Lieu grapples onto Bump Tower and steadily suctions his way up, scaling in a zigzag pattern cos it's hard to see at night.
Lieu: i'm black and hard to see.
he loses his way all night and when dawn breaks he sees he's been going in a circle on the 3rd floor and is really nowhere near the top. the police drone arms haul his undernourished tired body in pretty easily. an indoor camera captures through the pane glass his weary shocked face surprised at the sudden flash.
Lieu: i wasn't surprised. i was scared. that is the face of pure what-the-hell-was-i-thinking-i-can't-believe-my-physical-body-is-actually-at-this-altitude-i-could-be-snug-in-bed-but-i'm-fighting-winds-to-fall-my-thoughts-have-been-scattered-for-a-while-no-cause-is-worth-this.
he is booked and paraded around the news. he doesn't speak once, save for this on Maury:
Lieu: i'm mad at myself more than anything.
Maury: come on, son. you're on national tv. you can't hide anymore. you might as well tell the truth.
Lieu: okay. i'm mad at my crap technology. it's never worked for me. there's always a problem. it never runs smooth. it said Bump would be there but he's clearly in Rio. i would know this if i turned on a tv but tv rots the brain.
but he was close. the President is nearby plotting to take down Bump Tower but his secret men who are stragglers struggling to finish their terms so they can get a recommendation for something better advise against it. too much security.
the President: *behind a bush* that's the problem with this country. too easy for evil for thrive. i'll be damned if all the BS and T i put into this project goes down in one match when Bump ascends. i'd rather sacrifice my freedom to save my country's. in the beginning i was sweet. now i'm stable. i am as clear-headed now than when i was in the weeds of the start of my second term. your finger becomes steadier as you near the end. cos it's the end.
the President removes his black backpack which is the nuclear football. he enters the codes to point the nukes to the White House and waits.
the President: *licking an ice cream cone* and now, the waiting game. 'cept it's not a game. get comfortable, men. have a seat. man it's hot. just like home.
Bugler's Dream reprise
Wolf: welcome back to Rio, folks. we're getting more news concerning the Lochte robbery. he apparently left his friend high and dry. it's a California thing, hang loose. the story gets stranger the more you smell it. let's take an ear gander at the press conference:
Lochte: me and my friend were in a cab. we got robbed. it was scary. this is serious. they'd never do this to Phelps. JUST THEN out of the blue Usain Bolt just happens to be walking our street. in long strides. i wave my large hands over to help:
Lochte: did you see the robber get away? what direction did he off to?
Bolt: THAT way! i'll go chase him! i'll get him for you!
Lochte: no, no, i doubt that. if anyone can, it's me. leave it to the beefcake.
Lochte: and i ran. but i was really slow. it's not the same when there's no water. when it's just air.
atheist space reporter: do you regret all that silly glittery silver dye you put in your hair? think it might've seeped into your brain? speak up into the mic.
Lochte: *static* uh, yes. yes i do. looking back, not doing my brain any favors.
Costas emerges from under Wolf's desk.
Costas: this shit is still going on? how long is it?
Wolf: didn't see you there, Bob. a month.
Costas: get out of my chair! and pump it up to my level. go to your next assignment.
Wolf: YOU go.
Costas: why are you here?
Wolf: completely and utterly sick of the election. take your soap box with you.
Costas puts his soap box in front of him and steps up on it to equal the height of his interviewee, Mara Abbott.
Costas: hiya toots. funny meeting you in a place like this.
Mara Abbott: speaking of place, fourth place is the absolute worst! it's torture! i'd rather get last place than fourth place!
Costas: oh, but see? you get that cool shiny tin medal around your neck this year. that doesn't shine. wanna step on my box for the podium experience?
Mara Abbott: swipe left.
Costas: is that the good one? join me for a drink later?
Mara Abbott: pass. i'm gonna go back to my room, trade in my condoms for cocktail tokens, and become an alky.
Costas: but we're at war with those guys. i thought you were a strong American.
there is more anticipation than air in the stadium. you can hear a cricket drop. the 100-yard-dash is about to commence. the real commencement of the Games. hush. Bolt places his finger on his lips to quiet the world. as he prepares. the little horns of his block get in the way of his golden shoes. Michael Johnson's golden shoes with the label rubbed off. ready. SHOOT. everyone but Bolt false starts. so now Bolt with the gold medal already around his neck is given a free run to see if he can break his own record and get it under 8. ready?
.............................and HE DOES IT! 5 SECONDS!!!
but wait, none of us were paying attention to what was on top of Usain Bolt's head the whole time he's so fast. he's wearing the A.C. Slater wig that used to belong to his dearly departed beloved brother Mario Lopez. so the time is actually hampered. it could have been even faster. it's like wind-aided but in reverse. but Usain silences the crowd with another finger in the air:
Usain: as strongly as i can word this, as strong as the first three letters of my first name, i say to you, i tell you this: do not remove the time. let time stand. i ran today in remembrance of my friend Mario.
the crowd explodes in applause.
Mustafina tonight is in the middle of her favorite routine, the uneven bars. her dashing coach stands by the side hoping to catch her if she falls. she does, which is surprising, she's got a lot on her mind.
the coach carries her back up to the highest bar but not before planting a smooch on her glittery lips.
coach: please forgive me, med! it was one time! it was stupid! i lost my mind! the world is crazy! it'll never happen again! i love you! i don't know if "in love" is actually a thing but i love you! i am not a pervert, i am a man!
Mustafina falls again and is granted a score of -1. there is no perfect 0 anymore. there's a hush in the arena. the camera pans to her face. she doesn't give her patented look of that particularly Russian brand of boredom. instead she is quite interested. she strips naked, clutches her coach's hand, and the two race out the door into a Brazilian tropical rainstorm to a nearby cafe for hot breakfast and a much-needed pee and tea.
Aly Raisman and her girls have won the gold again, blah blah blah. that isn't of note. what is is more global. Aly stares directly into the camera and announces to the world kissing her roughed-up fingers:
"We are the final humans!"
then she and the rest of the team pick up their noisy chainsaws, push their buttons, and amid a cloud of sawdust and strife cut the balance beam in half.
Hilary: *in her war room* you sure this'll work?
the Pope: solid. Bump can't resist an ass. and i know great asses: Raisman, Sage Watson. Mustafina makes me hungry for pancakes. a woman's butt is magic. you'd be wise to remember that come the general election.
Hilary: related to Emma?
the Pope: even hotter. he'll be too distracted up in Brazil and miss the first debate. simple.
Hilary: going down in Brazil hopefully.
at the first debate, the two candidates are stripped naked, hoisted up on chainlink like cattle and checked by the laser scans of the drones.
the Pope: *in the audience* damn.
Codrus poofs from behind draped in a backstage curtain.
Codrus: remember what i..........oh forget it.
Sage Watson is now Bump's constant companion, his new arm candy replacing Ivanka. Bump still looks jumpy and agitated.
Bump: *muttering under his breath* still not the right blonde.
the debate starts. before a first word is uttered by the fundamentalist moderator, Bump storms up to Hilary, squares his fist, and tries to land a fast left into her jaw. she quickly ducks and swivels away as he whiffs badly and is carried by his negative momentum over the stage railing into the crowd landing his nose right squarely into the Pope's pussy.
Codrus slaps his third eye.
on the isle, the three are ruminating supplicants and applicants, anything and anyone that might help Hartwin's fatal injury. they sample the local stone soup. mission burritos. plant milk cultivated from the sweet sweatdrops that fall along the huge green overhead plant leaves' veins at night.
Lysander: we even N-bombed.
calypsoist: how dare you, foreigner!
Lysander: no, the LSD. don't i look like a guy who did LSD in the '60s? it's in my name. don't i just reek of drugs?
calypsoist: you smell. but i can't say that's a bad thing.
the old woman is naturally a witch woman. she opens the lid of the calypso drum where reverberating are six large silver nails.
old woman: "island acupuncture," she cackles.
she inserts the nails into Hartwin's golden heart.
witch woman: you know the myth of the Xenopus Turtle?
Harfi remains quiet.
Lysander: i like turtles.
witch woman: it's not a myth. it's real. as real as you or me. the Giant Spry Turtle creates the waves and provides the water for our drink, tasting it first with its everlong curling tongue to make sure it's not too salty. its stomps create the mountains, its tail wags the valleys. the midrib of the plant leaf it digests in its many stomachs creates all the universe's milk. it's not about the veins, it's really about the rib.
Hartwin: *quietly* she's not crazy. and i know crazy. i see it. i see her belief. i see the friend frog turtle big and strong. and i see myself. i am the body,
THE BLOOD, CLICK HERE, RIGHT HERE AT THIS LINK
i wish i could feel her digging into me.
witch woman: open your ears. let the sudden scratchy song of the terrapin tale raise your consciousness. music heals.
Hartwin: i don't hurt anymore.
there's a collect call placed directly to the debate staging area, which is the perfect group setting. the moderator picks up. it's Madchen calling from the sticks:
Madchen: whoever stupid politician thinks this is all a joke: your dumb words kill. we don't think about such obtuse concepts as war until our own flesh is shattered and our own blood dries up. my son isn't a statistic, he's my will to live. he never asked for this. you, did. you murdered him. murderer. he was the pawn while you stayed perfumed. where do we go to file a grievance that we were always against the war but had no choice? cos we needed to eat. but we never drank. see that's the thing, we all need money eventually. we all sell our souls eventually. but i still have dried blood as well. i'm guilty. of thinking i could replace my dead sister. we think that using our talents for a greater cause will redeem us. but it won't. cos every cause has a counter. we get swept up in nations created by states. we crave community but there is no community. pride created online. every woman for herself i say. we must leave our red banquet dresses in our closets and hide our lights under our bushes if we are to survive as a subspecies.
the other two are on their phones. the two cats are playing an electronic fish-catch game on their ipad minis, having a hard time cos the technology hasn't caught up to their paws.
Herlina: one day i will be fit enough, toned enough, muscular enough, strong enough, healthy enough to leave instagram.
Carmen: good on ya, girl. Maddie that speech will make you so famous you won't have to respond to your instagram comments anymore.
the devon rex licks Madchen's face.
Madchen: thank you. i'm drained after that. i'll take any form of love. do you like being called Milla? shouldn't you be named King Devon or something?
Milla: a god by any other name would smell as sweet. i mean, dog.