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 Act 7 Scene 3: Daft Cunt.

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PostSubject: Act 7 Scene 3: Daft Cunt.   Sun Nov 04, 2018 12:46 pm

Steve: Where do we get tin-foil from?

Crew: Supermarket.

Steve: Is there a supermarket in this tent?

Crew: No.

Steve: No. So what could be another potential source of tin-foil?

Crew: Jacket potatoes!

Steve: Good thinking. If we can get some jacket potatoes and use the foil we can fashion a tin-foil balaclava to block the mind-control carrier wave.

They peer out of the front of the tent and spot a small ice-cream van dedicated to selling jacket potatoes.

Crew: Could you sell me some silver foil, like the kind you use for the jacket potatoes?

Man in the jacket potato van: Well we don’t use silver foil for cooking our jackets, it makes the skin all soft, I don’t know why people think you need tin foil to make taters anyway, but I’ve got some silver foil in here, how much do you need?

Crew: Enough to wrap two people’s heads, it’s a for a Faraday cage.

Man in the jacket potato van: A what? Whose head are you wrapping?

Steve: It’s for a fancy dress thing for the children’s tent, me and him are going to dress like Robots for the kids, but we need some silver foil. We’re called Faraday’s Cage, we’re on in half an hour.

Man in the jacket potato van:  Oh, right you are. No problem lads, though I would have thought your costume would have been sorted out beforehand but anything for the kiddies. I sometimes wish I’d gone into that sort of thing instead of being stuck with potatoes all my life.

He hands them the whole roll of silver foil.  

Steve: Thanks mate. Nothing wrong with potatoes, never lose the faith.

Man in the van: Yeah, you’re right. Potatoes never let you down. Thanks buddy, I won’t.

Steve and Crew busy themselves wrapping silver foil around their heads, each helping each other to effectively insulated their skulls from the pernicious Madonna mind-control carrier wave while ensuring that they can both breathe and see by making two small holes next to the relevant orifices. The job is a good one and they end up looking like some kind of fancy dress festival robots and once they start their way towards where they think they might be going they receive a small amount of adulation and congratulations on the wackiness and simplistic effectiveness of their robotic appearance.

Crew: Jesus, I feel like a baked potato.

Steve: Yeah, and aluminium is actually a toxic metal like mercury and arsenic. Future generations will marvel at why we cooked and wrapped our food in it just as we are dumbstruck that the apparently smart Victorians drunk water from lead pipes and wondered why they were suddenly feeling ill and suddenly dead.

Crew: Wonder what the future alternative will be?

Steve: Cellulose. Made of vegetable matter. A Swedish company is already working on it. Can be used for cooking, wrapping and even serving food. The principle is hardly different from Amazonian tribesmen cooking and eating their food from leaves. Maybe the man of the future will live using the same tools of the man of the long long past.

Crew: It would be a charming irony wouldn’t it?

Steve: I think God loves irony and its cousin, coincidence, it’s like God’s trademarks.

Crew: Steve, can I have a smoke yet?

Steve: It’s the same as the cider protocol, not until we save the world.

Crew: But look what happened when you tried to deny me cider, a famous millionaire platinum selling pop-nonce force-fed it to me. The universe is on my side, you can’t deny me a joint now Steve because God alone knows what strange synchronistic action might be brought to bear to assure that I get a joint.

Steve: Holy shit Crew, ok have a joint. Jesus, don’t threaten me with weird creepy universe pop-star synchronicity that’s something you just don’t do to a friend. I don’t want to meet any more weird and creepy pop-paedos at close quarters thanks.

Crew takes out a joint then as he brings it to his face to light it he realizes there is a problem.

Crew: Steve, I don’t have a hole.

Steve: Well there you go. Whoever heard of a smoking robot anyway? You’ll just have to wait until you’re human again.

Crew: Am I a robot now Steve?

Steve: Well you’d better be, otherwise you’re just a guy who’s wrapped his head in tin foil. So if anyone asks, yes, we’re both robots. So how do we find John?

Crew: makes a hole in his tin-foil robot face and starts shouting at the top of his voice Peanut butter.

Steve: Shut up man What the fuck are you doing?

Crew: shouting again Peanut butter!

Steve: To people looking I’m not with him.

Crew shouts one more time.

Crew: Peanut butter.

A moment later they hear a distant voice shouting a reply.

Voice: Strawberry jam.

Crew: We had a call and response system worked out in case we got separated. It’s John, he must be somewhere over there.

They make their way to the source of the ‘Strawberry Jam’ however it seems that their call is being taken-up by other festival goers and much to their confusion there are multiple people calling out ‘peanut butter’ and even some answering ‘strawberry Jam’.

Crew calls out ‘peanut butter’ once again to try to locate John, this time three different people respond ‘strawberry jam’.

Crew: Shit, which strawberry jam is John? Where do we go now?

Steve: Which one sounds like John?

Crew: I’m not sure, they all do from this distance.

Steve: We’ll have to ask a question only John will be able to answer.

Crew: Shouting How long is it?

A distant voice shouts: It’s long enough.

Another voice: I got it at Subway, it's a footlong.

A third distant voice: 12 years.

Steve: To Crew How long is what?

Crew: Since he hasn’t had a drink.

Steve: Wow. I never knew that John didn’t drink, but 12 years?

As they make their way towards John who is near the side of the 3D 4D bio stage.

Crew: So that’s what that smell was, it wasn’t Madonna’s decaying form after all, it was this he points to the large 4D-3D biomass stage, giant mountain of shit.

John Hampton, holding two hi-visibility vests greets them.

John Hampton: With interest Why are your heads covered in silver foil?

Crew: To protect us against Madonna’s witchy pop mind control, we were losing it out there, even Steve was dancing.

John Hampton: Yeah, I saw you and I knew something was up, quite a few others seemed to be under the influence. But she left the stage ten minutes ago.

Crew: Oh, really, so all of this was totally unnecessary.

John Hampton: You didn’t notice?

Steve: Personally speaking I assumed that the fact that we couldn’t hear anything meant was part of our protection from the mind control noise.

John Hampton: Well you can safely unwrap yourselves now. They remove the silver foil exposing slightly red and flushes heads beneath. This is how some  artists sell so many records despite a lack of any discernible talent. Some people are immune while others, particularly certain music journalists are not. Which is probably why every new and increasingly boring Radiohead album is met with universal acclaim in the press. Kid A was ok but since then they’ve been heavily employing hidden mind-control carrier-waves to make people think their music is good, and they are still edgy musical pioneers.

Steve: Either that or the mesmeric effects of Thom Yorke’s lazy eye.

John Hampton: Yes, the eye is strangely compelling isn’t it? It could even be that Radiohead are victims of their own mind-control and maybe they even believe they are still a good band. I can’t see how anyone would carry on producing the turgid rubbish they do with a clean conscience otherwise.Anyway guys, here are your access-all-areas VIP passes. He hands them the high-viz vests which they put on.  

John Hampton: Let’s get backstage.

Steve: Oh God, I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.

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