The same slope swarmed with other figures, each with a job to do: some collected the garbage spewed out by the Lord and shoved it into portable eco- disintegrators. Others — the majority — picked up the fallen items, sorted them, and sent them straight to store shelves across the nation.
If back in the Middle Ages, merchants used to sell a pinky joint of Saint Januarius — falsely claimed to have miraculous powers (both the relic's authenticity and its magic were suspect) — now it was honest business. The buyer always knew they were getting a Tefal frying pan with non- stick coating, personally blessed by the burp or sneeze of a real Deity.
Sleepiness didn't stop Wilhelm from lazily mulling over the movie currently paused on his screen.
To him, the film seemed like a compilation of absurd nonsense dressed up as grandiose arthouse — a sad fate for a lifelong connoisseur and seeker of quality content. Then again, from a different angle, every - auteur film he'd seen in the past fifty years appeared to be just that: a stretched- out three- hour snorefest shot from the same mold.
Someone was suffering, and someone else was suffering even more than the first. Both participants in this eternal pain contest couldn't decide whether to present themselves in high- contrast black and white, or in faded footage where they stood in silence for twenty minutes under a wind tousling their hair, sadly staring at the ocean of their unrealized dreams.
And deep in their heads, completely opposite ideas were being born.
One poor soul was contemplating how to weave socio- political context into the story of a weasel with erectile dysfunction, while the other martyr insisted his film needed even more jump- cut psychedelic shots, merging into a single homunculus of Art — the kind that might attract funding.
Thinking all this, Wilhelm screamed at the top of his lungs, unleashing a tornado that woke up half the country. Then, calming down slightly, he performed a nasal spray injection of two liquid hamburgers the size of a baobab and hit: - Play.-
Episode №3. The Most Soulful Fan Base on Earth.
The first thing Flora heard upon waking up was the thunderous snore coming from her landlord's room. The old lady hadn't woken up in, like, a week, and an uninformed person might have started to worry. Flora, however, knew her landlady sometimes slipped into a proper hibernation state but always woke up eventually.
In fact, that's where she got the name for her film—because the old lady was called Holly Wood. Flora found the name irresistibly cinematic. Shame she so rarely saw Holly Wood conscious and vertical, but that woman really loved her sleep. Woke Holly Wood usually tried to read up on new lucid dreaming practices and… and... she's generally a cool and interesting person!
So, not the least bit concerned, Flora fluttered out from under her light blanket and squinted into the doorway—where Evelyn had already planted herself, blocking the entire exit. At her feet lay her main weapon, the - knight's greatsword- —a camera. Just a second ago, she'd been smiling at sleepy Flora, but as soon as she saw her niece trying to get her bearings, she switched to business mode like flipping a damn switch:
Get up, sweetheart! It's a new day, time to get to work. Episode three of our little series—we gotta shoot You want your poor, tired, sick auntie to have nothing to watch on those cold winter nights? All those talk shows, I swear, they're driving me nuts! Okay, I get it, she's got keys… but just walking in like that? Without knocking or even asking? My aunt's grip around my neck keeps getting tighter and she's grabbing the reins of my life like she owns them. Why does she always treat me like I'm twelve?- — Flora didn't fall into existential despair or anything, but this was not the wake- up vibe she'd hoped for. Meanwhile, the camerawoman kept talking:
Our calls to the whole team yesterday weren't for Everyone's informed, they know where to go. We're shooting at the house where Vanna and her uncle live. Ugh, him again? — Groaned the Yeah, well, we need a fresh And I didn't sit there listening to that plush moron from the sauna crawl tell me to drive around town with him for nothing, okay?
Flora's thoughts went straight to that WhatsApp message she sent to the Costume—the guy who left his number on a piece of parchment (seriously, parchment?! Where does one even get that nowadays?) in her mailbox. She immediately knew it was his. That oddball had a signature weirdness to him.
And could it be that she was misgendering him? What if the Costume was actually a collective, some shape- shifting blend of identities constantly switching places? Who were They?
Either way, she'd texted him. No reply. But she didn't doubt the message got through—he always showed up right where he was needed. Still, he brought more stress than joy to any shoot he crashed.
Evelyn was still talking. Flora had to consciously tune back in to catch the gist:
So I googled that thing Manu told us about, and you know what? He was telling the truth, the whole truth! I even remembered seeing that incident on One of those Hollywood guys showed up there too—what's his name… really hot, jacked, and tatted up, long hair. Anyway, he also protested the telescope.
Could you please step out? I'll get dressed and we'll go. — Flora asked gently, but firmly. Oh come on, what are you so shy about? I bathed you, you little rascal, I changed your diapers! Evelyn protested, but stepped out after Flora delivered what would go down in her personal platinum memory vault: an actual teen- movie- style rebellion. She chucked her shorts to the floor— right next to her aunt.
What just happened? A hallucination? A glitch in the Matrix? Either way, Copy—who had somehow procured a set of dominos and was building a house with them (???)—knocked the structure down with a flourish and approved the rebellious act of the brazen girl: