A rolling sea of fanatics greets the bullet-shaped limousine. In slow-motion, the door swings open, showing a tall, dark god, with just a drop of glycerin rolling down his cheek. The inside of the limousine is lit by intermittent camera flashes, which forever etch the outline of legs into celluloid. This is Don Roberts and his girl, Vera.

The sea surges forward; screams of love, hate, marriage proposals and other meme's drown out the snapping of shutterbug mandibles. Don's long legs, modified in real time by the most skilled digital "artists", swing out from the cozy interior of the limousine. His feet grace the red carpet. He extends a gloved hand, which is grasped by thin fingers ending in scarlet talons.

Above the mob, they smile, pearly whites glistening in the effulgent paparazzi glow. This is the Annual National Awards Ceremony (sponsored by Playboy and the state of Massachusetts). He has been nominated for Best Leading Actor to Donate to a For-Profit Charity and Best PETA-Friendly Fashion Sense; she has been elected Girl You Would Die To Be or Be With, Best Make-Up Design of the Hour, and Most Practical Implants. The moon above is obscured by artificial lighting, sunglasses and a thick cloud of smog from the nearby National Treasury Factory.

Don's head blooms like the rosebud on his tuxedo; a loud crack, reminiscent of a Rambo soundtrack, is heard beneath the dubbing of the audience. The lovely lady continues to smile, wiping a smear of Spaghetti Western from her cheek. The crowd continues to scream:

"Marry me! I love you! I love you! You're the best actress ever! What a falling star! Fuck me!"

And the paparazzi sing the chorus:

"Won't you, won't you, won't you pose for my camera? Won't you, won't you, won't you expose yourself for my camera?"

Don's cooling hunk of meat falls to the ground. He would be creating more of a stir if his plastic brains weren't the same color as the mile-long carpet. Oswald won't be ruining the party, it seems, but he also won't be making Don into a martyr.

A cigarette burn, and now, Dearest Viewer, why not let the crowd tell of the crucifixion?

The murmuring of the crowd rises to a dull roar as the trademarked humming of a hybrid-engine limousine is heard. The limousine pulls up next to the glass bubble the crowd is in. Eyes give a close-up of the vanity plate: F4M3. These people take in every detail: the small dent above the limo's fifth wheel on the right, the tinted windows covering uncountable scandals, the swerving of a drunk driver. The fans love to hate their food before they consume the product; they say it brings the flavor out.

The caravan of famous actors, directors, musicians, comedians, writers, pornographers, news anchors, politicians, police and priests has a servant individually open each door in synch. Camera's flash as the famous people that no one knows step free of the imprisoning limousine. We as fanatics are protected from their godly, airbrushed glow by bullet-proof glass. Like monkeys in a zoo, we throw shit at them; our hopes, dreams, love, trust, money. Like goldfish, they stupidly stare back at us, opiates helping them to be free of inhibitions and intelligence; mob mentality helps us in the same regard.

A crack, a smash; one of the famous nobodies is going down. Is that Don Roberts, the president of the United States of Hollywood, who can act like a corpse so well? We fans marvel at the special effects; they're so life-like, they help us to escape our lives!

Another cigarette burn, and this film moves on to the final scene, through the eyes of the director.

My hands, shaking slightly, adjust the camera and depress the record button. The lens has a window in its sight; through the window pokes my best and only friend, a metallic, scoped girl I have named Jackie-O, after a pun or a jack-o-lantern, which will be this fascists head soon. Looking into a mirror on the wall, I brush my hair back with my free hand; I need to look like the fairest of them all for my 15 minutes of fame. Satisfied that I have emulated the common man's musculature everywhere except between the legs and the ears, I step into the camera's POV for an ECU.

I say: "For the last thousand years, we as a species have subjected ourselves to an image prescribed by Hollywood. We used to be different."

At here I hold up a flag; 13 red and white bars, with a red box in the upper left. A golden, arched M sits in the middle of this box.

"This flag that you all grew up and masturbated to is the bastardized version of a once-great nations, the United State of America. I know that, even as the infotainment channels show the world this tape, your consumerists will be trying your best to look good for the telescreen. Know that Jesus Rand and her crew are nothing but evil. They sold you a world of gold and shiny shit for nothing short of your souls. Considering how stained they are, I'll bet it was a bargain!"

"Each and every one of you is a mechanical slave to the military-industrial simplicity, but there is a way out: Embrace your mortality. To demonstrate, I will kill GOD."

I lift the camera, still recording, and place it on a tripod, positioned right before the scope. Staring through both the camera lens and the scope of a rifle; I am truly unique, and through separation, immortal! But I will not tell them that; instead, I wait.

A bullet-shaped limousine crammed full of more celebrated casualties than a Columbine school bus, pulls up to a bullet-proofed TV set. From my view in this money factory, I can still hear the lunatics rave. Oh, how I love them all, too! But still, I can't speak; just grip your rifle and prepare to impregnate the world with knowledge from a couple hollow-point rounds.

The target and his whore step out. Yes! Yes! Oh, yes! Both my muscle-deficient area and my muscle-bound area are excited! Shooting a film, a gun, I am a pornographer, I should be down there, getting an award for Most Important Fucking Act-Doer of All Time. But if I can't be Taylor Swift, I'll be Kanye West! Oh pop culture jokes, how you will be forgotten in just a week!

I pull the trigger. I move the trigger, not caring if I hit my target or not, and center the camera on me. I point the rifle at my forehead, and pull the trigger again. A white flash ends all of Creation, followed shortly by black text that fells your screen as the credits roll.