Right 'round like a record, baby
Mar. 2nd, 2011 12:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eilonwyhasemuPreviously, David Cook, Lee DeWyze, Adam Lambert, Ke$ha, and the Followills' neglected Rock Cred had arrived on the third level, where Ke$ha made a horrifying discovery.
Ke$ha: Oh, hell! That's me singing that song.
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Man's voice [rapping]: From the top of the pole, I watch her go down. She got me throwing my money around. Ain't nothing more beautiful to be found.
The colored spotlights play wildly over a raised stage in a dark and steamy club, stinking of mildew, spilled Cosmopolitans, and cheap hand lotion. The air is damp, with a stinging mist, and the stage is full of writhing, half-naked male bodies twisted around poles--
Stout balding man: Step right up! Where's your money, ladies? Bring 'em here. Bring 'em here. Put 'em in! Put 'em in!
A skinny but well-built dude in an unbuttoned flannel shirt and tighty-whities grinds his way to the edge of the stage, thrusting his pelvis toward hands that wave dollar bills. A few daring women shove the money into his briefs.
Stout balding man: What'll you give 'em for their money?
Skinny dude: I'll play a request at my next show!
Stout balding man: Not good enough! What'll you give 'em for their money?
Skinny dude: I'll spend half an hour before the show with six special fans.
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Stout balding man: Not good enough! What'll you give 'em for their money?
Skinny dude: I'll put their name in a song.
DeWyze [to Cook]: What if the chick's name doesn't rhyme with anything?
Cook: Dude. Put the name in the middle of the line.
Stout balding man: Not good enough! What'll you give 'em for their money?
Skinny dude [thrusting desperately]: I don't know!
Stout balding man: Not good enough! You have to give them more for their money. This is the new music industry! Symbiotic relationships between bands and their fans! Create a unique experience!
Cook: Bob Lefsetz? What's Bob Lefsetz doing in hell?
Followills' Rock Cred: He lives here.
Rapper's voice [rapping]: My money love her like a number one fan.
Stout balding man: What are you going to give them?
Skinny dude: I... I'll come to their homes. I'll play a show in their living rooms.
Rapper's voice [rapping]: You want to shoot like a gun out of holster. Tell me whatever and I'll be your roper.
Cook: Wait a friggin' second! [He pushes through the mob of waving hands with dollar bills, pulls himself up on the stage and confronts Lefsetz.] My friend Phil Marshall played a whole show of living room tours. Are you trying to tell me that was some kind of mistake?
Lefsetz: Mistake? I'm telling you it's the key to success! Today, the smartest bands are performing in the fans' living rooms. Tomorrow, someone'll do them one better and perform in the fans' bedrooms! The day after that, an even smarter band will start performing in hospital delivery rooms to get fans' loyalty from the moment they emerge from the womb!
Skinny dude [still thrusting]: I'll play a show in your kitchen while you eat dinner!
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Hands thrust dollar bills into the skinny dude's briefs.
Skinny dude: I'll give your kids music lessons!
Lefsetz: That's the spirit! Symbiotic!
Cook [still on stage]: Why?
Lefsetz: What the f*ck do you mean, "why?"? It's the new music industry. People don't buy music. They buy personalities.
Skinny dude [thrusting harder]: I'll give you online voting on who my next girlfriend should be!
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Cook: My music says who I am.
Woman's voice from crowd: Take it off!
Cook: Phil's music says who he is.
Second woman's voice: Strip yourself! Strip!
Third woman's voice: Strip! Strip!
Cook: I don't buy that somehow because Phil played for fans in their back yards, he's selling himself--
A hand thrusts a dollar into Cook's belt. Another hand yanks at his pants cuff.
Woman's voice: We want to see what's under there!
Second woman's voice: Don't just stand there! Dance for us!
Lefsetz: You heard them. It's the new music industry! Dance!
Cook: I'm not here for that--
Third woman's voice: Dance! Dance!
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Cook: I just want an answer to a simple question.
Women's voices: Dance! Dance! Dance! Take it off! Take it all off!
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Cook: Let go of me. No money. I'm not here to do that.
Women's voices: Dance! Dance! Dance! Take it off! Take it all off!
Followills' Rock Cred: Get off the flippin' stage. Now. [It yanks Cook down to the ground and pulls him back through the crowd.]
Cook: What--?
FRC: This is not the place for existential questions.
Skinny dude [still thrusting on stage as his briefs bulge with bills]: I'll give you a daily twitvid of my progress in the studio.
Lefsetz: Not good enough! What'll you give 'em for their money?
Cook: I want to know if my friend's in hell.
Skinny dude: I'll let you vote on what instruments we use.
Lefsetz: Not good enough! What'll you give 'em for their money?
Rapper's voice: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Skinny dude: I'll have fans vote on what songs I should record!
Lefsetz: Not good enough!
Ke$ha: I want to know why all the dudes are on stage and all the women are in the audience.
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Lambert: I want to know who those people are. [He points to a crowd of women sitting at computers, typing with great concentration.]
FRC: We should be moving along.
Lambert: Seriously, who are they?
Cook: Look, is Phil Marshall in hell or isn't he? I have a right to know.
FRC: Why? You think you can get him out?
Cook: Archie got out. You said people can get out.
FRC: Well, he's not getting out. He's not in hell at all. He has a sense of proportion. He knew how to get himself attention, but he also knew when to stop. His fans knew when to stop. He didn't give himself away. [looks around] Where the hell did the glittery one go?
Lambert has wandered into the crowd of women at computers.
First woman: Someone must have photos from his trip to Bora Bora.
Second woman: I've been Googling every day.
First woman: I've been searching Twitter.
Second woman: I'm dying to see him in a bathing suit.
First woman: His knees! I need to see his knees!
FRC: Oh, hell. We can't let him talk with them. [He hurries after Lambert, followed by Cook, DeWyze, and Ke$ha.]
Lambert [looking over their shoulders]: Hey, that's me all over your computer.
Second woman: Do you think he wore a Speedo? Adam Lambert would be hot in a Speedo.
Lambert: That vacation was private. You don't need pics.
First woman: Where are the paparazzi when you need them? Come on, guys--telephoto lenses!
Lambert: You know I hate paps. They're the scum of the earth.
FRC: Come along! Places to go, people to see.
Second woman: I don't care if paps are the spawn of Satan. We've gone almost two-and-a-half months without a show. We've been patient!
Lambert: Are you two even listening to me?
First woman: We deserve new photos!
FRC: Really, move along, move along, nothing to see.
Second woman: Who the hell are you?
Lambert: I'm Adam Lambert. A.k.a. the person whose tropical vacation with his new boyfriend was private.
First woman: You're not Adam Lambert.
Lambert: Of course I'm Adam Lambert.
FRC: Seriously, we have a timetable here--
Second woman: I'm Adam Lambert's biggest fan, and I'll tell you... you are nothing like Adam Lambert.
Lambert: Look at me! I'm Adam Lambert.
First woman: Don't be silly. You're not Adam Lambert. He is.
Alter-Lambert [from behind and above Lambert]: Hi.
The Alter-Lambert is 7'2" tall, extraordinarily well-built, blindingly handsome, dressed scantily in skin-tight black leather, and sporting a spiked--
Lambert: Man, that codpiece is bigger than my head.
Alter-Lambert: Bet you wish your erector set was built like mine.
Lambert: Hell, no. That thing'd do damage.
Alter-Lambert: So at heart you're a wimpy little limpy?
Cook: Ever hear of a corporate term called "right-sizing"?
FRC: Do. Not. Get. Involved. I mean it. [It shuffles its nether paws nervously and drops its cigarette.]
Lambert: So who do you think you are?
First woman: That's Adam Lambert! Isn't he amazing!
Alter-Lambert: I'm Adam Lambert.
Lambert: Bullshit. I'm Adam Lambert.
Alter-Lambert: I'm the real Adam Lambert.
Ke$ha: If you two are about to get into a pissing contest, I want an umbrella. The big dude probably gushes like a fire hose.
Alter-Lambert: Don't believe me? I'll prove it. You're in my territory now, and you won't be going home.
Lambert: I won't--
His words choke off as the Alter-Lambert's hand reaches into his chest, grasps his heart, and pulls it out, throbbing and slimy, to beat with panicked speed in one gigantic hand.
Cook: Ew.
DeWyze: You're the one with the heart-throb tattoo.
Cook: But it's not... that literal.
Lambert: How am I still alive when he's holding my heart over there?
FRC: You're in hell. It won't last.
Lambert: I want my heart back.
Alter-Lambert: You can't have it. [To the women] Are you hungry? It's snackie time!
Lambert: No! [He throws himself between the hungry-looking women and his beating heart.
Alter-Lambert: Oh, yes. You can't stop me. You're just a bite of meat beside my might. [sings] Going down the rabbit hole, get away from all we know. Come on, follow. Come on and follow me. Going down the rabbit hole.
Lambert [sings]: Hey, slow it down. Whataya want from me? Whataya want from me?
Alter-Lambert [sings]: Quick, slow, high or low. You're never gonna know for sure. See in stereo. Down the rabbit hole.
Lambert [sings]: Yeah, I'm afraid. Whataya want from me? Whataya want from me?
Alter-Lambert: Snack time, my lovelies! [He holds out Lambert's heart over Lambert's head. The women leap for it, salivating.]
Lambert: What do I do to stop this?
FRC: You got yourself into it.
Alter-Lambert [sings]: Oh! Do you know what you got into? Can you handle what I'm 'bout to do? 'Cause it's about to get rough for you. I'm here for your entertainment.
First woman: Feed us!
Second woman: We deserve it!
Alter-Lambert [sings]: No escaping when I start. Once I'm in I own your heart. There's no way to ring the alarm. So hold on until it's over.
Lambert: No!
Cook: He's how your fans see you.
Alter-Lambert [sings]: Oh! Do you know what you got into? Can you handle what I'm 'bout to do? 'Cause it's about to get rough for you. I'm here for your entertainment.
First woman: We're here for you, Adam!
Alter-Lambert [sings]: Baby, I'm in control. Take the pain, take the pleasure. I'm master of both.
Lambert [sings weakly]: Close your eyes, not your mind. [sings, more strongly] Broken pieces, break into me. So imperfectly what you should be.
Alter-Lambert [sings]: Do you know what you got into? Can you handle what I'm 'bout to do?
Lambert [sings]: I don't want you to go. Don't wanna see you back out in the cold.
Alter-Lambert [sings]: 'Cause it's about to get--
First woman: Imperfectly perfect?
Lambert [sings]: I know the battles of chasing who you wanna be. It doesn't matter. Go on and shatter. I'm all you need.
Alter-Lambert: I'm all they need. Me.
Lambert [sings]: Lay here, it's safe here, I'll let you be broken open.
Alter-Lambert: Me! Not you. Me!
Second woman: It's safe here?
Lambert [sings]: Hide here, confide here, so we can be broken open.
Alter-Lambert [sings]: Give it to ya till your screaming my name!
Lambert [sings]: Broken pieces, break into me. So imperfectly what you should be.
Alter-Lambert [sobs]: No! Snack time!
Lambert [sings]: Broken pieces, break into me. So imperfectly what you should be.
He holds out his hand to the Alter-Lambert. It sets his heart in his hand.
Lambert: Not that way. [sings] Lay here, it's safe here, I'll let you be broken open.
The Alter-Lambert thrusts Lambert's heart back into his chest in a splash of gore.
Lambert: Keep going.
The Alter-Lambert shakes its head, shuddering.
Lambert [sings] Hide here, confide here, so we can be broken open.
The Alter-Lambert clasps Lambert's hand, steps forward... and fades into nothingness.
Lambert drops to his knees, clasping his head in his hands. The women rush to his aid.
First woman: Are you all right?
Second woman: What happened? What--imperfectly perfect? What does it mean?
Lambert [woozily]: He... I... I'm not doing this for my ego. I mean, I am, but not like that. I don't--
Cook: What did you just do?
Lambert: That was the part of myself that wants it to be all about me. It's the part that wants to be the center of attention. Think about me, dream about me, tell me I'm the greatest singer ever. It was eating my fans alive.
Ke$ha: But it tried to feed your fans your heart.
Lambert: I know. I'm not sure... It eats them, they eat me. I don't want that. I mean, yeah, I want to be the best, but not like that.
Cook: How'd you know what to do?
Lambert: I didn't. I don't. I guessed. It was the one song on my album that can't be taken as being about how great I am. If it hadn't worked-- [shudders]
First woman: But if you don't want us to reassure you that you're the greatest, what do you want from us?
Lambert: I want you to be proud of yourselves.
Second woman: We're proud of how we're here for you.
Lambert: I want you to be proud of how you're here for you. I want you to stop using my photo as your avatar and show the world how beautiful you are.
First woman: We're not--
Lambert: You all are! You're beautiful. Be proud of it.
DeWyze: If there's a group hug, I'm going to get slime on my best jacket, and the dry cleaner won't be able to get it out.
Second woman: How can you look at me and say I'm beautiful? I'm... I'm...
Lambert: Why is this so complex? What can't you understand that you're all right?
Cook [steps forward, takes the first woman's hand, looks into her eyes, and sings]: Your Mommy's all right. Your Daddy's all right. They just seem a little weird.
First woman: Really? We're all right?
Cook [sings]: Surrender. Surrender. But don't give yourself away.
First woman: Don't give--
Lambert: It's all about being you.
Cook [sings]: When I woke up, Mom and Dad are rolling on the couch, rolling numbers--
Lambert: Just don't forget to buy my next album. And the acoustic remixes.
Cook [sings]: Rock and rollin', got my KISS records out--
First woman: Wow! [she vanishes]
Second woman [taking Cook's hand]: Me next!
Lambert: And my live DVD!
Cook [sings]: Your Mommy's all right. Your Daddy's all right. They just seem a little weird. Surrender. Surrender. But don't give yourself away.
Second woman vanishes.
DeWyze: What just happened?
FRC: He sent them back to the real world.
DeWyze: So, wait? They were in hell, too?
Ke$ha: Of course they were in hell.
DeWyze: Do I have one of those seven-foot-tall dude thingies wandering around?
FRC: No.
Ke$ha: Do I? It'd be a chick thingie, but you get the gist.
FRC: No.
Cook: That's a relief, that the rest of us don't have to worry about running into one of those.
FRC: I never said you didn't have any. Yours aren't like his, though.
Cook: But--
FRC: He's not popular enough. She's a chick--
Cook: What does that have to do with it?
Ke$ha: Don't you notice anything odd about this place? Like, where are the male groupies?
FRC: There are no male groupies. Everybody knows that. The best gift for a girl going on tour is a vibrator. Colette Alexander said that.
Lambert [staggering to his feet]: Thanks for the help, man.
Cook: No prob. We should get out of here, right?
Lambert: Don't you want--
Cook: Our guide was in a hurry. [to the FRC] Where's the stair to the next level?
FRC [sighs and fails to light a cigarette in the drizzle]: Unfortunately, it's on the stage.
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Lefsetz: Not good enough! What'll you give 'em for their money?
Beneath the red and green spot lights, a bearded dude in a midriff-skimming t-shirt and black boxer-briefs is gyrating for the audience.
Bearded dude: I'll write a song about your life!
Lefsetz: Not good enough! What'll you give 'em for their money?
Bearded dude: I'll put a Web cam in every room of my house!
Lefsetz: Not good enough! What'll you give 'em for their money?
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Bearded dude: And my car! And the tour bus! You'll be with me every minute of the day--
The roaring crowd is too busy throwing money to notice Cook, DeWyze, Ke$ha, and a shaken Lambert following the Rock Cred up onto the stage. All but one of the poles are normal stripper poles. That one goes straight down through a wide hole, like a firehouse pole.
FRC: Just grab on and slide.
He does so. The others follow him. They slide down, down, down, down, through dust, through dirt, and onto a vast, rocky plain.
Man's voice: Have a rock. Please. Take a rock.
They look around, but the landscape is all dust and rocks beneath a dust-colored sky.
Different man's voice: Get your hands off my rocks! Scoundrels!
DeWyze: Ouch! Somebody just threw a rock at me.
First man: Take the damned rock! [He is young, lanky, and one shade more brown than the landscape. He wears a New York Yankees cap askew and a jacket so dusty that its team logo and colors and indecipherable.]
Ke$ha: Why are you so obsessed with giving people rocks?
Cook: Is being a Yankees fan one of those signs that you're in hell?
First man: Take a rock.
Ke$ha: I don't want your friggin' rocks.
Second man: Everyone wants my rocks. But you can't have them! [He is a craggy old man with frizzled hair down to his shoulders and the smile of a person who isn't sure he has all his teeth.]
Cook: I know you. You're Eddie Van Halen. You refused to clear one of your songs for my duet with Carrie Underwood back in 2009.
Lambert: Carry grudges much?
Cook: Please. People raved over the duet at the taping, and then I got to be the dude to do the radio interviews foreshadowing that they wouldn't get to see it on Carrie's show.
DeWyze: Ouch.
Cook: There's laundry that felt less hung out to dry.
Eddie Van Halen: The secret to success is keeping your rocks to yourself. Make them precious. Then people will pay.
First man: The secret to success is givin' rocks away so people want more rocks.
DeWyze: Who are you?
First man: Bro, don' you recognize me? I'm Soulja Boy. "Kiss Me Through the Phone" went to numba three on the Hot 100.
FRC: His second album tanked because he'd given away so many tracks for free that nobody cared to buy the rest.
Soulja Boy: Man, I was workin' the social media. I got 2.6 million followers.
Eddie Van Halen: You gotta keep control of your shit.
Cook: As I recall, the album kind of was shit. Didn't Jay-Z, Kanye West, Nicki Minaj, Eminem, and Drake all refuse to work on it?
Soulja Boy: Giving away tracks gets da fans hooked--
Ke$ha: Not if the album's shit. And what the f*ck is up with Nicki Minaj doing all those sizzling raps on other people's albums then putting out crap like Pink Friday?
Eddie Van Halen: You gotta keep control of your shit--
Ke$ha: Oh, shut up. You haven't been relevant since For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge. What was that, 20 years ago?
Eddie Van Halen: Our 2008 reunion tour grossed 93 million dollars.
DeWyze: Is there something we're supposed to sing to free these dudes from hell?
FRC: You're not here to free people. You're here to take the tour.
DeWyze: But we'd been freeing people--
FRC: Well, it's not part of the itinerary. Does anybody see any water? A stream? A creek?
Lambert [pointing]: Over there.
FRC: Come on, then.
Lambert, Cook, DeWyze, and Ke$ha follow him down a rocky hill. At irregular intervals, thrown rocks whiz past them. Most miss.
DeWyze: You're sure we're not supposed to free anybody here?
FRC: Absolutely certain.
The stream is in a shallow, muddy, rock-strewn ravine. As our heroes follow it, the ravine grows deeper and muddier. Soon, they are walking between stony cliffs while rocks fly safely overhead.
FRC: If you're thirsty, drink now, before the mud starts.
DeWyze [wiping his mouth after drinking, pausing to spit out a small snail]: There's something I don't understand.
FRC: Really?
DeWyze: The first level of hell was inhabited by musicians who gave up too soon, right?
FRC: Give the boy an A for retaining basic facts.
DeWyze: But then when we sent the Archuleta kid home from hell, he was thinking of giving up music and going to med school.
FRC: Yup. [It lights another cigarette.]
DeWyze: So why didn't he end up back in the first level of hell?
FRC: Isn't it obvious?
Cook: He hadn't given up too soon.
DeWyze: So the idea isn't to keep plodding ahead at all costs--
FRC: Actually, right now, it is. Those heroics on level three have put us behind schedule. I hope you don't mind a little mud.
Cook [following the FRC's gesture]: We have to dive into that?
Lambert: My dry cleaner's gonna die.
DeWyze: Mine is going to kill me.
Ke$ha: I told you hell was going to involve being head-down in muck. Did I not tell you this?
They dive into the mud. They fall, slowly, as if through quick sand and emerge with a sucking plop in a great plain of mud. Miraculously (or, since it's hell, anti-miraculously), they are no dirtier than before--at least initially.
Lambert: Ow! Something just bit my ankle!
The muck is full of bodies, roiling, hitting, flailing, and biting. Mud splashes in the air as people lash out at each other blindly.
Lambert: I don't think I can stand many more threats to body parts.
FRC: This level of hell is for bands that were torn apart by anger.
Cook: Ow! Something just bit my ankle.
Ke$ha: First person to bite my ankle gets a kick in the teeth. I mean it.
Cook [looking at his attacker]: David Cook?
Other David Cook: I'll eat your entrails.
Lambert: Oh, hell, no. Not more pulling-out-of-body-parts. This'll be gross.
Cook: My entrails are kind of busy right now. Can't we just get along?
ODC: There is no getting along where you're concerned.
DeWyze: Dude. Dave is the easiest-going dude around. He never says anything that anybody could disagree with.
Lambert: Yeah, what's with that? Don't you have any opinions?
Cook: My opinion is that it's best not to rock the boat.
Lambert: Some boats need rocking.
Cook: That'd be boat-rocking like how you lost yourself a plethora of interviews over your antics at the American Music Awards?
DeWyze: When the boat is rockin', don't come a-knockin'-- [catches look from Ke$ha] Uh, whatever.
ODC: He sucked all the oxygen out of my life!
Lambert: That AMA performance is long past. I got a little over-excited--
Cook: Well, I don't.
Lambert: The point is, what I believe, I put it out there.
Cook: And people jump down your throat over it.
ODC: He stole my identity!
Cook: I don't want your identity. I don't care about your f*cking identity.
ODC [sings]: You can't feel my anger. You can't feel my pain.
Cook: Who I am has nothing to do with you.
ODC [sings]: You can't feel my torment, driving me insane.
Cook: Can't we just live and let live?
ODC [sings]: I can't fight these feelings. They will bring you pain. You can't take away, make me whole again.
Cook [sings]: Has it been that long since you opened your eyes to look out below? 'Cause it'll hit you when you're not watching--
ODC [sings]: I can't fight these feelings.
Cook [sings]: I don't know why you won't let go. So let go.
ODC [sings]: They will bring you pain.
Cook [sings]: A release of some proportion, the event is set in motion. The white line is defined--
ODC [sings]: You can't take away--
Cook [sings]: So take your hands away from my eyes--
ODC [sings]: Make me whole again!
Cook [to FRC]: Why isn't he vanishing?
FRC [stubs out cigarette in the mud]: He doesn't want to go.
Cook: Doesn't want--
FRC: He doesn't want to let go of his anger. You can't make him.
Cook: But Lambert here got rid of the other guy--
FRC: That was his alter ego. It didn't truly have volition apart from him.
Lambert: I sense some "blame the victim" here. That was my heart he ripped out.
FRC: It's hell. It's complicated.
ODC: I'm not your f*cking alter ego!
Cook: I know. I know. I never thought... I didn't know the rules here...
ODC: You can't force me to go anywhere or be anything. I control me. [sings] You can't feel my anger, you can't feel my pain. You can't feel my torment, driving me insane.
Ke$ha: Are we done here yet?
Cook: Isn't there anything we can do for him?
FRC: You can't free someone who doesn't want to be freed.
Ke$ha: Please can we be done here? I'm tired of mud. I'm tired of slime. This is past sleazy into depressing.
DeWyze: Isn't hell supposed to be hellish?
Ke$ha: Not this hellish.
The FRC puts the tip of two claws in its mouth and whistles sharply. From the mud-colored sky, an old-fashioned elevator descends. When its bottom is level with the prevailing mud, the FRC pulls open the grill and gestures to the others to enter. They do, shaking mud off their shoes (or in, Ke$ha's case, bare feet).
There is a single button, labeled DOWN. The FRC pushes it. As the elevator descends, guitar music rises, followed by a male voice making la-la-la noises.
Ke$ha: Oh, hell. Elevator music?
Elevator music [sings]: Bored holes through our tongues, so sing a song about it. Held our breath for too long till we're half sick about it.
DeWyze: At least it's not 101 Strings.
Elevator music: Ding!
The Followills' Rock Cred opens the grill and our heroes step into a piazza that might be in Venice, so thoroughly is it hemmed by steps, bridges, arches, doorways, strolling couples, loafing idlers, idling loafers, strolling troubadours, gypsies, ne'er-do-wells, and architecture students.
Elevator music [sings]: Tell us what we did wrong and you can blame us for it. Turn a clamp on our thumbs, we'll sew a doll about it.
Lambert: Now this is a city.
Cook: I'm not sure--
Lambert: It feels somehow familiar--
Cook [reaches out a hand]: Air isn't supposed to be solid, right?
Lambert: What do you mean?
Cook: Feel. Part of this city is mirrors.
Lambert [feeling around in front of himself]: Not all of it. And not mirrors. We're not reflected.
Ke$ha [indicating Cook]: He is.
Cook: No, I'm not. See, the arch is duplicated rightside-up, and the other arch is upside-down, and I'd be over here--
Ke$ha: You're right. Your reflection's actually over there. [She points to a different set of arches.]
DeWyze: That's not his reflection. It's dressed totally different.
Ke$ha: But it's his face.
Cook: It can't be.
FRC: Oh, it can. I did warn you--
DeWyze: There's another one with Dave's face.
Lambert: There's one over there, too--
Cook: But my fans don't see me like that--
FRC: Did I ever say that alter egos were confined to level three? Did I?
Cook: No, but--
Ke$ha: Is it my imagination, or are all three of them headed toward us?
TO BE CONTINUED
Ke$ha: Oh, hell! That's me singing that song.
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Man's voice [rapping]: From the top of the pole, I watch her go down. She got me throwing my money around. Ain't nothing more beautiful to be found.
The colored spotlights play wildly over a raised stage in a dark and steamy club, stinking of mildew, spilled Cosmopolitans, and cheap hand lotion. The air is damp, with a stinging mist, and the stage is full of writhing, half-naked male bodies twisted around poles--
Stout balding man: Step right up! Where's your money, ladies? Bring 'em here. Bring 'em here. Put 'em in! Put 'em in!
A skinny but well-built dude in an unbuttoned flannel shirt and tighty-whities grinds his way to the edge of the stage, thrusting his pelvis toward hands that wave dollar bills. A few daring women shove the money into his briefs.
Stout balding man: What'll you give 'em for their money?
Skinny dude: I'll play a request at my next show!
Stout balding man: Not good enough! What'll you give 'em for their money?
Skinny dude: I'll spend half an hour before the show with six special fans.
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Stout balding man: Not good enough! What'll you give 'em for their money?
Skinny dude: I'll put their name in a song.
DeWyze [to Cook]: What if the chick's name doesn't rhyme with anything?
Cook: Dude. Put the name in the middle of the line.
Stout balding man: Not good enough! What'll you give 'em for their money?
Skinny dude [thrusting desperately]: I don't know!
Stout balding man: Not good enough! You have to give them more for their money. This is the new music industry! Symbiotic relationships between bands and their fans! Create a unique experience!
Cook: Bob Lefsetz? What's Bob Lefsetz doing in hell?
Followills' Rock Cred: He lives here.
Rapper's voice [rapping]: My money love her like a number one fan.
Stout balding man: What are you going to give them?
Skinny dude: I... I'll come to their homes. I'll play a show in their living rooms.
Rapper's voice [rapping]: You want to shoot like a gun out of holster. Tell me whatever and I'll be your roper.
Cook: Wait a friggin' second! [He pushes through the mob of waving hands with dollar bills, pulls himself up on the stage and confronts Lefsetz.] My friend Phil Marshall played a whole show of living room tours. Are you trying to tell me that was some kind of mistake?
Lefsetz: Mistake? I'm telling you it's the key to success! Today, the smartest bands are performing in the fans' living rooms. Tomorrow, someone'll do them one better and perform in the fans' bedrooms! The day after that, an even smarter band will start performing in hospital delivery rooms to get fans' loyalty from the moment they emerge from the womb!
Skinny dude [still thrusting]: I'll play a show in your kitchen while you eat dinner!
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Hands thrust dollar bills into the skinny dude's briefs.
Skinny dude: I'll give your kids music lessons!
Lefsetz: That's the spirit! Symbiotic!
Cook [still on stage]: Why?
Lefsetz: What the f*ck do you mean, "why?"? It's the new music industry. People don't buy music. They buy personalities.
Skinny dude [thrusting harder]: I'll give you online voting on who my next girlfriend should be!
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Cook: My music says who I am.
Woman's voice from crowd: Take it off!
Cook: Phil's music says who he is.
Second woman's voice: Strip yourself! Strip!
Third woman's voice: Strip! Strip!
Cook: I don't buy that somehow because Phil played for fans in their back yards, he's selling himself--
A hand thrusts a dollar into Cook's belt. Another hand yanks at his pants cuff.
Woman's voice: We want to see what's under there!
Second woman's voice: Don't just stand there! Dance for us!
Lefsetz: You heard them. It's the new music industry! Dance!
Cook: I'm not here for that--
Third woman's voice: Dance! Dance!
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Cook: I just want an answer to a simple question.
Women's voices: Dance! Dance! Dance! Take it off! Take it all off!
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Cook: Let go of me. No money. I'm not here to do that.
Women's voices: Dance! Dance! Dance! Take it off! Take it all off!
Followills' Rock Cred: Get off the flippin' stage. Now. [It yanks Cook down to the ground and pulls him back through the crowd.]
Cook: What--?
FRC: This is not the place for existential questions.
Skinny dude [still thrusting on stage as his briefs bulge with bills]: I'll give you a daily twitvid of my progress in the studio.
Lefsetz: Not good enough! What'll you give 'em for their money?
Cook: I want to know if my friend's in hell.
Skinny dude: I'll let you vote on what instruments we use.
Lefsetz: Not good enough! What'll you give 'em for their money?
Rapper's voice: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Skinny dude: I'll have fans vote on what songs I should record!
Lefsetz: Not good enough!
Ke$ha: I want to know why all the dudes are on stage and all the women are in the audience.
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Lambert: I want to know who those people are. [He points to a crowd of women sitting at computers, typing with great concentration.]
FRC: We should be moving along.
Lambert: Seriously, who are they?
Cook: Look, is Phil Marshall in hell or isn't he? I have a right to know.
FRC: Why? You think you can get him out?
Cook: Archie got out. You said people can get out.
FRC: Well, he's not getting out. He's not in hell at all. He has a sense of proportion. He knew how to get himself attention, but he also knew when to stop. His fans knew when to stop. He didn't give himself away. [looks around] Where the hell did the glittery one go?
Lambert has wandered into the crowd of women at computers.
First woman: Someone must have photos from his trip to Bora Bora.
Second woman: I've been Googling every day.
First woman: I've been searching Twitter.
Second woman: I'm dying to see him in a bathing suit.
First woman: His knees! I need to see his knees!
FRC: Oh, hell. We can't let him talk with them. [He hurries after Lambert, followed by Cook, DeWyze, and Ke$ha.]
Lambert [looking over their shoulders]: Hey, that's me all over your computer.
Second woman: Do you think he wore a Speedo? Adam Lambert would be hot in a Speedo.
Lambert: That vacation was private. You don't need pics.
First woman: Where are the paparazzi when you need them? Come on, guys--telephoto lenses!
Lambert: You know I hate paps. They're the scum of the earth.
FRC: Come along! Places to go, people to see.
Second woman: I don't care if paps are the spawn of Satan. We've gone almost two-and-a-half months without a show. We've been patient!
Lambert: Are you two even listening to me?
First woman: We deserve new photos!
FRC: Really, move along, move along, nothing to see.
Second woman: Who the hell are you?
Lambert: I'm Adam Lambert. A.k.a. the person whose tropical vacation with his new boyfriend was private.
First woman: You're not Adam Lambert.
Lambert: Of course I'm Adam Lambert.
FRC: Seriously, we have a timetable here--
Second woman: I'm Adam Lambert's biggest fan, and I'll tell you... you are nothing like Adam Lambert.
Lambert: Look at me! I'm Adam Lambert.
First woman: Don't be silly. You're not Adam Lambert. He is.
Alter-Lambert [from behind and above Lambert]: Hi.
The Alter-Lambert is 7'2" tall, extraordinarily well-built, blindingly handsome, dressed scantily in skin-tight black leather, and sporting a spiked--
Lambert: Man, that codpiece is bigger than my head.
Alter-Lambert: Bet you wish your erector set was built like mine.
Lambert: Hell, no. That thing'd do damage.
Alter-Lambert: So at heart you're a wimpy little limpy?
Cook: Ever hear of a corporate term called "right-sizing"?
FRC: Do. Not. Get. Involved. I mean it. [It shuffles its nether paws nervously and drops its cigarette.]
Lambert: So who do you think you are?
First woman: That's Adam Lambert! Isn't he amazing!
Alter-Lambert: I'm Adam Lambert.
Lambert: Bullshit. I'm Adam Lambert.
Alter-Lambert: I'm the real Adam Lambert.
Ke$ha: If you two are about to get into a pissing contest, I want an umbrella. The big dude probably gushes like a fire hose.
Alter-Lambert: Don't believe me? I'll prove it. You're in my territory now, and you won't be going home.
Lambert: I won't--
His words choke off as the Alter-Lambert's hand reaches into his chest, grasps his heart, and pulls it out, throbbing and slimy, to beat with panicked speed in one gigantic hand.
Cook: Ew.
DeWyze: You're the one with the heart-throb tattoo.
Cook: But it's not... that literal.
Lambert: How am I still alive when he's holding my heart over there?
FRC: You're in hell. It won't last.
Lambert: I want my heart back.
Alter-Lambert: You can't have it. [To the women] Are you hungry? It's snackie time!
Lambert: No! [He throws himself between the hungry-looking women and his beating heart.
Alter-Lambert: Oh, yes. You can't stop me. You're just a bite of meat beside my might. [sings] Going down the rabbit hole, get away from all we know. Come on, follow. Come on and follow me. Going down the rabbit hole.
Lambert [sings]: Hey, slow it down. Whataya want from me? Whataya want from me?
Alter-Lambert [sings]: Quick, slow, high or low. You're never gonna know for sure. See in stereo. Down the rabbit hole.
Lambert [sings]: Yeah, I'm afraid. Whataya want from me? Whataya want from me?
Alter-Lambert: Snack time, my lovelies! [He holds out Lambert's heart over Lambert's head. The women leap for it, salivating.]
Lambert: What do I do to stop this?
FRC: You got yourself into it.
Alter-Lambert [sings]: Oh! Do you know what you got into? Can you handle what I'm 'bout to do? 'Cause it's about to get rough for you. I'm here for your entertainment.
First woman: Feed us!
Second woman: We deserve it!
Alter-Lambert [sings]: No escaping when I start. Once I'm in I own your heart. There's no way to ring the alarm. So hold on until it's over.
Lambert: No!
Cook: He's how your fans see you.
Alter-Lambert [sings]: Oh! Do you know what you got into? Can you handle what I'm 'bout to do? 'Cause it's about to get rough for you. I'm here for your entertainment.
First woman: We're here for you, Adam!
Alter-Lambert [sings]: Baby, I'm in control. Take the pain, take the pleasure. I'm master of both.
Lambert [sings weakly]: Close your eyes, not your mind. [sings, more strongly] Broken pieces, break into me. So imperfectly what you should be.
Alter-Lambert [sings]: Do you know what you got into? Can you handle what I'm 'bout to do?
Lambert [sings]: I don't want you to go. Don't wanna see you back out in the cold.
Alter-Lambert [sings]: 'Cause it's about to get--
First woman: Imperfectly perfect?
Lambert [sings]: I know the battles of chasing who you wanna be. It doesn't matter. Go on and shatter. I'm all you need.
Alter-Lambert: I'm all they need. Me.
Lambert [sings]: Lay here, it's safe here, I'll let you be broken open.
Alter-Lambert: Me! Not you. Me!
Second woman: It's safe here?
Lambert [sings]: Hide here, confide here, so we can be broken open.
Alter-Lambert [sings]: Give it to ya till your screaming my name!
Lambert [sings]: Broken pieces, break into me. So imperfectly what you should be.
Alter-Lambert [sobs]: No! Snack time!
Lambert [sings]: Broken pieces, break into me. So imperfectly what you should be.
He holds out his hand to the Alter-Lambert. It sets his heart in his hand.
Lambert: Not that way. [sings] Lay here, it's safe here, I'll let you be broken open.
The Alter-Lambert thrusts Lambert's heart back into his chest in a splash of gore.
Lambert: Keep going.
The Alter-Lambert shakes its head, shuddering.
Lambert [sings] Hide here, confide here, so we can be broken open.
The Alter-Lambert clasps Lambert's hand, steps forward... and fades into nothingness.
Lambert drops to his knees, clasping his head in his hands. The women rush to his aid.
First woman: Are you all right?
Second woman: What happened? What--imperfectly perfect? What does it mean?
Lambert [woozily]: He... I... I'm not doing this for my ego. I mean, I am, but not like that. I don't--
Cook: What did you just do?
Lambert: That was the part of myself that wants it to be all about me. It's the part that wants to be the center of attention. Think about me, dream about me, tell me I'm the greatest singer ever. It was eating my fans alive.
Ke$ha: But it tried to feed your fans your heart.
Lambert: I know. I'm not sure... It eats them, they eat me. I don't want that. I mean, yeah, I want to be the best, but not like that.
Cook: How'd you know what to do?
Lambert: I didn't. I don't. I guessed. It was the one song on my album that can't be taken as being about how great I am. If it hadn't worked-- [shudders]
First woman: But if you don't want us to reassure you that you're the greatest, what do you want from us?
Lambert: I want you to be proud of yourselves.
Second woman: We're proud of how we're here for you.
Lambert: I want you to be proud of how you're here for you. I want you to stop using my photo as your avatar and show the world how beautiful you are.
First woman: We're not--
Lambert: You all are! You're beautiful. Be proud of it.
DeWyze: If there's a group hug, I'm going to get slime on my best jacket, and the dry cleaner won't be able to get it out.
Second woman: How can you look at me and say I'm beautiful? I'm... I'm...
Lambert: Why is this so complex? What can't you understand that you're all right?
Cook [steps forward, takes the first woman's hand, looks into her eyes, and sings]: Your Mommy's all right. Your Daddy's all right. They just seem a little weird.
First woman: Really? We're all right?
Cook [sings]: Surrender. Surrender. But don't give yourself away.
First woman: Don't give--
Lambert: It's all about being you.
Cook [sings]: When I woke up, Mom and Dad are rolling on the couch, rolling numbers--
Lambert: Just don't forget to buy my next album. And the acoustic remixes.
Cook [sings]: Rock and rollin', got my KISS records out--
First woman: Wow! [she vanishes]
Second woman [taking Cook's hand]: Me next!
Lambert: And my live DVD!
Cook [sings]: Your Mommy's all right. Your Daddy's all right. They just seem a little weird. Surrender. Surrender. But don't give yourself away.
Second woman vanishes.
DeWyze: What just happened?
FRC: He sent them back to the real world.
DeWyze: So, wait? They were in hell, too?
Ke$ha: Of course they were in hell.
DeWyze: Do I have one of those seven-foot-tall dude thingies wandering around?
FRC: No.
Ke$ha: Do I? It'd be a chick thingie, but you get the gist.
FRC: No.
Cook: That's a relief, that the rest of us don't have to worry about running into one of those.
FRC: I never said you didn't have any. Yours aren't like his, though.
Cook: But--
FRC: He's not popular enough. She's a chick--
Cook: What does that have to do with it?
Ke$ha: Don't you notice anything odd about this place? Like, where are the male groupies?
FRC: There are no male groupies. Everybody knows that. The best gift for a girl going on tour is a vibrator. Colette Alexander said that.
Lambert [staggering to his feet]: Thanks for the help, man.
Cook: No prob. We should get out of here, right?
Lambert: Don't you want--
Cook: Our guide was in a hurry. [to the FRC] Where's the stair to the next level?
FRC [sighs and fails to light a cigarette in the drizzle]: Unfortunately, it's on the stage.
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Lefsetz: Not good enough! What'll you give 'em for their money?
Beneath the red and green spot lights, a bearded dude in a midriff-skimming t-shirt and black boxer-briefs is gyrating for the audience.
Bearded dude: I'll write a song about your life!
Lefsetz: Not good enough! What'll you give 'em for their money?
Bearded dude: I'll put a Web cam in every room of my house!
Lefsetz: Not good enough! What'll you give 'em for their money?
Ke$ha's voice [singing]: You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down.
Bearded dude: And my car! And the tour bus! You'll be with me every minute of the day--
The roaring crowd is too busy throwing money to notice Cook, DeWyze, Ke$ha, and a shaken Lambert following the Rock Cred up onto the stage. All but one of the poles are normal stripper poles. That one goes straight down through a wide hole, like a firehouse pole.
FRC: Just grab on and slide.
He does so. The others follow him. They slide down, down, down, down, through dust, through dirt, and onto a vast, rocky plain.
Man's voice: Have a rock. Please. Take a rock.
They look around, but the landscape is all dust and rocks beneath a dust-colored sky.
Different man's voice: Get your hands off my rocks! Scoundrels!
DeWyze: Ouch! Somebody just threw a rock at me.
First man: Take the damned rock! [He is young, lanky, and one shade more brown than the landscape. He wears a New York Yankees cap askew and a jacket so dusty that its team logo and colors and indecipherable.]
Ke$ha: Why are you so obsessed with giving people rocks?
Cook: Is being a Yankees fan one of those signs that you're in hell?
First man: Take a rock.
Ke$ha: I don't want your friggin' rocks.
Second man: Everyone wants my rocks. But you can't have them! [He is a craggy old man with frizzled hair down to his shoulders and the smile of a person who isn't sure he has all his teeth.]
Cook: I know you. You're Eddie Van Halen. You refused to clear one of your songs for my duet with Carrie Underwood back in 2009.
Lambert: Carry grudges much?
Cook: Please. People raved over the duet at the taping, and then I got to be the dude to do the radio interviews foreshadowing that they wouldn't get to see it on Carrie's show.
DeWyze: Ouch.
Cook: There's laundry that felt less hung out to dry.
Eddie Van Halen: The secret to success is keeping your rocks to yourself. Make them precious. Then people will pay.
First man: The secret to success is givin' rocks away so people want more rocks.
DeWyze: Who are you?
First man: Bro, don' you recognize me? I'm Soulja Boy. "Kiss Me Through the Phone" went to numba three on the Hot 100.
FRC: His second album tanked because he'd given away so many tracks for free that nobody cared to buy the rest.
Soulja Boy: Man, I was workin' the social media. I got 2.6 million followers.
Eddie Van Halen: You gotta keep control of your shit.
Cook: As I recall, the album kind of was shit. Didn't Jay-Z, Kanye West, Nicki Minaj, Eminem, and Drake all refuse to work on it?
Soulja Boy: Giving away tracks gets da fans hooked--
Ke$ha: Not if the album's shit. And what the f*ck is up with Nicki Minaj doing all those sizzling raps on other people's albums then putting out crap like Pink Friday?
Eddie Van Halen: You gotta keep control of your shit--
Ke$ha: Oh, shut up. You haven't been relevant since For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge. What was that, 20 years ago?
Eddie Van Halen: Our 2008 reunion tour grossed 93 million dollars.
DeWyze: Is there something we're supposed to sing to free these dudes from hell?
FRC: You're not here to free people. You're here to take the tour.
DeWyze: But we'd been freeing people--
FRC: Well, it's not part of the itinerary. Does anybody see any water? A stream? A creek?
Lambert [pointing]: Over there.
FRC: Come on, then.
Lambert, Cook, DeWyze, and Ke$ha follow him down a rocky hill. At irregular intervals, thrown rocks whiz past them. Most miss.
DeWyze: You're sure we're not supposed to free anybody here?
FRC: Absolutely certain.
The stream is in a shallow, muddy, rock-strewn ravine. As our heroes follow it, the ravine grows deeper and muddier. Soon, they are walking between stony cliffs while rocks fly safely overhead.
FRC: If you're thirsty, drink now, before the mud starts.
DeWyze [wiping his mouth after drinking, pausing to spit out a small snail]: There's something I don't understand.
FRC: Really?
DeWyze: The first level of hell was inhabited by musicians who gave up too soon, right?
FRC: Give the boy an A for retaining basic facts.
DeWyze: But then when we sent the Archuleta kid home from hell, he was thinking of giving up music and going to med school.
FRC: Yup. [It lights another cigarette.]
DeWyze: So why didn't he end up back in the first level of hell?
FRC: Isn't it obvious?
Cook: He hadn't given up too soon.
DeWyze: So the idea isn't to keep plodding ahead at all costs--
FRC: Actually, right now, it is. Those heroics on level three have put us behind schedule. I hope you don't mind a little mud.
Cook [following the FRC's gesture]: We have to dive into that?
Lambert: My dry cleaner's gonna die.
DeWyze: Mine is going to kill me.
Ke$ha: I told you hell was going to involve being head-down in muck. Did I not tell you this?
They dive into the mud. They fall, slowly, as if through quick sand and emerge with a sucking plop in a great plain of mud. Miraculously (or, since it's hell, anti-miraculously), they are no dirtier than before--at least initially.
Lambert: Ow! Something just bit my ankle!
The muck is full of bodies, roiling, hitting, flailing, and biting. Mud splashes in the air as people lash out at each other blindly.
Lambert: I don't think I can stand many more threats to body parts.
FRC: This level of hell is for bands that were torn apart by anger.
Cook: Ow! Something just bit my ankle.
Ke$ha: First person to bite my ankle gets a kick in the teeth. I mean it.
Cook [looking at his attacker]: David Cook?
Other David Cook: I'll eat your entrails.
Lambert: Oh, hell, no. Not more pulling-out-of-body-parts. This'll be gross.
Cook: My entrails are kind of busy right now. Can't we just get along?
ODC: There is no getting along where you're concerned.
DeWyze: Dude. Dave is the easiest-going dude around. He never says anything that anybody could disagree with.
Lambert: Yeah, what's with that? Don't you have any opinions?
Cook: My opinion is that it's best not to rock the boat.
Lambert: Some boats need rocking.
Cook: That'd be boat-rocking like how you lost yourself a plethora of interviews over your antics at the American Music Awards?
DeWyze: When the boat is rockin', don't come a-knockin'-- [catches look from Ke$ha] Uh, whatever.
ODC: He sucked all the oxygen out of my life!
Lambert: That AMA performance is long past. I got a little over-excited--
Cook: Well, I don't.
Lambert: The point is, what I believe, I put it out there.
Cook: And people jump down your throat over it.
ODC: He stole my identity!
Cook: I don't want your identity. I don't care about your f*cking identity.
ODC [sings]: You can't feel my anger. You can't feel my pain.
Cook: Who I am has nothing to do with you.
ODC [sings]: You can't feel my torment, driving me insane.
Cook: Can't we just live and let live?
ODC [sings]: I can't fight these feelings. They will bring you pain. You can't take away, make me whole again.
Cook [sings]: Has it been that long since you opened your eyes to look out below? 'Cause it'll hit you when you're not watching--
ODC [sings]: I can't fight these feelings.
Cook [sings]: I don't know why you won't let go. So let go.
ODC [sings]: They will bring you pain.
Cook [sings]: A release of some proportion, the event is set in motion. The white line is defined--
ODC [sings]: You can't take away--
Cook [sings]: So take your hands away from my eyes--
ODC [sings]: Make me whole again!
Cook [to FRC]: Why isn't he vanishing?
FRC [stubs out cigarette in the mud]: He doesn't want to go.
Cook: Doesn't want--
FRC: He doesn't want to let go of his anger. You can't make him.
Cook: But Lambert here got rid of the other guy--
FRC: That was his alter ego. It didn't truly have volition apart from him.
Lambert: I sense some "blame the victim" here. That was my heart he ripped out.
FRC: It's hell. It's complicated.
ODC: I'm not your f*cking alter ego!
Cook: I know. I know. I never thought... I didn't know the rules here...
ODC: You can't force me to go anywhere or be anything. I control me. [sings] You can't feel my anger, you can't feel my pain. You can't feel my torment, driving me insane.
Ke$ha: Are we done here yet?
Cook: Isn't there anything we can do for him?
FRC: You can't free someone who doesn't want to be freed.
Ke$ha: Please can we be done here? I'm tired of mud. I'm tired of slime. This is past sleazy into depressing.
DeWyze: Isn't hell supposed to be hellish?
Ke$ha: Not this hellish.
The FRC puts the tip of two claws in its mouth and whistles sharply. From the mud-colored sky, an old-fashioned elevator descends. When its bottom is level with the prevailing mud, the FRC pulls open the grill and gestures to the others to enter. They do, shaking mud off their shoes (or in, Ke$ha's case, bare feet).
There is a single button, labeled DOWN. The FRC pushes it. As the elevator descends, guitar music rises, followed by a male voice making la-la-la noises.
Ke$ha: Oh, hell. Elevator music?
Elevator music [sings]: Bored holes through our tongues, so sing a song about it. Held our breath for too long till we're half sick about it.
DeWyze: At least it's not 101 Strings.
Elevator music: Ding!
The Followills' Rock Cred opens the grill and our heroes step into a piazza that might be in Venice, so thoroughly is it hemmed by steps, bridges, arches, doorways, strolling couples, loafing idlers, idling loafers, strolling troubadours, gypsies, ne'er-do-wells, and architecture students.
Elevator music [sings]: Tell us what we did wrong and you can blame us for it. Turn a clamp on our thumbs, we'll sew a doll about it.
Lambert: Now this is a city.
Cook: I'm not sure--
Lambert: It feels somehow familiar--
Cook [reaches out a hand]: Air isn't supposed to be solid, right?
Lambert: What do you mean?
Cook: Feel. Part of this city is mirrors.
Lambert [feeling around in front of himself]: Not all of it. And not mirrors. We're not reflected.
Ke$ha [indicating Cook]: He is.
Cook: No, I'm not. See, the arch is duplicated rightside-up, and the other arch is upside-down, and I'd be over here--
Ke$ha: You're right. Your reflection's actually over there. [She points to a different set of arches.]
DeWyze: That's not his reflection. It's dressed totally different.
Ke$ha: But it's his face.
Cook: It can't be.
FRC: Oh, it can. I did warn you--
DeWyze: There's another one with Dave's face.
Lambert: There's one over there, too--
Cook: But my fans don't see me like that--
FRC: Did I ever say that alter egos were confined to level three? Did I?
Cook: No, but--
Ke$ha: Is it my imagination, or are all three of them headed toward us?
TO BE CONTINUED
