TRASHFUTURE - Trashfuture Presents: John Taliban, Episode 1

Episode Date: October 11, 2021

Several months ago, Alice Caldwell-Kelly awoke from a literal fever dream covered in a sheen of sweat, with one name on her lips: JOHN TALIBAN. A man whose name is just, coincidentally, Taliban. A man who loves Ford cars. Maybe his name’s Hungarian, it’s impossible to know. And now, from that impossible dream, Alice and friend of the show Noah Suarez-Sikes have written a real pilot which we’ve table read for you—the loyal hog. Please enjoy this TF Special Presentation™ of JOHN TALIBAN.   CAST LIST: John Taliban: @Devon_OnEarth (Devon) Erika Joiner: @AliceAvizandum (Alice Caldwell-Kelly) Ashleigh Belden: @PrhRoy (Phoebe Roy) Squib Jackson: @Milo_Edwards (Milo Edwards) Heppie Jackson: @GoingMedieval (Dr Eleanor Janega) Chent Mustang: @inthesedeserts (Nate Bethea) Carter: @notliamanders0n (Liam Anderson) Waiter / Charon: @who_shot_jgr (Justin Roczniak) Kennedy Cutout / Stage Directions: @noahpasaran (Noah Suarez-Sikes)

All right. You had something for this. Yeah, Alice. How do you feel about the Taliban? The Taliban? Well, mixed feelings after several decades of insurgency against the United States. I don't know. People say that they've mellowed. I think that's sort of a false hope. But I think there's still like, you know, a sort of a hold that. So Alice, Alice, would you say that the Taliban, for example, haunts your dreams? I would say that the Taliban haunts my dreams, not for like stealing valor reasons, but in that I had a strange, almost mystical experience. I woke up from a feverish dream with a single name on my lips. And the name that I woke up with was John Taliban. That's right. John Taliban. John Taliban, who is a Ford executive.

He is not related to the Taliban in any way. Legally, the Taliban and the Ford corporation are distinct entities. It's it's just a coincidence. It's like Hungarian or something. And he he refuses to ever change his name from John Taliban. And I believe the exact thing I said to you when you put it in the group chat was I am going to pay you five crisp American dollars for the rights to this idea. You never paid me my five crisp American dollars. Well, you owe me 10. 10 American dollars for guessing the for guessing the twist on death loop that you said was too stupid to. That's true. So friend of the show, friend of the show, friend of trash future podcast,

friend of the night with the extended universe, Noah Swarovs, I owe you five dollars. And central figure of the night with the extended universe and trash future. Alice Kondo Kelly. But where's my goddamn money, I don't have your money because I was too busy writing with you a speculative pilot of a TV series that we are going to legitimately try and pitch to people who might buy it. Now, Alice, here's the thing. Without saying where I work, I work at and I work in animation. And so I think this is a pilot for animation. It's an animated hour long comedy, which you don't get very many of it's sort of like a drama about a man whose name is it's about a main central very damaged male figure being like yet. No, it is a

inverse Ted Lasso. It is a Don Quixote story for the modern age. I don't want to do animation. I want to do John Taliban live action. Okay, well, ma'am, ma'am, which is easier for us to pitch. Now, what you're hearing here, listeners, is called creative differences. What I cannot stress enough is that we collectively, Noah and Alice, the John Taliban Rice's room wrote a pilot of John Taliban. And what we did is we got our friends from the native extended universe to table read this pilot. So that's what you're about to hear. And so for those for those listeners that don't know Hollywood, a table read in this particular instance is we take a draft of the script or a sort of a version of script that we want read

aloud and we have it read aloud and we use that to make adjustments as we go into the final thing. So producers, remember, this is going to be this is going to be a real smash hit if you're listening. Oh, yeah, absolutely. You should purchase this from us. You should buy it. So presenting Devon as John Taliban, me as Erica Joyner, Phoebe Roy as Ashley Veldon, Milo Edwards as Squibb Jackson, Dr. Eleanor Yanaga as Happy Jackson, Liam Anderson as Carter, Nate Bethay as Chent, Justin Rosniak as Waiter. And as Caron. Oh, sorry, also Caron. Yeah, that's correct. And Noah Swarovski as John F. Kennedy, Robert F. Kennedy and The Stage Directions.

Yes, that's right. So we hope you enjoy while I explain to Alice what points on the back end means and why it doesn't mean what you think. Please sit back and enjoy John Taliban. Oh, I thought we got to do that again. So it's synced and we sound we got to do it like real, real, you know, all right, all right. Please, please, please sit back and enjoy John Taliban. John Taliban. Okay, welcome to I'm going to do the joke again. Welcome to Well, there's your masters of trash future, James Bond, the epic, the epic crossover between podcasts that are constantly crossing over. And we're going to we're going to read a pilot that I, Noah Swarovski is a screenwriter, DSA LA member and and trash future Hollywood correspondent.

Dilatant. That's that's that's right. People say friend of the show friend of the show. Is he a you know, friend of trash, friend of the show. So I just googling Dilatant to I've called you gaver. Say that if that's what you mean. All right. So I'm just going to go ahead and start John Taliban episode one on one pilot written by Alice Caldwell Kelly. No, sorry, Sykes story by Alice's dreams, called open. I don't know. I think it's important to keep it. I guess it's like a matter of principle. Exterior squibs Ford dealership day open on a Googie style car dealership packed to the gills with brand new Ford vehicles. John Taliban 40s kind of an inverse Ted Lasso

pushes along squib Jackson 30s, a man whose name is a perfect descriptor passed a lot full of brand new trucks. I just don't get how you got hired at Ford with a name like well, because I'm a man with integrity. You know, they don't like a Ford squib. No, sir, I don't guys named squib. Well, sir, my Christian name is I don't care, squib. You know what you're about now, Ford products. You know how I sell Ford products. No, sir, I don't I ain't sold a car in well weeks. I sell them on my good name. I sell them on the good name of Jonathan Livingston Taliban. But you can call me John Taliban. I don't think I will, sir. Opening titles. If I could, if I could give a directorial note, maybe a little less great training day in this. Absolutely not. It's heat. Okay. Act one,

interior John Taliban's Mustang day. John Taliban lounges in his car outside a Starbucks parking lot. The only place he feels home behind the wheel of a Ford, he clicks a gold Ford branded pen over and over. Do you want me to stop doing that? Because I'm not going to. The voice is good. The voice is good. I'm sorry, just a directorial note that maybe a little bit less gritty on squib specifically. It's a little bit. Oh, I should have been clear. And John Taliban is kind of that way a little bit, but like a little bit more. Yeah, John's fine. Yeah, John's fine. All right, go ahead. Clint East was John Taliban. He politely asked me to leave. I've never been politely asked to leave. A man is an invertebrate gent. The crackling voice of his mentor and

boss. Chent Mustang 60s vaguely 50s corporate hisses out of his car speakers. I'm sick of you not doing things the forward way. You're one of 50 trainers I manage Taliban. And you know how the other 49 of them do it? Seminars. Seminars. And all the time I get phone calls from my boss, do you even know what Taliban is doing out there? She asks me, can you still control Taliban? She asks me. And you know what I tell her? I tell her that Taliban gets results. You've got three days to turn this squib guy around. You understand? Otherwise, you won't be working the tri-state area anymore. You'll be training some guy named Kat Piss Jones from 50 minutes outside of Shreveport. And you'll be doing it from a goddamn Ramada in conference room. You made yourself the trouble

shooter. Shoot the goddamn trouble. Yes, sir. I won't let you down. Perfect. Chent hangs up as Taliban slides down into the seat, staring up the ceiling. He pulls out his wallet, opening it to reveal an accordion fold of photos of John smiling in front of successful dealerships, spilling out of the wallet all over the front seat of his car. He steals himself. He needs a goddamn drink. Interior Starbucks Day. Taliban almost leaps into the Starbucks, strutting his way to the counter, where a barista 20s waits. And I don't think we've given this role, so I will just do it. Cookies and cream frappuccino. Yeah, sure. What's the name? Taliban. John Taliban. Hold on, John Taliban's beaming smile, then smash cut to

Interior Starbucks moments later. John Taliban sits at a table, clicking his pen impatiently as the barista brings out an egg-shaped manager for these angry. So I'm gonna have to ask you to leave. How come? You think I'm funny? Taliban? Not really. It's just my name. You piece of shit. You goddamn cheese curd. Taliban gets up, staring directly at the manager. Taliban is comically tall. What did you just say to me? My son died in Afghanistan, and the Taliban killed him. You sick fuck. He impotently jabs his finger at Taliban's chest. Your son got killed by the Taliban in Afghanistan? His father's gonna get killed by the Taliban right here if I don't get my goddamn cookies and cream. The manager takes a step backward. He raises his

fists as if to slap John. John's eyes go wide, crazy, then smash cut to exterior Starbucks moments later. John Taliban exits the Starbucks, holding his frappuccino. His phone rings. It's an old smartphone, beaten all the shit with a crack screen. Caller ID, Erica Joyner. Hey, babe. Yeah, you know, she's got enough fistfighter Starbucks. All right, look, not a fistfighter, slapfighter Starbucks. It was almost a slap fight. The guy could have slapped me. How's your thing? My thing? Intercut with Interior Hospital Corridor Day. We see Erica Joyner, 30s for the first time, a harass-looking, dark-haired woman wearing scrubs. Might give a patient the worst news of his life thing? Yeah, your thing. Interior Hospital Room. Earlier in day, Erica is sitting at the

desk across from a guy who doesn't know he's dying yet, 50, and that guy's wife, 50s. We see her give them the bad news. The guy crumples in his chair. His wife cries and screams at Erica and throws things, papers fly. Close on Erica's professionally sympathetic expression as the opening bars of how to save a life by the fray plays. Cut to Interior Hospital Corridor Day, Erica. Yeah, it was fine. Am I going to see you tonight? See me tonight? That is one of the features of us living together, yes. See me tonight. John makes a really meaty slurping noise, Devin? Oh, no. I don't want to have to edit that. I don't want anyone to hear it. Very well. I'll use that. You have two choices. Erica recoils from the phone. Cut back to

exterior Starbucks Day. We rejoin John in midslurp as he walks to his car. He gets a notification on this phone. Oh, okay. Bye. Bye. Love you. Bye. John checks his messages. He has a new one from Ashley with an IGH, Belden, 20s, baby-faced, but also the most 710 girl you know. It says, call me, Zaddy. He calls her back. Hi, Zaddy. What? You said, you said call me, Zaddy. OMG, you're so funny. I was calling you, Zaddy. I don't use punctuation anymore. It's cringe. The hell is a Zaddy? It's like when you're old, but also kind of nice with us. Phoebe, perfect. Fucking incredible. Nailing it, yes. John gets at his beautiful Ford Mustang. His cookies and cream frappe gently melting over his hand. Cut to interior John Taliban's Mustang

continuous. The interior of John Taliban's Mustang has suddenly become 100 degrees. He sweats like a pig in a hot brick oven. Kind of nice with it. So can I see you tonight or what? Is your friend going to be there? The one who looks like if a vampire did cocaine? Because that lady scares me. No, she looks more like a vampire did cat. She died. Sorry, I feel bad I said she scares me now. It's fine. I switched drug girls. You coming? I need you there, please. I guess. Zaddy with the Zanny. You're fucking crazy, you know. And I mean that seriously is in you are unwell. Zaddy, I'm in my 20s. Kind of nice with it. End act one. Everybody amazing job on that one. Fucking nailed every part of that.

Perfect. Perfect. All of you are so talented. That's why we got you. We got the best of the best. Thank you. All right. Act two. This is actually we are going to get we're going to get Ross in this act. Act two. Interior. Disused bowling alley club night. John steps into a disused bowling alley now covered in trendy club decor that would make anyone over 50 have a seizure. A group of hip 20-somethings pass around either a conceptual art piece or a weird bong. Riley and Taliban scans the room for his girl. Finally, Landy got Ashley talking to some Euro guys and stirring a tampon in a glass of vodka. She waves at him. Zaddy.

Uh, so this is in public now too. Come on. Don't be such a grouchy goss. Be my friends. Andreas Njanssen. This is my boyfriend, John. John Taliban. He's corporate. John visibly winces at being called her boyfriend, the Euro guys wave. One of them gave me drugs, but I don't remember which. All Europeans have weird skulls. I can't tell them apart. Okay. And the tampon. It's for, you know, absorption. She leans in close, nearly licking his ear. And it's not the only thing that's going to be inside me. Yeah. He's bodying the character.

Big method. Fuck you, man. Aren't you on your period? It's called a bloody merry babe. Cut to interior outside the bathrooms at a bearishly short amount of time later. John tucks the front of his shirt in, tries to smooth down his post-sex hair. You're crazy, even for me, John Taliban. He looks around, but Ashley has already gotten her kicks and moved on. She's standing in a group of partiers having a good time, not even looking back at him.

As he stands in limbo, Carter, 20s, spiky hair and face paint sliles up to him. Hey, man. Is that your daughter? I wish. No, wait, that's weird. No, I don't wish that. That's weird. She's, uh, she's my, in my day, I think we call them slam pieces. Oh no, I, I totally get it. You're confronting mortality at the age of 40 and seeking transactional comfort in the arms of a younger, emotionally unstable woman. That, that's exactly right. Okay. Do you want some of this shit that killed JFK?

S-excuse me. Carter pulls out a tiny vial of purplish dust. This, this is the real shit, man. Experimental army research chemicals. From the army. Oh. They used to shoot this up into GIs in the 60s to get them doing domestic gladiator shit, kill the president, all that shit. You ever heard of domestic gladio?

Slash cut to interior bowels of the bowling alley night, close on John Taliban's eyes, getting more bloodshot. JFK domestic gladio. Marilyn Monroe domestic gladio. Paul Wollstone domestic gladio. You remember that time the undersecretary of agriculture got caught with the honk in the You better believe that that's domestic gladio.

Carter does a huge line of powder. We just read out of them. That's pure domestic gladio. John looks at Carter the seed of an idea forming. Interior squibs dealership night. Squib leans against the patent leather couch. His wife, Hepsima Hepi Jackson, 40s. Sexy matron is pouring out a meager ration of brandy into two dusty glasses.

He's like a kind of demon, Hepi. You might have noticed my voice has changed some. That's exactly correct. Perfect. Demons don't exist, Squib. Not since your mother died. I sweat, Hepi. Outside, John Taliban's mustang veers across four lanes of traffic

and parks across the three spaces next to the door. I really think he's safe standing up like a horse. John slams the door open. Half-carrying Carter's zonked out of that people leaf in those yas pills. John's not doing much better, though. Even if Squib, who is this luscious matron? Oh, Hep's supposed to name, but folks just call me Hepi. You Hepi A, B, or C?

Never mind. Squib, Hepi. This man's buying a four tonight. Mr. Livingston, I don't recognize that name, nor do I respond to it. Try again. John. John looks frighteningly high in both senses, like a Ralph Steadman drawing. Say my goddamn name.

Say my name. John. John. John. John Taliban. That's right. Now why don't you tell my friend here about all the 2022 Expeditions goddamn amenities? Taliban style.

Exterior Squib's Ford dealership night. Carter, John, and Squib stand in front of a shiny new Ford Expedition. Carter looks back and forth between John's salesman grin and Squib's nervous sweat. The Ford Expedition style in delivers remarkable comfort and capability with an upscale... Listen to me, son. When the Deep State Clinton crime family CIA teamsters come to you, you need a full-sized SUV. You want to go out like Karen Silkwood? He told me all about her on the way here.

Domestic Gladio. John. John, you have bat wings. You have bat wings on. You look like a bat. You look like a bat and you're... Really tall. And I don't know.

I'm kind of scared right now. I get it. You're scared of a full-sized SUV with this kind of road presence is going to be too much for you. But let me tell you, with pre-collision assist, automatic lane keeping, hell, she almost drives herself. Floodlights, turn on all at once. A wacky waving arm inflatable and unfurls behind John. The shadows giving him a bit of satanic bat wings. Carter, you belong in this vehicle, doesn't he, Squib?

Yeah, maybe a crossover or something smaller or he could come back in the morning when he's less old. You're a fucking invertebrate, Squib. He belongs in this vehicle. Say it. Uh, yes, sir. Now let's talk about the STX infotainment system. Carter stares at him and whips out an Ivor Johnson 22 revolver, the same gun that killed RFK. Now, man, I'm done talking to the devil.

You're gonna suck my soul out of my eyeball. Squib freezes. John slowly takes a step back, raising his arms to the sky. Carter's hands tremble on the grip. Okay, Carter. Buddy, relax. You know what would help you relax? If you sat down on this luxury front cloth captain's seat with contrast stitching,

you connected your phone to the STX. Carter spires a shot right past John's ear. The bullet slices through the air. John Taliban doesn't even flinch. Blood trickles down the side of his head, down his neck. He stands firm. Stop trying to sell me a Ford. John motions to Squib with his chin.

Carter's distracted. If Squib can just sneak up to his left. Listen to me very carefully, Carter. I was nothing. I was a stranger on Ford invited me in. All that I am, all that I hope to be, is because of the Ford Motor Corporation. I bleed for this company. I'm literally bleeding.

Carter cocks the hammer back on the revolved wrist. Squib gets closer, closer. You are nothing right now, Carter. Because you've never experienced the thrill of serving the Ford Motor Corporation. You've never felt the rush of sitting in this Ford Expedition. I'm so confused. Help me, Taliban. Help me.

No. Let Ford help you. His hand waivers, his gun dips, and all seems well until... Eleanor, this is... Did he not get that? I'll do it again. No, no, no, no, yeah. Oh, you might have peaked out.

Squib! Happy appears in the door aghast. Carter swings the gun around and fires a shot at Happy. But Squib tackles him. The shot goes wide. We hear ricochets from Ford to Ford. John Taliban staggers, crumples to his knees. He grabs his chest, wounded.

You crazy dang nab some bitch. You try to kill my wife. You better go, Deven. She's got a thousand legs and her ovaries are the nest of lies. My ovaries haven't been the nest of anything since I was 30. You kippy piece of shit. Squib, I'm okay, but John... They turn to look at him and Squib looks back at Carter.

You harm the hell on Taliban's head. I'll stick my fist so far your rectum that I could use your mouth as an oven mitt. Oh, Squib... He lets his hand fall to his side. He's completely uninjured. He smiles. In his hand is the gold Ford branded pen.

You can't kill him. He's going to sign a lease on a new expedition. Slightly dented. Off a Ford expedition with a bullet hole, we cut to exterior. A sea of apple trees. Night. A lonely Mustang drives down the road, surrounded on both sides by large apple trees,

laden with fruit. A sign reading Kennedy Orchards zooms past. The cut out of a big tooth farmer, giving John an unwelcome thumbs up. Exterior, a lonely road, later. Even later, the Mustang passes empty fields for miles around. Exterior, John Taliban's house. Night.

John staggers out of his Mustang into the circular driveway of an ultra-modern wedge-saped house. A light at the very top turns on as he staggers towards the door. Interior, John Taliban's house. Living room. Night. Moonlight through the floor to ceiling glass in John's living room. Everything in the house is hyper-modern and pointy,

like it could be rendered on a PS1. He's sitting on an expensive couch that looks like a slice of cantaloupe, taking a poll from a bottle of creme de cacao. How do you drink that stuff? Uh, I have a sweet tooth. All of them, actually. Want some? A kidney, John, remember?

Not as often as I should. Anyway, normal people would mix it with something. Erica appears at the door from the kitchen, holding a first-aid box and sits next to him on the couch. She opens it with a practice ease. We get the feeling she's done this before. A lot. Suit yourself.

Suit yourself. What? The suit is, like, cut. Never mind. You weren't kidding about the Starbucks, huh? Oh, you should see the other guy. Why? What did you do to him?

Nothing. He is just ugly. She laughs to spite herself and treats his crazed ear. All that, and you still stay to work this late? The guy I'm working with right now, it's like he doesn't even want to sell a good, honest Ford. Well, you know what they say in this car business? Duty calls.

They don't say that. You know what they say in the car business? We never sleep. That's what they say in the private detective business. You know what they say in the car business? First, do no harm. That's what they say in my business. They don't say anything in the car business.

Make a reflective full of credit. Maybe I don't know what they say in the car business. Speaking of business, why are you so up in mine? John, your boyfriend comes in with a botched, Claire's ear piercing, covered in blood, lying to you about where that blood's from, and chugging creme de cacao. What would you do?

With my boyfriend? John. I'll probably get married. John. Hey, listen, it's my decision. He's my boyfriend. Erica exasperated, stomps back to the chicken, chicken to the kitchen for more eyes,

followed by a dogged John. Interior, John Taliban's house, kitchen. Day. Oh, this should not be day. This should be night. Whoops. Stainless steel, mirrored counters, designed to scan an avian that could have burnt down

Lindisfarne. Erica pulls a bag of frozen peas out of a fancy smart fridge. Maybe I'll just decide we're never going to get married and refuse to talk about it. It's cool. We're a fancy gay couple with a fancy gay house and a fancy. What the fuck is a gay house, John?

You know, I don't know, Erica, a fucking normal. What do you want from me? I want you to stop bringing this up every time you come back to our house. Our gay house. Our gay house. Covered in weird cuts and bruises. Carrying a bottle of liqueur made by gay monks.

Pass me some tape from the drawer. John dutifully opens one of the drawers to grab the tape and pushes it shut. The soft clothes mechanism kicks in with a hiss and gently guides the door to its hole. John hands over the tape and as Erica grabs it, his hand lingers on hers. Why, Erica?

She pulls away. Goes back to the frozen peas. I feel like I just gave you 10 good reasons, and you didn't even listen to a single one, so 11. John, I'm moving out. Excuse me? I'm moving out. After all this time, what about our gay house?

It can be your gay house for a bit. I'm going to my gay parents' gay house in South Haven. Michigan, where the Ford is? She turns the face of tears pooling around the corners of her eyes, very much not smiling. Look, it was my kidney thing. I don't want to spend my last year with John Taliban, connoisseur of monk sodomy booze and Frappuccino slap fights.

I want to spend it with John Taliban, good guy. John Taliban, who held my hair when I puked in a hospital sink. To be fair, the food was bad. Who doesn't do fucking bits? When I talk about the time my doctor told me I had two years left, and that guy, he lives in an imaginary gay house of his own invention. She hands over the frozen peas. Erica, please stay.

You're not even going to promise you'll change, huh? No, because we... We both know you'd be lying. Put a cold compress on it for 20 minutes every hour for 24 hours. I'm going to bed. You should too. And when you wake up, I won't be here. Erica opens the drawer next to him,

tosses the tape in and walks out the door, leaving John to stare at the grinning green giant wonder where his life went wrong. He turns around and tries to slam the drawer. Hard. Yes! The soft clothes mechanism taunting him robs him of even that. Interior, John Taliban's house, living room day. John wakes up with a start on the cantaloupe couch,

now permanently ruined by a brown stain from the creme de cacao last night. He gets up with a squishing sound. This couch is absolutely sodden with frozen peas. A text from Ashley pops up on his phone. And then I'm just going to have you all read the text. Yo, what the fuck? Where did you go, cunt? John looks at the mess on his couch.

She's Australian now. Because that's who she is as a person. That's her. I don't think we quite get the, what's the word? The mood here through voice because cunt has an asterisk in the place of the you. Oh, I can beep it if you want to take that again. I'll do a beep in the middle of the fun. If we can beep it, yeah.

Yeah, I'll do that. Okay, so a text from Ashley pops up on his phone. Yo, what the fuck? Where did you go, cunt? John looks at the mess on his couch then. I don't know. Just woke up. May have shit myself?

Lamal, okay, dude. You left me alone. What am I supposed to do? Not shit yourself? John stares at his phone in confusion. You mad at me? But no answer. He puts the phone down and stares at the sterile house.

On the phone, red, 2 27 p.m. Exterior, sea of apple trees later. John drives his Mustang past the sign. The teeth look bigger somehow. Hungry for apples? Interior, squibs dealership, day. Squib is using the desktop computer behind the counter as John walks in. We see he is searching, can you get PTSD from car dealership?

As John disheveled strides in. Squib hurries to close the tab. Good work last night, Squib. You saved my life. More important, you sold an expedition. We will make a Taliban man out of you yet. But you can't always rely on the customer shooting at you because he thinks you're a demon to simplify matters.

I've only sold two, maybe three doesn't cost that way. That seems unreliable. I agree. You're going to need a guaranteed method to generate sales. John leans over the counter and grabs some of the markers you used to ride on a car windshield, then storms back over the front window and rides across it in gigantic letters.

Taliban training camp. We have a whiteboard in the back office. How long have you and happy been married, Squib? Coming up on and how did you get her to marry a man like you? Well, I just thought I asked her. She'd make me the happiest. Exactly. You showed her you were everything she thought you were

with a grand romantic gesture. A pause. John drips wet peas on the dealership carpet. Selling cars is the exact same thing. You got to romance them. You have to make that customer look into their heart and see they want to make you the happiest Ford dealer in the tri-state area.

Okay, but what if they're not sure if they want to buy a Ford at all, sir? They came here, Squib. They came to us because they know we're the best. They're asking us to show them the qualities they already know we have. To tell them that they were right in the first place. To say to them that the bold body color accents in the Black Honeycomb Grill come standard. Ah, they sure won't marry the truck?

Yes! John, worlds across the room his arms extended showing Squib the view of this deserted lot. Finally, I'm beginning to get through to this man. You are the god damn Pater Familias and your task is to marry off each and every one of your beautiful truck daughters to a man who loves her. Just like every other dealer, I taught to sell off his car brides.

John pulls out the accordion fold of dealership. Squib scans them picture after picture of happy car human hybrid families. Powerfully yearning. Pater Familias. That's you. By God, I will make you a Pater Familias. Happy comes to the door holding a coffee and a stupid mug. Goodness, sugar. What are you two shouting about?

It's like I opened the house up to Anna Baptist. The two men look at her as if totally deranged, dangerous. Ah, I'm about to become a Pater Familias, happy. Oh, I thought we couldn't on a kind of, you know, twisted testicles. Um, can I steal you for a beat, darling? Squib and happy walk over to the window and shield themselves from John to the heavy velvet curtain. When you're done, I really want an explanation on twisted testicle.

Squib, the man is a walking cloud of demonic energy. I can feel his feminine intuition. Happy, that's disgusting. You know what I mean. He's a dark presence and I don't want you going off with him like some sort of of Sancho Panza. Not the fellow that cleans out our gutters. Squib.

I know happy, but think of the bank account. Think of the vacations. This man can sell a Ford like, like no one I've ever known. They're mediocre cars, happy, but I want that power for you, for us. Oh, okay. In the distance. Yes, who's back with a brand new crap? Then I hope it's worth the cost, Squib.

I really, really do, because these Fords certainly aren't. Legally, we can't. Legally, Ford makes a good car. They emerge from the velvet curtain to find John Taliban doing incline push-ups off the desk. Just lose it. Go crazy. Interior. Brave and Dusters.

Stay. And here we get the raw scene. John Taliban walks into the blinking neon landscape of Brave and Dusters, a Wild West-themed Daven Busters knockoff. Over the series, people see one of these in every town John Taliban visits, multiplying like the fucking plague. They're all identical and they're all deeply cursed. Ashley sitting at a jauntly colored barrel table,

scrolling through her phone and drinking something fuchsia out of a boot-shaped mug. Behind her, an animatronic Wild West band sings Big Iron by Marty Robbins, a cowboy with a two-wide grin, a mangy buffalo, a delicious hog, cutting itself open with a steak knife. Ashley clocks John coming in. John shrugs and starts fiddling with the nearest arcade cabinet, loaded up with General Custer's revenge. Why are you mad at me, Ashley?

Other than the fact I'm gonna beat your record at this racist porn game. It's ironic. All right, ironically racist porn game. No, it's ironic that you think I owe you an explanation. All right, Alanis, I don't think that's what irony actually is. You left me alone after I gave you the best pussy of your life. Certainly. Top 5.

10. 15 at least. Wow, okay. Way to be detached and ironic. It's not hot anymore. John turns around and marches over to the table. No, face away. You lost your looking at me privileges.

Christ, I am too sober for this. Miss Gay's lands on a waiter. 20's dressed in a leather duster at a six-shooter. Hey, can you just take a bunch of chocolate syrup and vodka and mix it all up in a bowl? Partner, I'll bring you what you're asking for. Separately. But whatever you may do after that is between you and your god and will not involve our turrets. God, fine.

He sits down at the table and Ashley resolutely turns away. Did you take me to off-brand Wild West Daven Busters to taunt me? Yeah, because you know how a regular Daven Buster is like the labyrinth of King Minus of Crete? This is like if you mixed that in an IKEA showroom. You could never leave me. You left me. You were talking with some friends of yours and flirting with Central Casting for alimony payment in five years.

Okay, and you're cheating on your girlfriend and I can't? John, tell me. It's not virtual feminist of you. No, you can't cheat on your girlfriend or me, which actually let's talk about that. Oh my god. Bye, people aren't real, John. They're a plot the CIA cooked up to force them men. Read a book.

Legally, we don't endorse everyone. I think that one's right. That's right. The waiter returns with a bottle of vodka, a bottle of chocolate syrup, a spoon, and a bowl. The waiter watches horrified and angry in equal measure. I'm breaking up with you. I'm not. You want some tight young podcasting bitch with fucked up daddy issues to keep your

dick from wrinkling. So you're reminded you have one foot in the grave. Well, now I have two feet in the grave. Nothing left in the world. Join the club. So what? I don't really need you anymore. Oh, you're serious?

A serious man? You're fucking Colin Firth? John gets up to leave? Yeah, and us? We were never serious. You're just a fling. You're an outflow valve when it rains too much metaphorically. And I have nothing left in me that can't flow out anymore.

Like, come wise. She watches them walk, not believing he's actually gonna do this to her. You're not gonna do this to me, John. You're not gonna do this. You know what? I'm gonna fucking tweet about you, John. You're gonna be on Twitter, okay? Everyone's gonna hate the name Taliban in like a day because of me, okay?

John looks back at her, peaceful. What the fuck is a tweet? He walks out of the restaurant. Ashley stands there aghast. You can't walk away from me, John! Miss, there's an old West saying, Before you embark on a journey of revenge, first dig... Ashley throws John's bowl of syrupy vodka against the window,

splattering it with a thick brown slime. Set my dick, cowpoke. I'm gonna eat his goddamn heart. I'm gonna make his bone marrow into a dip. I'm gonna use every part of the fucking buffalo. She grabs the steak knife and the self-harming hog out of a tronic and runs out the door. First dig, two graves.

Of course, that were before the Pope said cremation was okay. Papists. Hey, how have you all been studying my ex-girlfriend? It's a composite character, most of everything you've ever said. Milo just extremely attracted to this none. And then having a voice by Phoebe as well, there's just like a really specific kind of psychic violence in it. The amount of violence is stuck in an endless nightmare.

That's right. Aren't we all exterior? Also, your naked and all of your teeth are falling out, and you haven't studied for the big exam. Oh, no. Oh, no. The big Taliban exam. I'm absolutely certain that all of the chats that we've mentioned this in

are now surveilled by like three or four NSA guys. They're all probably. Why do they keep talking about the Taliban? It's going to be an NSA guy listening to this right now being like, this is it? You guys are really doing it. Taking down his big fucking board with all the strings on it, just sadly putting it in the car.

Wasting NSA time is a positive good, so. It's praxis. That's right. Okay, exterior squibs for dealership day. John sits on the hood of a Ford F-150, legs dangling in the wind like chimes. Attached via a rope to the front of the truck is squib, huffing and counting out each step. Three.

Come on, squib. Selling a Ford is a physical act. You need to be in peak form. Living, breathing Ford. Pulling the Ford. You ever make love, squib? Ah, no. The twisted testicle.

Is it like the Vaz deference is twisted or is it the actual testicle twisted? Do you have a corkscrew nut, squib? It's like a fusilli down there. Squib collapses onto the ground, panting and squirming. Of course I may love, sir. Yeah, you do have a wife. Could be a larynth and a marriage, do you? You think people can make love too much?

With all due respect, sir, not enough love to go around. Maybe I have, squib. I love too much, too hard. Every time I sell a Ford, I make love to it. Metaphorically. And you're gonna make love to it physically. Squib sits up straight like he's been hit by lightning. Excuse me?

Like we talked about, squib, you gotta get him to want to marry the car. And it's the wedding night. Prima Noctur. You're gonna perpetrate an erotic conquest on the car, squib. Just whip it out right in the grill, presto. Squib jumps to his feet. Enough. What?

Enough. You come to my house. This isn't your house. It's the Ford's house. I live here. I live here. I lost the house, Taliban. Me and Happy have been here for a month.

Oh. I wish I could say I'm sorry, squib. Not to you, just in general. You come in here with your fancy business school learning like getting a guy high on drugs or putting your Harvard Weinstein in a Ford F-150, and I can't make heads or tails of it. But I sure don't want none of it. I may lose everything, but I did it with dignity.

He walks back to the door of the dealership, the comical ox yoke still hanging from his neck. You can't do it without me. You are nothing without me. I got a beautiful wife, a long career, a loving church community. If I die right now, I die happy. What do you have, John? John's mouth twists into a frown.

Cut to exterior Concrete Line Creek Day. John sits by the edge of a Concrete Line Creek, filled with rocks and cattails and dead rats. He sits on an airplane-sized tiny bottle of chartreuse looking up at the clouds. God, Eric is right. These monks are gay, huh? He looks to the right and sees a brand new Ford expedition with a bullet hole on the side.

John races over to find Carter leading against the side of the car, a belt wrapped around his bicep. Hey, man, I don't want any trouble. Carter, my man, I knew for the road presence of that expedition was going to make you a king and look at you as hailing hard as the day you were tossed on the earth. What if Carter's teeth drops out of his mouth and rolls along the Concrete? That's supposed to do that.

I don't really care. Listen, man, you remember that shit that killed JFK? A Crassado rifle? The Teamsters? No, no, no. The drug you gave me. Oh yeah, what about it? Do you have any left? Carter smiles in hands of a small vial containing a purple powder for which John trades the entire contents of his wallet,

a loyalty card for brave and dusters. Oh man, I get a free drink of brave and dusters. When they open up the Donna Party Room, you can be one of the skeletons. He walks off vial in hand. Interior, John Taliban's Mustang later. John cuts up three quick lines. The purple stuff snorts it. Can I get a snort?

Everything is frenzied, blurry, and exterior, a sea of apple trees, night. The Mustang zooms way past the speed limit through the road in the woods, swerving side to side until it beers abruptly right into the forest and crashes into a tree. John gets out disoriented and stumbles off the highway. Exterior, apple orchard, night. Strange shadows, flick from tree to tree, from branch to branch, whispers fill the woods.

John feels like he's being hunted. The grim lines of desperation sit in on his face. He stumbles from tree to tree, each bleeding crimson sap, apples tumbling off and rolling away from him like tantalists in the depths of hell. Through the woods, he sees an ethereal light sweep towards him, the searchlights of angels. John Taliban, lost and alone, calls out into the dark, begging someone to help him. Someone, I have money, please. Only the whispering, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Louder now. You can't talk about me like this. I am a representative of the Ford Motor Corporation. A tattered fringe of dress slips between the trees. Erica. He chases off after it. Erica, Erica, wait, come back. I promise, I won't marry you.

You can be engaged forever, please. Exterior, clearing night. He stumbles into a clearing in the woods where a grassy knoll sits crowded by a pulsing apple tree beating like a heart. Erica, Erica, are you here? He starts walking towards the hill when he sees it, a giant kidney hanging from the tree. Is that what you wanted? You wanted the kidney.

As he steps towards it, a large cutout of JFK with RFK's head hideously stapled to it pops up from the ground with a creaking noise, holding the Kennedy orchard sign between its gnarled hands. The cutout gives a roar of anger. The sound of groaning wood blown through the windpipe of a wolf. Ask not what the kidney can do for you, but ask what you will do for the kidney. I killed you. I took the shit that killed you.

You will taste death. No, wait, I'm doing the wrong way. You will taste death, John Taliban, before you taste the kidney. You will face it from three different simultaneous angles. The one who loves you most in the world will watch you die. Your trusted lieutenant who conspired in your death will take your place. Are you saying LBJ killed you? And he will pass the Civil Rights Act.

You will know this pain. Screw you, JFK. You couldn't see this future. You couldn't even see this rifle. From below the frame, John pulls out a Mannlicher-Karghano model 1891-38 and fires three shots at the cutout, which loop around to strike it at three separate angles. It roars in pain, staggers back. John slips under the legs of the enormous sine ogre and slides on the soft grass.

And he's running, running past the Kennedy monster, past the tree's exterior grassy night. Below the tree, pulsing with blood and sap, John falls to his knees. A single branch dips down to the ground, and on that branch is a huge, juicy kidney. Halfway between kidney and candy apple, tempting, luscious. John reaches out for it, pulls it off the tree with a snap. Stares at his reflection and the slick coating and takes a huge bite. Inside the kidney is apple, delicious apple, little seeds with smaller kidneys in them, but he can't stop eating the flesh.

The juice runs down his chin and drips into a crimson puddle amidst the grass. And then he sees Erica, light dimming, staring at him. The look of disappointment when you're betrayed by the person you love most in the world. She steps back into the woods. John looks back at the kidney, forced to choose between it and the woman he loves. It's a bit telling that it takes him a minute to get around to it, but deep down, John is a man of his word. He may be an ass, a liar, stupid, mean,

bizarrely devoted to a corporation founded by a notorious antisemite, freakishly tall to the point that something is wrong with him, an ass, oblivious, an ass, but he's still a man who cares. Somewhere below the layers of asshole. John runs off in the woods searching for Erica, but because he's an ass, he brings the kidney with him. Interior, gas station, night. But the real Erica is a cross town in a gas station convenience store,

covered in the kind of white tile that shows every speck of grime and dust. She browses a selection of flavor blasted snacks when the door dings to reveal Ashley to shovel in distraught. She saddles up to the counter and rings a bell for service. Hey, hey, what are you, Slovakium back there? Karen Westwick, 70s. Crypt keeper of this gas station slowly emerges from below the counter. I need a map of the tri-state area.

Night vision goggles, uh, a tent. Roz, that's you. Is that me? Yeah, that's you. Oh, that's me. Okay. Okay. Excuse me.

No worries. Ma'am, we do not have any of these things in mind. What the hell is that word? Domain. Domain. Domain. Oh, that's a strange way to spell that. That is like the specific, like,

you refer to like the counties that you hold. I see. Ma'am, we do not have any of these things in my domain. Only the sweat of a thousand hot dogs, the slurping thirst of the car, the- God, okay, Ruby Kors. Cut it out. You don't have anything at all in the vengeance department?

We have only the sweet sustenance of the gas station hot dog. As it rotates, so does the earth. You take card. No. Ashley fumbles through her wallet for some kind of change when? I've got cash. You sure? Yeah.

You look like you're having a bad time. He's going to have a worse one. Erica cocks her head quizzically and hands over the money. Ashley appraises her then, a spark of recognition. She knows who this is. She knows this is John's real girlfriend. All alone. Hey, do you want to eat this outside?

Yeah, sure, okay. Ashley holds the door open for her as Erica walks out into the beginnings of a rain. And in one hand, the flash of the steak knife cut to exterior edge of the woods. Elsewhere, John emerges from the woods covered in leaves and twigs and juice. But in the distance, the comforting light of the Ford logo guides him home. On exterior, squibs Ford dealership night. As the rain begins to fall, squib pulls down shutters over the windows of the dealership, whistling Blue Moon of Kentucky as they're playing shut.

Yeah, no. Yeah, you don't have to refuse these things. Blue Moon of Kentucky, keep on shining. John Taliban appears behind him, sodden with water, monstrous in aspect, carrying the outline of a gun in his hand. Squib, don't turn around. Squib freezes. I thought I told you to leave, John.

I asked you politely. You know how many people have asked Taliban politely to leave this week. You know how often I've left. From John's perspective, we see him walk towards Squib, holding the Kirkano in one hand, levels squarely at Squib's lower back. I'm not going to have intercourse with the car, John. I simply will not. I have dignity.

Sure, more dignity than me. My girlfriend won't take my name. My car is gone. John F. Kennedy tried to kill me, Squib. Him and his brother, their ogre heads on the same body. Horrible. Squib gently turns around, testing John's limits, eyeing the gun carefully.

John F. Kennedy is dead, John. So is his brother, God rest his soul. That's what I thought. But he's alive. And he tried to stop me from getting my girlfriend a kidney. But I ate the kidney, Squib. I don't even like liver. Did you, uh, did you take any of that boys' drugs, John?

Maybe you should talk to someone. John points the rifle directly at Squib's head. Maybe we should just all die, Squib. Maybe we should duck out through the kitchen of the Ambassador Hotel and get shot point blank from across the room. Alice, we will talk about that one in a second. Exterior, a gas station, night. The rain pours.

Erica and Ashley face each other beneath the overhang of the gas station. Ashley's knife behind her back, glinting in the fluorescent light. Where are you going then, just staying local? Just chasing down someone who wronged me, you know? Embodying the Implacable Goddess Nemesis. Hot girl shit. Huh. I'm doing the opposite. Why's that?

How old are you? 22? 25. Erica pulls out and strikes a cigarette in a flash. So when you're 20, you run away from your problems. When you're in your late 20s, you run towards them because your problems are attractive. And then you end up dating your problems for 10 years and then suddenly your problems are unrecognizable and you gotta leave.

Sound like a sad, live, laugh, love sign. One day it'll be you. I don't think so. I take care of my problems. I take care of them. Erica snorts. How? Podcast about them? You know I podcast? Sweetie, I know everything about you.

You're going down the same road I'm going. So you know about John? Now it's Erica's turn to be surprised for cigarette waivers. How do you know John? We stared at each other unbroken for solid few seconds. Oh my god, this is so funny. Two strong women and we're not even passing the Bechtel test. I shouldn't even care, it's cringe.

So cringe. But I do care. I really, really, really do care. I made a promise of vow to myself and a wild west themed Dave and Buster's ripoff. She leaps at Erica with the knife. Erica runs for her car. Exterior, Scripps Ford dealership, Knight.

Scripps puts his hands in the air, frightened. I can't even sell Fords anymore. What? What happened to your car, John? It's gone. Who cares? John, I know what you need. No, you don't. I've always known. You told me to marry the car, John,

but you were the one who needed to get down on one knee and propose. To the new 20 Ford Mustang, John. No, no, I'm done with Fords. John, the Ford Motor Corporation will be here for you. We'll always cradle you as surely as she's your own mama in the folds of its comfort and recaro cloth sports seats. It's your steed, John. I've got nowhere to go, Scripps.

You go to your best gal, John. You have a quest. You bring her that kidney. You show her that beautiful girl how much you love her like I show my happy. And you do it astride the aerodynamic design of a brand new Mustang. Just sign here.

Scripps pulls out a set of leasing documents, quickly saturated in water and a cheap plastic pen. John waivers, doubting. Exterior, gas station day. Erica pulls at the handle of her car, tugging. It's stuck. She pops it up and it slides in. It's actually tosses the knife at her window,

but she closes it just in time. Hits the gas, peeling off into the night as the knife drops to the ground. Ashley falls to her knees and starts crying, laughing. Black tears running down her face. Do you want me to try and do cry laughing? Yeah, sure. Why not?

Try it. Sure. Jesus. A little rough on my back here. Okay. This is so fucking awesome. This is funny to me. That was insane.

That was incredible. That was exactly on the money for that. Christ. Yeah, she says lull and lamau out loud. Super cool. Exterior, Scripps Ford dealership night. John pulls out his own Ford pen, dented in gold, and signs the lease on the Mustang.

He hands the pen over to Scripps, passes the baton. In his heart, John has always lusted for the Ford. He collapses to the ground. Fuck sake. No, he's a fucking line nut. I wrote that. He collapses to the ground, exhausted. Scripps, you did it.

You sold me a Ford, Scripps. Well, I'll be damned. I did. And I was going to shoot you. With what? With the... John looks down at the rifle, only to discover a rain slick stick in his hand.

Oh, no, the... The... But in his other hand, the kidney is just an apple, and he falls to the ground, exhausted. End of act two. OK, we have five pages left. So, first of all, everybody did fucking amazing. That's...

This is... This is great. We're gonna... We're gonna wrap up with act three. Interior, Scripps Ford dealership, back office day. He wakes to the start in the back of the dealership, which has been hurriedly turned into the world's saddest and smallest department.

Scripps and Hattie busy themselves in the kitchen. He rubs his head, looks down at his tattered clothes, as Hattie brings him a mug of coffee. You must have had a great night, huh? Oh, Squib, leave him alone. He's trying his best. God, I can't believe you think this is what my best is. He grabs a fistful of sugar satchas and starts tearing them open

and adding them to his coffee. You coming or going, John? Going. I have a quest now. Raise on, Detra. I've been given away in marriage to a new Ford Mustang by the paid-up family ass here. Squib beams.

Are you at least staying in the tri-state area, John? It's a big three-states. Sorry, it's a bit, it sure is. Are you at least staying, are you at least staying in the tri-state area, John? It's a big three-states. Prepius Johnson said he was going to leave and he just moved one town over to become a mole.

I have to go to Michigan. To Erica's gay parents' gay house. To find Erica. But thank you, Squib. I learned so much. More from the drugs, really. You learned way too much from me. You can sell a Ford to anyone.

Now, get a real house. This is Ford property. Squib beams as happy looks at him crest-fallen. Her husband is gone. All that's left is Ford. Exterior Starbucks day. John walks into the Starbucks from before, whistling common people by pulp.

I can't whistle a big enough. I'm sorry, I can't do it. You can't whistle? Thank you, Milo. That wasn't me. Oh. Thank you, Milo. Oh, okay.

It came up green on your thing, so I thought you were whistling. But Nate, thank you for whistling that. He goes in. Wrong again, baby. But wait, who was it? It was me. It was me.

No, it wasn't me. It was Nate. It was okay. This was Justin. I'm sorry. What the fuck? No. Okay, so he's doing terrific.

I'm looking for a seven-thinning stretch. Okay. He goes in for 30 seconds and emerges with another cookies and creams, frappuccino. The manager follows him out. Please, please, please never come back. Exterior squibs for dealership day.

Back at Squibs dealership, a big new banner proudly proclaims the establishment of the Pat R. Familius for dealership. Below, serving this tri-state area since incomprehensible smudge. Squib walks among curious window shoppers, stops in at one in particular, dressed in a hoodie and looking at a Ford Escape.

Howdy there. Pat R. Familius is the name and this beautiful son of a gun is a Ford Escape top of the line in his class. It wants you to take it home, take you out, take you camping, chase an adventure. You like camping? You like adventure?

Reverse to see that the hooded shopper is Ashley smiling. I'm a big fan of chasing things. I'm a chaser, you know? Squib now Pat smiles, guile-less as Ashley runs her hands along the doors of the car. Exterior highway day.

John speeds down the highway. His cookies and cream frappuccino in one hand, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel with the other. Interior, John Taliban's new Mustang day. Inside on the Bluetooth, he's chatting with Chen. And already he's made more sales in a day than he'd made in the previous year.

Your Taliban training really paid off, John. I know. You know what they say about Taliban. Loose cannon delivers results. Chen, I was changed in the woods. Oh, me too. Guy Anna saw Leo Ryan fall. Changes a man.

I love that, Jim Jones. I still do. No, I mean, the Kennedys tried to kill me. I mean... Oh, you mean vice versa? It's all off. Yeah. Better men than you have tried and succeeded.

Have a quiz now, Chen. I have to go to Erika. I'm gonna say this once, Taliban. And then I hope this the last we hear of it. You... You were nothing before Ford found you. You're not a Ronan, John. You're a samurai.

A samurai pledged to the service of our honorable Daimyo, the Ford Motor Corporation. You are a blade for Ford to cut through to our customers. Do you understand me? Yes, sir. I won't let you down. Good. Then let this be nothing more than an unfortunate blip.

One of the many things Jim Jones was right about, Taliban, is that we live or die with a company. Seven sigmas. The line goes dead. Exterior Highway Day. And behind this car, a familiar Ford Escape. Interior, Ashley's Ford Escape Day. Inside of which is Ashley awkwardly clamped in

with her podcast recording equipment. God, I'm sitting right here. Jesus. So that's the new spinoff pod and hunting Taliban. Don't forget to subscribe to the Patreon for bonus episodes where I watch British movies from the 1960s and laugh at them saying fag. All right, man.

Again, I'm right here. No, that was targeted. That was targeted. Exterior Michigan House night. Erica steps out of her car next to a beautiful Michigan house where her two dads are waiting for her on the deck. They hug her close. I don't know where any of us are going to end up,

but I know I'm having the time of my life. She's home. Interior, John Taliban's new Mustang night. John looks out at the open road, face determined and weathered. A man who loves only three things. Ford himself and Erica in that order. Okay, note to producer. I need like that song from Dirty Dancing right there.

You know the one. I've had the time of my life. A man with a quest. All right. Don Quixote on his Mustang. He makes a face. The Frappuccino tastes terrible, like an egg-shaped manager had spit and pissed and blend it.

And I've never felt this way before. And as John Taliban zooms off towards the lights of the Tri-State area, he melts into the actual song I've had the time of my life as John throws his Frappuccino out the window. Exterior highway at night where it splatters all over the window of Ashley's car. Dump the shed on my car. And as she swears we fade to black end of episode. Fuck.

No, I... Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!

Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Fucking, man. Hey! Hey! Hey!

Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! This way before. Hey! Oh, God.

God, I swear. Can you get a Jarvis Cocker version of that? We did it. We did it. And I owe it all to you. Jesus Christ. Yeah. We recorded a fucking table read.

Of a thing that we made because the name John Taliban came to me in a dream. Perfect. Divinely inspired. Thank you all so much. Everybody did really, really fucking great. You did incredible. Can we give a shout out to Phoebe for being really good at voice acting? Phoebe was fucking...

It's amazing. My God. Like, Phoebe, frankly, you nailed it from start to finish. And also the cry laugh was right. Magnificent. Also, I do actually want to shout everybody out for being really, really good at voice acting all of these parts. Like, really nailed it.

Exactly correct. Alice, Devin, Eleanor. Eleanor, as if I'm English. Eleanor, Justin. And then Liam, Milo, Nate. Everybody did a really good job. And, you know, I'm... It's good.

Can we please get an edited version of all of us singing? I've had the time of my whole life. I'll try to make a fucking match up. But please stop for I don't know if that's possible. Sorry, what I mean by an edited version is just that clip completely out of context. Horrifying. We saw the writing on the wall and we felt this magical fantasy.