Lost Cause: Live! On The Grid

Ahdgh. SONA enters, clutching her left ribcage. She appears to have been STABBED. Don’t say stabbed. For all I know, that might happen. Fucking magical idiots. Imbiciles! You know what. You’re right. I’ll fix it, She is [quite obviously] WOUNDED. DAVID Sona! Hello. SONA Yeah. DAVID You look nice. SONA I always do. DAVID Except you have a little something on your— [he realizes her wound] DAVID Oh. SONA Yeah. DAVID …should I ask, or? SONA He stabbed me again. DAVID —Conan?! SONA Who else would keep stabbing me? DAVID You’re right. SONA Could you— ? DAVID Certainly. He exits, leaving SONA to her own accord; She removes a small wrap of sorts from a cabinet above the pantry, pulling with her teeth, before activating it, reaching for what appears to be a WAND before wrapping it around herself; she partially collapses on the counter and takes a sigh of relief, before pointing the wand briefly at her ailments; she only begins to heal barely when suddenly, she hears her employer— and magical companion— working his way in. She takes a sigh of dilapidated defeat, calling out. SONA Ugh— don’t come in here! CONAN Are you serious? How long could this be taking? It’s just a stab wound. SONA I’m not ready for you yet. CONAN I would have thought for you to be halfway up the canyons by now. SONA — through the same place twice. CONAN What if I use my wand? Would that be making any difference? It’s quicker. SONA It is. CONAN So it’s settled then. SONA Well, go ahead then. CONAN —I don’t have it. SONA Then why did you say anything—?! CONAN I was just affirming it’s quickness. SONA Are you serious CONAN It is superior. SONA Forget it, I’m already finished. CONAN Well then—I guess I’m useless. SONA You’re an idiot. CONAN Did it leave a scar? SONA Probably. Last time it did. CONAN looks at his CANE SWORD with a dignified approval. CONAN That is nice, then. Remind me to send a thank you gift for him. SONA I already did. CONAN (Scoffs) Well, that’s ironic; didja consider whether you’d be getting stabbed with it? SONA [Yeah] —I contemplated. CONAN Go get cleaned up. You look disheveled. SONA just groans and raises herself from atop the counter. GORLEY enters with a boba tea. GORLEY He stabbed you again. SONA Masterful observation. SONA exits, healed but, barely. GORLEY I wish I had magic. CONAN Me too. Then I’d stab you. GORLEY giggles and sips his boba tea. GORLEY Well then, kinda glad I don’t. CONAN quickly whips around and zaps him with his wand, oblitherating his BOBA TEA. CONAN (Mumbles smugly) Can’t fix that with magic. CONAN strides away. GORLEY sighs. He is covered in delicious BOBA tea, however the BOBA has spread across the floor. DAVID returns and stands at the doorway. DAVID Oh. {Enter The Multiverse} “The Secret Life of Sona” SUNNI BLŪ has just purchased a house nestled quaintly in the vacinity of former late night host CONAN O’BRIEN, and is alarmed that he is huge, has bright red hair, and can frequently enough be seen JOGGING that it IRKS her. SUNNI BLŪ YO, WHAT. AGH. [LATER] UGH. [AGAIN] UFGH. —!! MORGAN. [HANNAH EINBEINDER] MORGAN What. What. SUNNI BLU What is this. MORGAN What is what? SUNNI BLU What’s this. MORGAN What are you pointing at. [CONAN O’BRIEN JOGGING, PANTING] SUNNI BLU How can you not see that?! MORGAN See what! What am I looking at?! [she points out the window at CONAN jogging by.] MORGAN …that man? SUNNI BLU Is that a “man"? MORGAN Um… yeah? I…yeah, I think that’s Conan O’ Brien, actually. SUNNI BLU Ah. You know him. MORGAN No? SUNNI BLU (gesturing to red-headedness) He’s your kind. MORGAN Uhh—- [she shakes her head, then looks back toward the window] MORGAN CONT’D Oh, you mean redheaded. SUNNI BLU That’s…exactly what I meant. MORGAN I thought you meant white. SUNNI BLU You are white. MORGAN Yeah but— SUNNI BLU [a blank stare] MORGAN CONT’D Nevermind. SUNNI BLU So you know him. MORGAN Uhh—I mean, I know of him–yeah– SUNNI BLU He’s your uncle or something. MORGAN –??? SUNNI BLU I see the resemblance. MORGAN 👀 [SUNNI grabs a bottle of vodka from the cabinet; MORGAN looks at the clock. It is predictably 7:48 AM.] SUNNI BLU Tell him stop trespassing. MORGAN What? He’s not trespassing, he’s on the sidewalk. SUNNI BLU Stretching 8 feet in any direction is considered trespassing— That includes vertically. MORGAN What! No it doesn't! No it’s not! SUNNI BLU That’s California law, that’s what they’re designating it. I have friends in the Senate, you know. MORGAN Are you serious? SUNNI BLU Never mind, I’ll tell him. I need the paper anyway. SUNNI heads towards the door. MORGAN Since when do you read the— Sunni, wait— Since when do you read the paper?! SUNNI BLU I don’t I just enjoy throwing it. MORGAN No, don’t— [SUNNI has already catapulted a dummy loaded LA Times through the air at astonishingly high speed— although it’s just a rolled newspaper, CONAN happens to be running at a remarkably high speed with his extended gate on a STEEP DOWNHILL GRADE; The trajectory of the impact from the newspaper hitting him in the face, quite squarely between the eyes forces him to loose hit footing completely, propel forward, and ROLL down the remainder of the street, nearly flipping over entirely into a summersault cartwheel of sorts, rolling uncontrollably over the pristine asphalt. CONAN OOF. SUNNI BLŪ (Nonchalantly shrugging) {ENTER THE MULTIVERSE} C’cxell Soleïl Author, Poet, Producer & Creator Musician EXCERPT: THE CHRONICLES OF WTF, Season 1, Episode 2 titled ‘3 Man War’ CONAN (V.O.) CONAN O’BRIEN is an IMMORTAL CITIZEN, tasked with the arduous duties of landscaping the parallels and paradoxes in TIME. Every day I live a little longer… In a vintage mirror, He examines the heavy bags under his eyes, his pale, white skin, cakes with freckles and soon, with makeup— the picturesque Californian day shines ever brightly, even golden under the plumes of perfect white clouds floating, or even dancing effortlessly across the clear blue sky— though there’s something looming— always looming— over him personally. Director’s note; It might be worth it to find a full length mirror that Conan is actually just a little taller than, so that he has to slouch to look into it. It should be actual vintage, the type that swivels and is perhaps ovular, and should be painted a pale yellow. JAMES V.O. This is my room. INT. 30 ROCKEFELLER PLAZA. STUDIO 6B. DAY A LARGE, enthusiastic crowd—the AUDIENCE lifts to their feet, and cheers, applauding— the HOST takes his mark on what appears to be a GOLDEN FOUR LEAF CLOVER. JAMES V.O. (CONT’D) These are my toys. The whimsy of GAMES being played flash by in the foreground; a troupe of DANCERS take the the stage— the AUDIENCE cheers and laughs. JAMES V.O. (CONT’D) My name is James… Suddenly, the studio lights turn OFF; JAMES V.O. (CONT’D) –But people forget that. A faint echo of STEVE HIGGINS announces the HOST as “Jimmy Fallon!”; the applause and laughter fades out with the clamp of the lights. …Now full black and white, the stage is empty, the seats, a striking red, now monochromatic and abandoned. The studio is empty. The room is silent. But JAMES mind is rushed with thoughts. INT, BACKSTAGE, DRESSING ROOM JAMES (JIMMY FALLON) begins to take his TIE off in the mirror, then changes his mind— he tightens it instead, still looking at the mirror into his own dark eyes. Then, a voice approaches from behind him, standing in the doorway. CC He ties his own tie! He turns around and pivots on a dime, straightening his back. CC is a woman in her mid thirties, but presents herself much more maturely. CC (CONT’D) Surprised to see me? JAMES I do a lot of things myself, actually. CC No arguments there. An unspoken tension, perhaps, deep resentment or disdain for one another sits heavily in the small space between them. A long pause; CC seems almost blank under the darkness of her SUNGLASSES, however wreaking dominance— this almost seems to shrink the long and tall host into the uncertainty of a small child. Still, he holds his ground. JAMES Why are you doing this? CC —are you afraid? JAMES I was always afraid. Now I’m petrified. CC feigns a small smile, if not a smirk of all expressions chosen for the worst of moments. CC Gorgeous. I’ll be seeing you. Without even such a turning to walk away the woman seems to have vanished, but still the HOST calls down the hallway as if phone after her. JAMES It’s a wonder you’ll be seeing anything under those sunglasses! CC’s voice from the opposite side of the hallway, if not seemingly somewhat above him answers to call back. CC Call your friends. JAMES is disgruntled, and now the woman, vanished, if not having left a heavy air of some sort of impending call to action. He sighs, and a dog approaches from behind him as he stands in the doorway— from inside the dressing room, but also apparently out of nowhere. JAMES Bongo. He leans down to pet the seemingly familiar beast. JAMES (CONT’D) What are you doing out of your coffin? Then, an unknown voice that seems to come itself in ghostly shackles with the rumblings of time in the midsts of the now silent room, the buzzing florexent lights buzzing above with only just a glimmer of light, but just the slightest comfort of mystery. VOICE (unseen) It’s a ghost dog— nothing says he ought to be confined to a wooden box. Now JAMES seems worried, the dog unbothered— he straightens out from hunching over the happy creature and squares himself to face the inside of the room. A luminescent and mystifying creature stands before him, still yet unseen. VOICE Hello, Jimmy. The silver lined glow of a supernatural pale white and neon blue brings just the slightest hint of fear into JAMES’ dark brown eyes. CUT TO BLACK. The screen remains void of light for a beat. Slowly, the letter W fades in, centered on the screen. A beat later, T fades in beside it. A final beat later, F fades in. W — T — F The remaining letters then manifest, prefixing the initialism in a single motion to complete the full title: THE CHRONICLES OF WTF FADE OUT. CREDITS roll.