Margot Robbie as Benny again woke up on the floor of the filthy bathroom and again found his phone and again realized how late for work he was…
(This is a Scorsese work?)
…but he did find the rest of his cocaine in his pocket. A few small bumps and he was right as rain, except for a bit of a runny nose…
And a urge to go to a comic-con as Harley Quinn.
Kevin Smith was working on his newest screenplay (Scorsese had promised to film it if he could get it done by Christmas), when the screams started from down the hall. “Bad enough you named me after a comic-book character,” Harley Quinn bellowed, “but putting me in a screenplay about a message board full of Internet dweebs? You’ve gone too fucking far this time, Dad!” she snarled, reaching for the Winchester rifle over the mantel. The rifle had been a gift from Simon Pegg (of “Shaun of the Dead” fame) and
BLAM!!
. . .missing Keven, but hitting a photo of his mother which was lovingly placed in a candle and incense shrine on the mantle. The photo fell and hit the dog, sending him into a frenzy of tail chasing, which knocked over the end table and upended a bottle of 30 year old Glenlivet, which immediately ignited when it smashed against the fireplace andirons.
Kevin Smith rushed his family out of his burning mansion, and turned to watch the flames dance into the Burbank sky. He thought this was appropriate for a Scorcese script. He had always wanted his own Mafia moment. He thought he could handle a horse head in his bed, but would probably have been disappointed because it wasn’t new any more and had become cliche. This way was definitely more spectacular, but now his daughter would have to fix this sudden arsonist reputation if she ever wanted to find work again. Maybe he’d blame the fire on Jason Mewes. This kind of horrible conflagration was definitely more his thing.
Meanwhile, high above, unseen by Kevin Smith and his family, fifty D’kel battlecruisers silently took up synchronous orbits over Earth’s biggest cities.
Kevin was confused. He went and got rooms at the local crappy motel. He and Harley went and found a diner opened and ordered coffee, they…
were distracted by CNN on the corner TV blaring the news of the arrival of possibly hostile aliens. “First our house, and now this!” Smith moaned.
The mind-control unit in the back of Kevin’s brain began to pulse. He knew what he had to do! He would change his script and write about how wonderful the visiting aliens are. He would show people everywhere how to love them.
“Jay and Silent Bob and the quest for xenomonarchy” he type. Just as working title…
“You got your fuckin’ nerve blaming your house fire on me, you fat fuck!” Jay yelled at Silent Bob. “The cops are all over my ass and thank God I wasn’t holding or I’d be some guy’s girlfriend in the slam right about now! Gimmee some weed, you dickless wonder!”
“Dad, this is the worst,” Harley Quinn scolded Kevin as she downed a piece of apple pie, “this makes ‘Mallrats’ seem like a Scorsese script! Where’s the biting dialogue? Where’s the Jersey flavor? WHERE’S MY COFFEE, WAITRESS?”
“Just like your mother,” Kevin mumbled into his Reuben.
Harley heard that. She ‘harumpfed’ and finished eating. Contemplating a career change and a move to Europe she asked her father wasn’t she due an annuity payment on her Mothers money.
As she awaited his answer, she decided it was probably time to consult with her favorite accountant and tax lawyer, Robert Dolarhyde Jameson “Bobo” Phartuccio, to see if there were any changes she should make to her investments.
Phartuccio recommended that Quinn buy shares in Blawnox Butternut Scotch, a peculiar alcoholic drink brewed in rural Pennsylvania. It currently held a record for most mentions in online trivia contests.
“What a terrible idea”, Quinn thought. “One peculiar alcoholic beverage isn’t enough - I’ll buy at least three! Maybe there’s a mustard beer out there…”
A quick googling of “mustard beer” produced over 4 million hits in less than .25 seconds. The whole first page was…
entirely in Swahili, which Quinn couldn’t even read. Maybe the aliens will make everyone on Earth speak the same language, she thought grumpily. That, at least, would be an improvement.
She hung up on Phartuccio, realized Smith was saying something to her, and at last came out of her reverie.
“…and that’s the LAST time I jerk off in the ocean. I learned that lesson the hard way.” Smith rambled. Hopefully he was done and she could get away from this looney.
Running down the sidewalk her phone bleeped at her. She needed to take this call. She needed privacy. Ducking in an alleyway she crouched behind a trash dumpster. The bleep was a reminder she had catfish noodling class at 3p.m. “Damn-it” she exclaimed.
As she stood up she glanced in the dumpster. There were packages of socks. Brand new socks in sealed packages. She had to have them…
She looked both ways down the alley, then climbed up and jumped into the dumpster. There were at least 30 packages of socks in it - lots of white athletic socks, but also red, green, brown, striped, and even purple-accented paisley. She couldn’t believe her good luck. She began grabbing them and stuffing them into her bag.
She froze when someone said, “Just what do you think you’re up to, missy?”