve Allen, but much like myself and the also late Richard Pryor, he had many names between the first and the last. I had written Patrick totally offline and in a world of my own, out of nowhere—he had Fallon's face but spoke in proses, was much darker, and of course, probably a lot more miserable. Let's hope, anyway. I would hate to even think that the real Jimmy Fallon could even be so painstakingly lost and broken; in fact—it angered me even thinking about it. Just as I had become griefstricken upon learning and then later confirming Sonny's challenging series of crisis, so I was I somehow strangely bothered that this powerhouse of a man was somehow fragile— easily, I couldn't be the only one who could see, and with any hope that something might change, I had prayed for him—and for myself, the mental illness that it is to worry about such a man— another tucking celebrity. I hated them, but only because I wasn't one. It was pure jealousy, which manifested in the atrocity of my writing, perhaps, or maybe something more. More innate, and more strange—more intense. A spiritual conquest. He's always late on rent; He's always drunk at work As man of the 21st century; At least, I think it's the 21st, But could be before I'm still not sure, They're just words to a song Placebo effect Just give me a boner And go to bed I still get water from the fountains And doughnuts from the girl next door If you want an award for the foreplay, You'll at least be sure I wrote it [Working Title] © The Festival Project ™, The Complex Collective All rights reserved. An underachieving over drinker becomes unlikely friends with a humble street musician and his life takes an even more unlikely turn as their formation of an accidental rock duo opens the doors to other worlds — not a romantic comedy. It's not? No. It's “A Platonic Comedy” I've never heard of that before. That's because it doesn't exist. Cosmo meets Samantha outside of a subway station and their shared crassness and dry sense of humor leads quickly into a friendship— they form a bond over music and Samantha's knack for clever quips and wordplay leads Cosmo to discover that she could become a secret asset to him in the ad game; as they begin spending more time together, they also begin writing songs, and after a joking match leads them to performing at a neighborhood dive bar, they are approached afterward and offered more gigs, and referred to a nearby venue for a talent showcase— they quickly become a neighborhood staple, and are soon invited along with another band on a small midwestern tour; they oblige, however upon returning. Cosmo finds his roommate has decided to leave, putting him in jeapardy—however, as he and Sam brainstorm ways to take on better paying engagements with thei act, Sam helps Cosmo to make a breakthrough with the campaign he has been assigned to—he is then promoted at work, and under the stress and pressure, decides to spend more time and energy ensuring that he does his new job well. Because of thisSam begins preforming more gigs alone, and is eventually offered a deal after a show—the deal does not include Cosmo, although she had been originally and intentionally mislead to believe that it did, and their friendship reaches a breaking point; Cosmo urges Sam to take the deal and move to Los Angeles, though by this time they are now roommates— she does, agreeing to pay her portion of the rent as not to leave him at risk, however, and leaves their dog Bosley as a sentiment. Cosmo becomes depressed and lonely, neglecting his work once more and returning to his original state; his life has improved drastically, with his new job and elevated status—but he misses his friend, and the rock and roll lifestyle. He goes on a chemically fueled rampage, and in his angst records as ballad of emptiness and betrayal, still reeling from losing his friendship with Samantha; in his drunken rage, he sends it to Sam, who is recording with a group in LA when she receives the music file via email; she opens it and listens to it, at first in her headphones—then after the first few moments, on a whim with intense impulse, shows it to her LA people—they all agree it's a hit, and Cosmo is invited to LA, where he and Sam preform once more— the duo finds success and reunification and their friendship is restored; Cosmo is offered a distribution deal for his hit Sam's Solo career springs into action— That's the whole movie! What the fuck! Well yeah, the Illuminati's been stealing my shit anyway and now white supremacy's cyber attacking all my devices. How are you so sure it's white supremacy?! Who else wants me this bad? I didn't do anything but be black —and a woman. (They hate those.) {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective. © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©