An internal object holds him down. It doesn't know what he is. As its orbital mystery, its tight lid, Krang knows what it is. The proclivity for gruesome overreach of its petrol cadence – a gray area poses as a portal, transforms into a bubble. A literal fume, worst anchor. He thinks, “I'm going to kill myself,” then hears voices behind him – Ernie, no, you can't, not here – and the very statement seems to cross a threshold. Solar blood. I am Krang, motherfucker. Figuratively, the goat in the display cabinet is inanimate, therefore embodies the Gospel; social nebulae filling its autism with bells – sensors discerning textures with a bacterial fisheye – it plays the lead role in Boogie Nights. “John Travolta” finally fucks a girl. Necrophilia, finally. Fever-ink traces mirror-ball architecture. Pigeons shit like chicken. A pox pops up, little non-biodegradable prisms ejecting the venom of the pivotal lump's void. I shit on my own shit. A fluorescent graph finds its tabloid tone, finally, like a tongue curtailing heavy piss. “[For which] I am going to Hell,” she tells [Ernie]. End of (a bad) movie.