The beach (where else?). Two dirty white guys are talking to each other next to a wall that says "BEACH FUN!" in big, festive letters.
Bad Guy #1: Hey, do you have the CRACK COCAINE?
Bad Guy #2: Yeah man, I got the CRACK COCAINE! Radical!
Bad Guy #1: Okay, let's find some kids to sell it to.
Bad Guy #2: Right, dude, and then we'll go shoot some handicapped nuns. Bitchin'!
Bad Guy #1: That is a RIGHTEOUS idea, man, and then we'll knock over some gravestones and deface the WWI Veteran's cemetery.
Bad Guy #2: That's a great idea, Bad Guy #2!!!
Bad Guy #1: Wait, I thought you were Bad Guy #2.
Bad Guy #2: (frowning) Hmmmmm...
(Suddenly ISDH bursts onto the scene, with a surfboard / machinegun / radar detector of some kind.)
ISDH: Freeze, punks! You're under citizen's arrest!
Bad Guys: (In unison) DARN! (Put their hands up)
Bad Guy #2: Hey, maybe you can help. Do you know which one of us is "Bad Guy #2"?
ISDH: (Thinking) Hmmmmm...
(Camera zooms in to a little boy who had been there watching the entire scene take place. He runs away, unseen by ISDH)
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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