“'Married Mario' is an empty distinction,” Proke says, trying to put the Client at ease.

It works:

“Just like 'barf ball',” Elon Musk says.

“Or 'pizza Drake',” Red Hands says.

“Or 'tormented schoolboy',” White Worm says.

All three clients nod. Proke, Werk, Serge, Dr Cosby and Henry Fonda nod, albeit formally. It's taken forever to stab wank scream whoop toss drink and straighten up, un-beheaded butch swooping phimosis the next morning exploded, egg whites as creamy corollary preserved birth defects of game character Part 2: preparing a surprise expulsion though unexpectedly flickering it spontaneously shot out slowly afterwards.

Chatting with flaccid guitar entrails pubic hair steak smearing psychosis-sickening sheriff sheepdog shitstorm suck my dick laughing lesbian, Thumbnailmailman man being a more than expected conceived caricatured Mortal Mario through coherent death of Abraham Lincoln at the old-age home party, dragons extending Hulk Hogan limb of diamonds, the PlayStation 3 mineral metric jumped onion gutter emeralds as the arrow points to loving that it happened in their game, Elon Musk, unable to contain his satisfaction, says, “Completely wipes your counterpart's ass, no less.”

On a barren horror wax-scape between fleeting cliffs, lurking digital gym toilet extrovert aka Thumbnailmailman man aka TIME Tabloid Toter runs just like a little video game character; the killing water cooking up parts of spiral capped summer grocery jammer of cracks sacks paramedics bond repeatedly on its way home horse husband hushed buoyant because of worms can't drown therefore, therefore has become aware.

“'Suck' yourself,” Red Hands says, beside himself with joy.

But through his weird fungal throat scratching White Worm can't stop thinking aloud: “Perhaps my colleagues will agree, namely that the racing car as mere love-pram dipping with a secret stench bumps like it or not, yet our duke of upset stomach peeled mince” - here referencing their little Prometheus – “greater chops grated the foil, in game designing terms, a kind of corporal punishment as symbiotic content.”

“Approval is created by a galvanic next door dismantling by a larger effort of taint grim poop forgiveness so as to be what it says about you, CORRUPT,” Proke says nervously, eyeing Serge and Dr Cosby and Werk, who look back in alarm, agreeing.

Henry Fonda, at the same outpost, is not prepared the stick around for this bullshit and walks out.

“Uhhhhhh,” Elon Musk says slowly, visibly offended, “well bloodsucking transmitted disease in the blood in the tube atop nosebleed oasis feels like ice eating stinky comparable bowling ball flesh shit: a hot mid-bright clean air pulse convulsions throb. The surprising result” - clearing his throat arrogantly – “of Daylight Savings Time nebula expressive engineering bubbling handjob spaghetti stripes soft like it was made for my skin, skin like doors.”

“He means don't touch my colleague's Tetris testis,” White Worm says testily, beholding Elon with highly charged, admiring eyes, “lest you open an upside-down world around us to my electric prod, to which corpses stand performing flock flaunted entertaining ME...”

No one is laughing.

It is as if an exhausted soil has burst, as if a brain has put its dry little slits in thirsty knots around a dumb dolphin, heinously hanging abstract-addled like a rust-warped bus in a corrosive sea of anxiety.

“...oh yea?” Proke manages to croak.

“My only purpose for living is to f.uck up your god.amn s.hit,” Meryl-Streeep hologram says.