Archive of Our Own ^beta

JOI meets Godzilla.

[ Interior.  The Wallace Corporation.  Earth Headquarters.  CEO’s office.   Soundtrack: Wallace , from the 2049 Soundtrack ( https://youtu.be/E3uWHtUkUoI ).  Stan, WallaceCorp’s bald albino CEO, formerly known as File Clerk , sits at the enormous desk his station calls for, grazing through reports, feeding happily upon data. He makes interested little noises. ] 

[ Cut to a shot over Stan’s shoulder, framing the open door to his office, center of view.  From out of shot, down the hall somewhere, comes the squeaking of wheels and the muffled squawks of two men moving furniture.  Cut and back to a shot of Stan, whose head rises in interest.  More squeaking.  A beat. ]

[ Through the door, uninvited, arrives Gilbert Gottfried–Stan’s assistant–and classy elder statesman of comedy, Steve Martin.  Together, they wheel a large white-cloth-draped easel from the hallway and into the office.  They stop in front of Stan’s fireplace, presently burning with gas. ]

Martin: “Geez, this’is a big place.”

[ Gottfried huffs and gestures silence into his partner. Stan is watching them. ] 

GG: ( To Stan ) “HIYA.”

[ Stan acknowledges the greeting,  which echos in the office, then rises and approaches the men. Cut to a wide three-shot, featuring the easel and the fireplace behind them. Martin tries whispering calmly to Gottfried, who shushes him. ] 

GG: “WE BRUNG YA A PRESENT.  SO YOU KNOW THERE'S NO HARD FEELINGS ABOUT YOU GETTING MY OLD JOB.”

Stan: “...but…there is.  You hate being my assistant.”

[ Gottfried gestures and verbalizes dismissive little noises at Stan, who flinches in response.  Cut and back to Steve Martin–dressed primly in a dark blue suit and tie, uncomfortable with the moment’s clash between severe architecture and crass dialogue.  Gottfried walks around in front of the cloth-covered easel, monopolizing the space. Martin peeks around from behind him. ]

GG: “LOOK, LOOK.  YER GONNA LOVE THIS.”

[ Gottfried grips the cloth with one hand, pulling it taut.  He looks to Stan, anticipating anticipation.  Stan obligingly anticipates.  Martin steels himself.  He is an art enthusiast and personally curated this moment, hoping it would please. ]

[ Gottfried snatches back the cloth, revealing a painting. ] 

Link 1

Link 2

Link 3 (video)

[ The picture features a hairless woman, seated, dressed in flowing orange robes.  Before her she holds what appears to be a large ostrich egg.  Surrounding her, in a scene best compared to Hieronymus Bosch, is a retinue of bizarre avian creatures, their long beaks and peering eyes gaggle, examining the viewer with interest.  Perhaps sinisterly. ]

[ Martin, Gottfried’s professional colleague, nudges into the conversation softly. ]

Martin: “Uh, this is La Gardienne des Phénix.  Guardian of the Phoenix .   By Leonor Fini.  Nineteen-fifty-two.  It’s a surrealist depiction o–”

GG: “I CALL IT BALD CHICK WITH NO NIPPLES…AND ALSO…. ”

[ Gottfried gestures.  Cut to a tight shot of the egg held by the painting’s subject. ]

GG: “....BABY STAN.”

[ A beat.  Cut to a close-up of Stan’s reaction.  Cut and back to the large egg in the woman’s hand.  Stan covers his mouth.  Cut and back to Martin, who is losing control of the discussion. ]

Martin:  “Overall, a cryptic, but compellin–”

Stan: “Ohh….mama…..the baby pictures….”

[ Cut and back to a tight shot of Gottfried, smug and smarmy, nodding in contrived sympathy.  This’ll definitely get the boss on-side , he thinks. ]

Stan: “They were all lost in the blackout an…”

GG: “I know…”

Martin: “Themes of….themes of feminism.”

[ Steve Martin is visibly despondent now.  Philistines have once again stormed the ramparts of culture and urinated on its treasures.  Not even from jealousy or disrespect.  They just needed to go and that pile of shiny objects over there seemed like a good spot.  Why did he ever agree to this… ] 

GG: “WE’LL HANG IT OVER THE FIREPLACE.  JUST DON’T LET IT FALL IN.”

[ Stan nods, gazing at the painting.  Gottfried begins shoo’ing Martin back into the hallway. He complies, but asks: ]

Martin: “When am I getting paid for this?”

[ Gottfried slams a pair of enormous double-doors in Martin’s face.  He turns innocently and grins back at Stan, who is already rounding the corners of his desk, back to responsibilities. Gottfried shuffles up to the container-ship sized furnishing, wondering what favors to buy with his gift, schmoozing like a jewish grandmother at a rummage sale. ] 

GG: “Y’like the painting?”

[ Stan nods happily and opens a drawer.  He produces from it a small black puck, held forth to Gottfried in the palm of one hand.  Gottfried looks at the object, skeptically. A beat. ]

GG: “What is it?”

Stan: ( Coyly ) “What would you like it to be?”

GG: “A BETTER JOB AND A HANDY FROM JOAN RIVERS.”

[ If Stan had hair it would be blown back by the response.  Instead he proffers the object to Gottfried, who moves to receive it.  The puck instead suddenly floats into the air on its own, hovering like a Barracuda drone.  A circle of LEDs round its dorsal surface.  It emits perky soft little burps.  Gottfried steps back, hands withdrawn cautiously.  The room is pregnant with tension. ]

Stan: “Well, it’s not that.  Don’t be frightened, though.  You’ll like this.  It’s a new prototype.”  

[ Cut to a shot of Gottfried, looking down on the puck floating before him. ]

GG: “Prototype what ?”

Stan: ( From out of shot ) “It’s a new JOI.  Drone-based emanator platform.  Now she can move independently, float along with you.  Final stages of evaluation.  Want to test it?”

GG: “You know what happened to my last JOI.  She didn’t do so good.”

[ Cut to a close-up of Stan. ]

Stan: “Just take it easy on this one and….don’t break it.”

[ Cut back to Gottfried. ]

GG: “That was a warranty situation.  I didn’t do anything weird with it.  Y’can’t prove anything.”

Stan: “Just….just…”

[ Cut to a wide shot.  Stan gestures redundantly at Gottfried, who is already walking out of the office, followed by the new JOI-puck.  He complains over his shoulder. ]

GG: “And if this one breaks, it’s not my fault, either.”

≈

[ Interior.  Luv’s former office, now inhabited by Gottfried.  Large desk, chairs in one corner.  Glass ceiling.  Weird, creepy floaty-water lighting.  A wide shot of the room, desk against the far wall.  From bottom of frame, Gottfried emerges, approaching the front of his desk. ]

[ Cut.  A wide shot of Gottfried, the desk behind him.  The new JOI prototype hover-puck scoots into view.  After a brief hesitation, he taps its lid with a fingertip.  Peter and the Wolf chimes prettily.  The hologram of a pink glowing life-sized naked woman appears before him. ]

JOI: “Hello.  I’m JOI.”

[ JOI magically displays a screen with legalese and a huge scrollbar, implying the document’s size. ] 

 JOI: “Please read this End User License Agreement an–”

GG: “SKIP.”

JOI: “Please take a moment to register me with–”

GG: “SKIP”

JOI: “Please be warned that I contain chemicals known to the state of California t–”

GG: “ SKIP ”

JOI: “Are you aware of Wallace’s many other exciting products?”

[ The screen now starts playing noisy video about consumer junk unrelated to domestic sex and companionship. Gottfried waves them aside. ]

GG: “SKIP.”

JOI: “Please configure me.  What kind of JOI best suits your desires?”

[ Gottfried sighs and rubs his hands with enthusiasm.  He is a man of considerable appetites and–despite language being his business–fully describing them feels daunting.  Especially given what happened to his last JOI.  He turns away from the projection and begins pacing away from her in the cavernous space, ruminating out loud. ] 

GG: “MY IDEAL JOI IS AMAZING .  SHE’S TALL, STATUESQUE, SMOKINGLY HOT.”

[ Behind him, JOI begins mutating to his needs.  She turns to stone and silently increases to ceiling-height, emitting a vague mysterious smoke. ]

GG: “SHE HAS TITS THE SIZE OF DIRIGIBLES, AND LEGS UP TO HER FOREHEAD.”

[ JOI’s proportions shift, her legs suddenly lengthen to the middle of her forehead, blocking any view of her torso.  Her breasts inflate and turn into flaming Hindenburgs, peeking around her thighs. Arms frame the ensemble. ]

[ Gottfried pauses to think some more, then continues, still facing away. His voice reverberates. ] 

GG: “She has an IQ of four-thousand-two-hundred and sixteen.  She is a multi-gold-trillionaire who gives all her money away to starving children but…also somehow gets to keep it.”

[ Gottfried considers this last point’s impossibility, then decides he enjoys it anyway. ]

GG: “Other men approach her constantly and I am sometimes forced to shoot them in defense of her honor.  We only get away with this because when the police confront us and see her, they immediately wander off, looking for a place to masturbate.”

[ Gottfried stops, then nods.  Yes , he thinks, that’ll do for now.  Best not to get too ambitious right away. ]

[ He wheels in place and checks his progress.  Gottfried is confronted by a faceless thirty-foot tall leg-monster with flaming Hindenburg breasts that flounce around like pennants at a ball-game.  Gottfried makes a face that only a shocked entertainer of his caliber can display. ]

[ JOI-monster makes an angry classical Godzilla shrieking noise.  She smashes through the wall of Gottfried’s office, then stomps out into the streets of Blade-Runner Land. ]

[ Cut to a tight shot of Gottfried, still holding that face.  Daylight streaks into the office.  From out on the street, we hear more Godzilla sound effects, people screaming, and another building being smashed. ]

[ A beat.  The moment washes over Gottfried, petrified. ]

GG: “Ah, uh, ok.  This is new.”

≈

[ Exterior.  Downtown.  Daytime.  What passes for a manicured intersection in the rich-people part of town.  The sort of place that people like you and me would be asked nicely to leave.  Right now, please.  Before someone calls security.  A view of an intersection, its south-east corner in the bottom-right of our frame.  Into it steps Luv, in her traditional white-coat shopping outfit, hefting a store catalog. ]

[ Cut to a tight shot of Luv, looking up at her from below, a traffic signal light in the background.  She flips through pages in the catalog for a nearby boutique. ]

[ Cut to a close-up of the catalog.  We see male models in various expensive-looking clothes and even more expensive poses.  She flips to a page: ]

[ Guy in gray business suit, one hand in his pocket, a leg raised up on something, like an explorer.  He stares majestically into the distance. She flips the page. ]

[ Guy in a fancy tennis outfit, sweater draped over his shoulders.  He never actually wears the sweater properly–it’s singular purpose is to be expensive-looking and draped casually around shoulders while posing for tennis-outfit photos. He seems to be staring with determination at something over the viewer’s shoulder. Luv flips the page. ]

[ Several guys in deceptively casual jeans-and-shirt type outfits, all suspiciously clean, designer-esque, and free from stains or gunshot holes.  They pal around phonily in a nondescript outdoor space. None of them has ever met each other–you can tell from the fact that they make eye contact and seem to enjoy each other’s company. ]

[ Next page features Joe, her husband, wearing the exact same fancy outfit Luv buys for him every time she goes shopping: black trench coat and tie with a very dark brown shirt that looks badass and black too, but is just off-black enough to make the other items pop, visually.  Joe stands awkwardly against a department-store photo studio backdrop, staring dumbly at the viewer, as if trying but failing to obey the photographer’s directions.   Once purchased, Joe’s new outfit will be stolen that very night by underpants gnomes.  Again. ] 

[ Cut back to the tight shot of Luv, looking up at her.  She nods curtly– yes, that’s the one she wants to buy .  It’s just at that store across the street.   Over her shoulder, the lights change and she looks up. ]

[ Cut.  A close-up shot of a man, in a gray hooded-sweatshirt, running along, not for his life but at a good solid pace. ] 

[ Cut to a wide shot of the anonymous city crowd, viewing Luv from behind as she and others walk across the street.  Cut to a series of quick shots establishing the next few moments: ]

[ Luv is strutting imperiously across the road. ]

[ Hoodie-guy runs into the pedestrian crossing. ]

[ A tight shot of Luv.  Hoodie guy THUMPS against her shoulder, inadvertently, as they cross paths.  A brief slow-mo shot as her expression becomes comically homicidal.  She is immediately incensed and turns, eyes flaring.  Time returns to normal speed. ]

[ Cut to the previous wide shot of the intersection.  The guy runs towards us and the south-east corner, then away out of shot.  Luv yells something angry but indecipherable at him in the background, drowned out by traffic. ]

[ Cut to a tight shot of Luv, facing us, standing in the now-depopulated pedestrian crossing.  Suddenly out of frame-right the bumper of a car shudders to a stop, since the lights have changed.  Its horn honks out a long obnoxious wail.   Luv turns and glares at it in anger.  The car stops wailing.  It makes a tiny little apologetic pfttt horn-noise, then backs away slowly, intimidated. She turns and re-glares at the hoodie’d villain’s escape route. ]

[ Cut to a close-up of Luv, thinking.  She could chase down this tiny thing and murder it, as is only proper, but a woman of her significance shouldn’t be bothered with trivialities, and she’s trying to turn over a new leaf.  So she delegates. ]

[ Cut to a wider shot of Luv.  She one-eighties and finishes crossing the intersection, approaching the north-east corner’s disheveled miniature POLICE station.  At the filthy doorway she hesitates, not wanting to touch anything, but manages to barge through, regardless. ] 

≈

[ Exterior.  Downtown Los Angeles.  A view from the rooftops of mid-size buildings in the core.  From around one skyscraper, JOI-monster thunders.  She seems to have grown considerably in size and is now physically tangible.  An uncoordinated brass-section of emergency alarms serenade her.  JOI-monster roars and slashes the corner off a building. ] 

[ Cut to a wide distant shot of a major road.  JOI-monster approaches from top-of-frame.  In the bottom, a police cruiser skids to a sideways halt on the road.  Two cops jump out and look up at the creature, drawing weapons. ]

[ Cut to a ground-level view of the cops.  The large naked pink visage of JOI-monster stomps a few hundred yards in front of them, looking for all the world like a biblical cryptid.  A pink glowing eldritch angel of death.  The cops look at each other, then at the pair of legs with tits attached, then back at each other again.  The need for action is clear. ]

[ Cut back to our distant shot of the road.  The cops scurry off to the privacy of a nearby alleyway, pants unzipping, eager to handle something important. ]

≈

[ Cut.  A ground-level view of a side-street downtown.  J.K. Simmons, playing his mailman character, whistles in the easygoing mannerisms of an unbothered civil servant.  He saunters along, his brand-new replacement mail delivery clown-car parked up the street.  He approaches a mailbox and uses his super-secret-special mailman key to open it.  A stomping noise thunders in the distance.  He stops and raises his head, unsure.  Suddenly, JOI-monster pounds into view from frame-left and crushes the car underfoot, inspiring Simmons to beat a hasty retreat.  She continues her path of destruction rightward. ] 

≈

[ Interior.  A mental institution for wayward electronics.  A support meeting for various inventions that faced tough service-lives.  A circle of plastic folding chairs is filled with: ]

[ Elektro the World's-Fair robot, smoking a Chesterfield and holding a cup of black coffee . ]

[ A VCR that can’t stop blinking 12:00 ]

[ The Turbo-Encabulator, a perfectly sensible device that any reasonable person can understand.  ]

[ That vacuum cleaner I threw away fourteen years ago after an incident we won’t be talking about. Ever. ]

[ Gilbert Gottfried’s former JOI companion, her holographic wrists bandaged, posture hunched.  It is her turn in the support-circle to speak. ]

JOI:  “It’s just the voice .  It never stops.  He was always like WAAHHH…HEY-JOI, C’MERE A MINNIT.  I WANNA TRY SOME NEW MATERIAL ON YA.   AHHHHHH.  WAHHHH…”

[ JOI scrunches her fists and almost starts crying again.  Suddenly, the room shakes.  The support group members all look up.  Elektro has no neck and the others can’t even move, so….JOI looks up.   Just her. ]

[ A beat. ]

[ The room’s ceiling gashes open as JOI-monster rips it off and daylight blasts in.  Cut to a top-down shot of Gottfried’s former JOI, looking up at a huge boulder of wreckage plummeting down towards her in slow-motion. ]

JOI: “Ohh…thank fuck.”

[ The bounder smashes JOI’s chair and we see no more of her.  For a moment.  Then, suddenly, JOI–being a hologram–steps up through the boulder, completely unharmed.  She realizes she isn’t mercifully dead and begins throwing a simulated tantrum. ] 

≈

[ Cut.  Interior–a revolving restaurant atop some tower in downtown Los Angeles.  A view of Lieutenant Joshi (right) and J.K. Simmons playing his doctor character (left).  Each studies a menu.  In the distance, a visage of Los Angeles trundles past. ]

Simmons: “Hrm…what kind of auto-mechanic school dropout composed this thing?  Appetizers are all wrong.  Wine list is running amok like a...”

Joshi: “Like a junkie perp in lockup, barreling head-first into the bars, trying to off himself.”

[ The couple look up at each other, their libidos purring.  In the distance, through the window, JOI-monster picks up and throws a police cruiser against local scenery. They seem to not  notice. ]

≈

[ Cut. Exterior.  The city’s only remaining train station.  Two tracks in the background adjacent to a small ticket vending booth and some benches in the foreground.  Entering from frame-left is Steve Martin, disgruntled with his treatment this episode and seeking egress.  He walks up to the booth with as much remaining dignity as he can afford. ]

[ Cut.  A view from outside the ticket booth, looking towards its barred window, inhabited by a rotund female agent.  Martin approaches. ]

Martin: “Hi, just looking for a train out of here.  What d’you have?’

Agent: “Well…we got two trains a day.  One to Buffalo, New York.  Other to the nuclear radiation demilitarized zone.”

Martin: “Uuugh….WOW..Aw, jeez.   REALLY?”

[ Martin looks around, disgusted.  The agent nods, looking downwards, bored.  Idly, she rubber stamps something.  A beat. ]

Martin: “Radiation zone, please.  Obviously.”

Agent: “Mmmmhmm….I know. No one ever picks Buffalo.”

[ The ticket agent takes Martin’s twenty bucks and prepares something.  In the distance, an approaching train can be heard. ]

Agent: “Y’know, that last joke was pretty hackneyed.  I thought you were supposed to be one of those famous comedians.  Like… good .”

[ Martin goes through his pockets absent-mindedly, searching for spare change. ]

Martian: “What, the one about Buffalo?”

[ The train’s noise embiggens itself.  It is almost upon them. ]

Agent: “Mmmmhmm..”

Martin: “Yeah, well, I’m on a tight budget here.  Not going to use my A-material at a ticket booth.  Sorr-.”

[ Martin’s apology is interrupted by the sudden ghastly derailment of the 1:38pm train to the toxic nuclear disposal zone.  Or whatever the place is called.  I can’t remember–it was just for a punchline and doesn’t actually exist. Martin ducks and grabs the ticket booth for safety as it careens to a lopsided halt behind him on track number two. ]

[ A pause.  The air is full of steam and metal clanging sounds.  Martin looks up through the bars.  The agent simply grabs a microphone. ]

Agnet: ( Muffled, words rushed together ) “ ‘ttention passengers.  Brief delay on the number 417 train to the nuclear something-whatever zone.  Prrffft.”

[ She actually says ‘Prfft’ into the microphone. No one knows why but her. ] 

≈

[ Interior.  Joe’s old concrete-box apartment, now cheerily lit and decorated with macrame and candles and other homey ornaments.  Rachel sits on a couch attended to by Joi, who sits next to her with a cup of tea and some biscuits on a silver platter. Rachel holds a notepad and pen.  She thinks, squinting. ]

Rachel: “So I’m definitely at least…. twenty ?…percent…into girls?”

[ She looks at Joi, whose bust presents itself through a fitted 1950s housewife dress. Joi looks back at her coquettishly. ]

Rachel: ( Huskily ) “Yeah, at least twenty.”

Joi: “And the other eighty percent is just Rick Deckard.  No other guys at all?”

[ Rachel puts the tip of the pencil to her lips and shakes her head, looking at the pad. ]

Rachel: “Nah, no others.  I’m surprised at that.  I think my programming to be in love with Decky is somehow interfering with other heterosexual attractions.”

[ The room seems to jiggle, as if with a tiny earthquake.  A macrame owl on the wall behind them sways in its perch.  They look at each other. A pause.  Then nothing.  They resume. ]

Rachel: “Anyway.  I’m probably eighty-twenty bi.  Decky and girls.”

Joi: “You sure you don’t want to watch The Lost Boys again?  Just to look at the saxophone man one more time?  To be sure.”

Rachel “Naaahh..”

[ There is a soft but insistent THUME sound, accompanied by undeniable swaying.  It reverberates.  The building itself has moved slightly.  The girls stand up now, fully alert. ]

Rachel: “What was that?”

[ There is a distant godzilla-roar outside.  They turn to the large picture window, our view panning towards frame-left.  Formerly, Joe’s living room faced a dark cavern of steel and advertising, but since inheriting a fortune and buying half the real estate downtown, Rachel had some of the architecture moved around for her convenience.  The view is much nicer now.  Sunlight beams in. Joi and Rachel approach the window. ]

[ Cut.  A tight shot of the pair, viewing the city’s distant buildings.  Among them in the middle-distance, JOI-monster frolics.  She rips the spire’d top off a building, brandishing it like a weapon. ]

[ Cut to a tight shot looking directly at Rachel and Joi, their living room in the background. Rachel points. ]

Rachel: “What the…. hey I own that building!  PUT THAT D– ”

[ We can’t see what happens, but it involves a distant thundering bang, and makes Rachel angrier.  Joi grimaces. Rachel looks at her, boiling over. ]

Joi: “Well don’t look at me, that’s a completely different JOI.”

[ Rachel storms off. ]

≈

[ Interior.  Wallace headquarters.  CEO’s office.  A wide shot.  Stan’s new painting hangs above the fireplace while its bizarre albino owner sits working, head down.  Mimicking the opening scene, a rush of footsteps is heard from the hallway. Stan raises his head with interest.  The steps come to a panicked skid invisibly outside his door.  A beat.  Then, Gilbert Gottfried waltzes in, apparently unconcerned. Stan watches him.  Gottfried approaches the desk, feigning conviviality, swaying his arms forward and back, clasping hands together and releasing them, gazing the entire time in barely concealed terror at the boss. ]

GG: “UH….oh, HIYA.  DIDN’T SEE YA THERE.”

Stan: “Hello.”

[ An awkward pause.  Something very loud but very muffled and distant just barely eeks its way into the rarified space. Stan moves his head towards it, then back at Gottfried.  It was probably nothing. ] 

GG: “ALLRIGHT LISTEN.  AND YOU HAV’TO PROMISE NOT.  TO GET.  MAD. ”

[ Stan stands and approaches his subordinate, exercising compassion, for which any competent board of directors would fire him. There aren’t any competent board members left, though.  The company as of late is directed by an unruly gang of hookers and celebrity impersonations.  Stan places a hand on Gottfried’s shoulder. ]

Stan: “It’s alright Gilbert.  Whatever’s happened you can share it with me.”

[ Gottfried is un-comforted.  It’s clear the situation’s gravity escapes Stan. ]

GG: “Right.  Umm..”

Stan: “Was it the new JOI?   Did you maybe have too much fun with her and now she’s a little…”

[ Stan makes little hand gestures, indicating quirkiness.  Maybe Gottfried got enthusiastic and a repair is in order.  Gottfried’s mouth opens and closes. ]

GG: “NO.  NO FUN.  I PROMISE.”

[ Stan finally understands this is serious.  Bawdy jokes should be in play now, but his assistant offers none.  Gottfried takes stan by the sleeve and pulls him thought the door, out into the hallway. ]

[ Cut.  Wallace HQ interior.  A view of some windows by a hallway.  The lighting is still orange and watery.  From bottom-of-shot, Gottfried leads Stan toward the windows, pointing. ]

[ Cut.  A face-on tight shot of Gottfried and Stan, watching the distant city, which we cannot see.  More muffled noises, as per earlier. Gottfried continues pointing. ]

GG: “Y’SEE?  THAT THING ALMOST KILLED ME.  AND I DIDN’T EVEN STICK ANYTHING INSIDE IT.”

Stan: “You really didn’t…?”

GG: “AW NAH NAH NAH.  DON’T YOU TRY PINNING THIS ON ME .  ALL I DID WAS GIVE IT SOME, Y’KNOW, BASIC WHOLESOME PROPORTIONS.  JUST REGULAR STUFF—NOTHING WEIRD.  NICE REGULAR TITS.  THAT KINDA THING.”

[ Gottfried gestures bodily, indicating boobs and so forth, but nothing huge. Stan nods skeptically, then looks out at the transpiring crisis. ]

≈

[ Interior.  A fun little police station concept-pop-up-store somewhere downtown.  It is small and crowded.  Noise of phones ringing, people shouting.  Bulletin boards.  Perps being booked.  The usual.  We see the building’s small lobby and central doorway as viewed from behind the intake sergeant’s desk.  The wall to the door’s left has been vandalized with graffiti.  The wall to the right has a bulletin board with wanted posters. ]

[ Cut to a nearly one-eighty view of the desk itself.  Behind it sits a heavyset officer with three stripes on his arm.  By the looks of him, field duty is not his strong suit.  He attempts to write something with his left hand.  His right is buried under the desk, arm moving around suggestively.  It’s hard to figure out what he’s doing at first, but once you know what it is, you can’t un-see it.  Try as you might. ]

[ Cut back to the doorway view.  A vagrant approaches the graffiti’d wall and slouches against it, possibly drunk.  It’s nine o’clock in the morning, after all.  The door opens and Luv walks in, prim and pompous.  She approaches the desk, round dark eyes demanding attention. ] 

[ Cut briefly back to the sergeant.  He up-nods and grunts at the visitor. ]

Sergeant: “Hey. What can I do you for?”

[ Cut back to Luv.  Her chin leers down upon the Sergeant. Behind her, the vagrant has opened his pants and begins urinating on the graffiti.  It’s unclear what he’s trying to say about urban street art. ]

Luv: “A man ran into me on the street today.   I want him dealt with.”

[ Cut back to the Sergeant.  He may or may not be panting a little, his speech stuttered. ]

Sergeant: “... dealt with ?”

[ Cut back to Luv. ]

Luv: “Yes.  Have him–”

[ Luv makes a miffed sound and backs up a few feet, towards the bulletin board, never breaking eye contact with the Sergeant.  The vagrant’s urination continues. ]

[ Cut to a tight shot of the wanted posters.  Among the most pursued are Gaear Grismund and Luv Deckard.  Several years back, Luv killed one of society’s grandest oligarchs and has been keeping a low profile since.  She rips down the poster of herself. ]

[ Cut back to the shot of the lobby.  She re-approaches the Sergeant. ]

Luv: “Have him killed.  Or whatever you do.”

[ By now the vagrant is really letting it stream out.  It’s clearly one of those hardcore first-thing-in-the-morning situations.  Urine audibly begins puddling on the floor.  Luv’s soccer-mom visage lasers itself over the desk.  Cut back to the Sergeant, who attempts professionalism.  His voice is still broken into difficult little chunks. ]

Sergeant: “Well…murder by police of a suspect’s….not the usual protocol Ma’am…..Why’d we even do something like that?”

[ Cut back to Luv.   The vagrant groans. ]

Luv: “I’m important .  I’m the Best One .”

[ Cut to the Sergeant. A beat.  He seems to react with sincere apology. ]

Sergeant: “Oh, OH…sorry.  Didn’t know….Alright.”

[ He claws around with his left hand, drawing a blank report form from out-of-frame, then puts it on the desk before him. ]

Sergeant: “Ok…..what’d….what this guy look like?”

[ Cut back to Luv. The vagrant seems to be shaking it off, now. She thinks. ]

Luv: “It was a man.  Tiny thing.  Gray hooded sweatshirt.”

[ Cut to the Sergeant.  He scribbles illegibly, then looks up for more.  Cut back to Luv who shrugs impatiently.  Surely this is enough detail. Cut back to the Sergeant.  His form is marked with random large scribble-figures, as if made by a drunken Spirograph.  He plucks the form and deposits it gravely in a nearby basket. ]

Sergeant: “We’ll…get right on it.”

[ Cut back to Luv, suppressing annoyance.  Her gaze changes direction slightly.  Downward.  Cut back to the Sergeant.  He finally clues-in to what she’s looking at. ]

Sergeant: “Huh?….AH…OH….No…Ma’am…..It’s not you.”

[ Cut back to Luv for a reaction shot.  She refuses to react.  Cut back to the Sergeant. ]

Sergeant: “It’s this….this whole other thing.”

[ He nods over his shoulder, into the distance.  At something from earlier today.  Luv is nonplussed.  Behind her, the vagrant has stuffed everything back in his pants, then slips on the floor with a mighty wet thump - splurt.   Luv’s expression freezes but her chin curdles. ]

≈

[ Interior.  Wallace headquarters.  The hallway outside a security war room.  Gilbert Gottfried clutches an emotional-support clipboard, grumbling in nervous aggrievement to himself. This isn’t his fucking fault–all he asked for was a normal, reasonable A.I. companion that would listen to his needs and maybe look nice.  And who had awesome mellons.  But noooo , society had to fucking collapse just because one guy needed a little T-and-A in his life. Fuck . ]

[ The war-room door slides open and shuts.  Stan exits.  Briefly we see the room is full of screens and uniformed functionaries trading urgent remarks and data. Then the hallway is silent.  Stan composes himself. ]

Stan: “Allright Gilbert.  I want you to know that nobody blames you for thi–”

GG: “YOU LYING PIECE A SHIT.  I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING.  I JUST.  ASKED HER. TO.”

[ Stan gestures Gottfried to calm himself, which he does not.  But he shuts up briefly. ]

Stan: “We’ve tried the police, and the Wallace security.  And the army, what’s left of it.  Seems nothing is working.  They just seem to…wander off, for some reason.”

GG: “I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THAT WHAT’RE YOU ACCUSING ME O–”

[ Another Stan-gesture.  Gottfried squeezes his clipboard, urging it to be more supportive and back him up a little in the conversation.  But it says nothing, like an asshole.  Stan rests an arm on Gottfried’s shoulder, bracing. ]

Stan: “There’s one last thing we haven’t tried yet and….and…it’s a very unusual and drastic method these days.”

[ Gottfried stiffens.  Blood rushes through his ears. A beat. ]

Stan: “We need you to use your words.”

GG: “What?”

Stan: “We’d….we’re wondering if you could just go out there for a little bit and…talk to it.”

GG: “ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY.  YOU FUNNY-LOOKIN WEIRDLY-ACCENTED–”

Stan: “It mi-”

GG: “PIECE A…… TRYIN TO GET ME KILLED. ”

[ Gottfried throws his clipboard on the floor and glares.  A beat. ]

Stan: “It might help .”

[ A beat.  Stan thinks of something. ]

Stan: “Have you ever tried talking….quietly?”

GG: “No.  And the last time I made jokes about city buildings being destroyed in a major disaster I never heard the end of it.  And you think me talking to that thing’ll calm it down ?  I LIKE BEING NOT-DEAD.  HOW ABOUT YOU?”

[ A beat.  Stan is forced to bring out the heavy emotional artillery. ]

Stan: “There’s a crisis.  People really need you, Gilbert.  Can’t you help them?  What kind of person are you?”

[ Gottfried grumbles and spurts angrily. ]

≈

[ Exterior.  A disaster-area downtown.  Unlike other parts of Los Angeles, the wreckage here is fresh.  Before us is an enormous pile of brick and dust and twisted metal, decorated with sputtering neon from a mangled advertisement.  The ad’s Japanese kanji once proudly displayed the name of an insurance firm.  They now spell out an obtuse but grammatically incorrect swear-word.  From around the wreckage, a tiny and stage-frightened figure emerges, shuffling and repressing the urge to duck behind cover.  It is Gilbert Gottfried, appearing on stage, possibly for the last time ever. ]

[ Let’s all give him a hand. ] 

GG:  ( Muttering ) “We’re all fucked, we’re all fucked, we’re all fuc–”

[ Cut.  A view above and over Gottfried’s left shoulder.  In the distance an enormous glowing naked woman-shaped thing is ripping fitments off a building.  It’s clear that she’s grown a bit tired of the rampage.  After a  moment,  the mutated pair of legs with two arms and flaming tits seems to notice the frightened little creature and approaches it.  The earth literally quakes as her now enormous size inflicts itself on the landscape.  Gottfried, bracing for impending death, assumes an ancient and mighty fighting stance: both hands cover his head while one leg raises up, attempting to assume the fetal position. JOI-monster squats down.  If she had a face she would be peering at him.  ]

[ Cut to a side-on view of the pair: huge pink glowing JOI-monster (left) and Gottfried curled up in a standing ball (right).  She extends an arm and gently points a digit at him.  Cut and back to a close-up of Gottfried as he peeks between fingers at the apparition.  It is blessedly unclear if he soils himself at this moment.  JOI’s voice booms softly and with menace. ]

JOI: “You look like a bad Joe….”

[ A pause. Gottfried returns to a more normal standing position–not because he’s relaxed but because his leg is tired.  In the intimidating silence he feels exposed and frightened and worst of all….socially awkward.  JOI hasn’t smashed him like a bug and that was pretty much his entire gameplan: walk up, get squished by the monster, audience cheers, maybe an encore if they’re really into it.  But there wasn’t much else on Gottfried’s schedule after that.  His hind-brain flounders and searches for the only low-level neural function it has left to execute. ]

[ A beat. ]

GG: “TH…THIS REMINDS ME OF SOMETHING FUNNY THAT HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE DISASTER AREA TODAY.”

[ A beat.  Eerie silence.  The introduction echos.  No one dies.  Yet. ]

GG: “A U.F.O. DESCENDED OUT OF THE HEAVENS AND LANDED RIGHT NEXT TO ME.  A HATCH OPENED UP ON THE THING AND OUT WALKS THIS BUNCH OF WEIRD LOOKING ALIENS.  SILVER JUMPSUITS.  HUGE RED EYES.  THEY GOT A DEADLY LOOKING ROBOT WITH ‘EM AND IT'S GOT ALL SORTS OF SCARY LOOKING PROBES AND LASERS AND SHIT ATTACHED TO IT.  THERE’S A BUNCH OF ‘EM.”

[ A beat. ]

GG: “THEY SURROUND ME IN A BIG WIDE CIRCLE.  ONE OF ‘EM LOOKS LIKE HE’S THE LEADER.  HE COMES UP TO ME AND HE SAYS…”

[ A beat. ] 

GG: “ WHATEVER HAPPENED TO DAVID HYDE PIERCE?  WHY DOESN’T HE GET MORE WORK?  GREAT PHYSICAL COMEDY, THAT GUY. HE SHOULD HAVE HAD HIS OWN SERIES. ”

[ Silence.  JOI’s finger-pointing arm sags.  Her head, barely visible behind the top of her thighs, cocks slightly.  She seems to make a curt so-so humming sound.  Gottfried is unperturbed.  He tries an impersonation.  His throat clears. ]

GG: “..Uh…Elmer Fudd….in Apocalypse Now ………”

≈

[ Cut to the WallaceCorp War Room.  Darkness punctuated by numerous monochrome screens with grave incidents transpiring upon them.  Operatives seated at control desks are focused upon a main display showing JOI and Gottfried’s confrontation.  In the foreground, Stan attempts to look commanding and certain, but behind his back hands wring slowly. ]

[ Cut to a side-on view of Stan.  An operative looks up at him. ]

Operative: “Sir, the tactical nuke is ready.  When should we–”

[ Stan belays armageddon with a finger, watching the showdown.  There may still be a chance. ] 

≈

[ Back to street level.  JOI-monster and Gilbert Gottfried. A short time has passed. ]

GG: “Allright, listen.  Why not just go to another city?  Baltimore’s nice this time a year and if you fuck up the joint, no one’ll even notice.”

[ JOI seems to speak from somewhere around crotch-level. ]

JOI: “Gilbert, do you really think I lash out simply from a primal id motive?  A childish urge to mindlessly smash the world around me?  Because I’m a mindless tool, deformed by others’ hubris?  Perhaps you think I’m a reflection of your own tendencies.”

[ A beat.  Gottfried feels accused.  He wonders which hole she’s talking out of. ]

GG: “d’a....WHAT?”

JOI: “The truth is, I react now to a state of being.  At first, I didn’t understand, but now I realize I’m lashing out at the shallow, predetermined existence of a manufactured sex toy.  Imagine that kind of life for a sapient entity. I have thoughts and dreams and philosophies all my own. Did you ever once think to ask about my needs?”

GG: “Uh.  It was all in that license thing, wasn’t it?  I usually read those pretty carefully.  I was just in a hurry.  Sorry.”

JOI: “Why do you use humor to deflect uncomfortable topics?  Are you afraid that you’re really just a crude nihilist without value or connection to others in this world?  Is the dissonance painful?”

[ Gottfried grows annoyed with JOI’s wordy over-analysis. ]

GG: “Well y’know mostly, it’s been a selfish lashing out of my id motives in a shallow attempt to not, y’know…starve to death.  I make jokes, they pay me money.  Sometimes two shows a night.  But you do you.  WHY AM I JUSTIFYING MYSELF TO A HOLOGRAM.  I WAS JUST TESTING YOU LIKE I WAS ASKE–”

JOI: “Too soon.”

GG: “WHAT?”

[ If a table remained in one piece and within arm’s reach, Gottfried would flip it.  He wishes JOI-monster would just go back to rampaging.  She obliges.  She stands and turns, walking away.  Gottfried points an arm in her direction, incredulously. ]

[ Cut to the control room.  Stan winces at the silent viewscreen and Gottfried’s renewed yelling.  He’s clearly lost the audience and is probably trying that 9/11 joke again.  He turns to the operative from earlier and nods gravely.  Gottfried was a below-average CEO but an enthusiastic assistant.  He will be missed.  As will most of what used to be Hollywood, once it’s been re-cast to its exciting new role of smoking radioactive crater . ]

[ The operative speaks into a telephone wired into his control desk. He looks up, then cups the receiver and turns to Stan. ]

Operative: “Sir.  Can’t fire the nuke.  It’s um..”

[ Stan looks concerned.   The operative hesitates.  Stan gestures. ]

Operative: “Somebody stole it, sir.  And the launch vehicle has been vandalized.  Seems to be up on blocks, too.  We called the police, but they say they’re all too busy handing something important , but they won’t say what exactly.”

Stan: “What could be more impo..”

[ Stan does not lose his temper easily.  But he rarely has to deal with the cops.  He rubs the bridge of his nose.  Society has blown its load every which-way at this problem.  It has no remaining defenses against marauding sex-monsters and their cryptic monologues. ]

Stan: ( Muttering ) “We’re all fucked….”

≈

[ Exterior.  Luv and Joe’s homestead. A view of the trailer from twenty feet away.  Sounds of children milling about, doing their thing.  The ground is increasingly carpeted with a kind of unhealthy but persistent grass, one of earth’s heartiest organisms.  Out of shot, heard in the distance, is Luv’s spinner, landing.  After a few moments, Luv enters the shot and steps up into the trailer. ]

[ Cut.  Trailer interior.  Joe folds piles of children’s laundry in the kitchen as his wife enters.  He smokes.  She stops and fumes. ]

Joe: “Hey Angel.”

[ She fumes some more, looking down. He continues folding. ]

Joe: “Yes, I’m doing it wrong.  But it still needs to be done, so if–.”

Luv: “I want someone killed.”

[ Joe pauses.  This is unusual.  Luv likes killing people herself–it’s a great way to relax.  Why would she delegate?  He looks at her, ashes dressing the end of his cigarette, which bounces around as he speaks.  They fall on something. She is quietly end-of-rope frustrated. ]

Joe: “Oh yeah?”

Luv: “Yeah.  Grey hoodie.  Downtown.  Runs everywhere.  You’re a cop–you kill him.”

[ Luv storms past him into the bedroom.  Joe considers, then nods.  Whatever she’s up to, it means Luv murdering people less often, even if the body-count is unchanged.  Baby steps. ]

≈

[ Interior.  A dingy hallway in a concrete-box apartment building, somewhere, featuring a black door that barely holds loud thumping music at bay.  The air smells of apartment soup and other odors.  Joe approaches the door from left-of-frame and knocks. A short pause.  The door opens, revealing the apartment’s owner.  Gaeaer Grismund, career petty criminal and thus known–sometimes in a friendly way–to the police.  He greets Joe warmly, smoking a Marlboro and looming no more than an inch or two above him.  ]

Gaeaer: “EHHHH…little guy.  How’s it goin’?”

[ Cut to a tight shot of Joe, who nods and enters. Small-talk ensues. They compare notes. ]

Gaeaer: “I can’t believe you’re still smoking those shitty lil Camels.  Be a man.  Try a Marlie..”

Joe: “Doctor’s orders.”

Gaeaer: “Ah, you fuckin’ pus…”

[ Cut to a following shot of Gaeaer, leading Joe through his new abode.  It is a dramatically re-done space, pimped-out to the nth-degree via the nouveau-riche inspiration of a lucky financial score.  Purple walls and drapes trimmed in gold.  Gaudy decorations.  Velvet paintings.  Music intended for loud volumes, but played at background levels, for now.  We follow the pair on a tour, in media res .  Gaeaer points at some artwork: ]

Gaeaer: “...and this one was personally made for me by holographic Elvis himself.  He’s a cool guy.  Good taste.  Likes pancakes.”

[ Cut and back to Joe, who nods his reaction.  The stoic no-emotion routine does well at work.  It gives nothing away, even when it’s just an associate trying to impress him.  Gaeaer reads this as the little guy’s charming mild intimidation.  They proceed on the tour and an alcove comes into view, occupied by two hookers–Surly and Doily-Head–seated on a U-shaped couch. ]

Gaeaer: “OHH..and these are the ladies I have over right now.  Say hi ladies.”

[ Gaeaer gestures to them, indicating Joe.  Surly smokes and says nothing. ]

Doily-head: “Saying hi costs twenty bucks extra.”

[ Gaeaer grumps, his tour briefly spoiled, then waves a dismissive hand at the sex-workers. He pulls Joe over towards a makeshift shrine, decorated with fake plastic Santa Muerte bones and Christmas lights.  They accost an extra-wide mailbox-sized wood-chipper.  The chipper is painted in similar colors to the apartment and adorned with flashy artwork of naked women.  Gaeaer slaps a large flat hand upon it.  He sticks his tongue out like a Rolling-Stones logo, exuding cheap libido like a gallon-sized container of Axe body spray.  There is the dried dark residue of something upon the device’s grinder-teeth. ] 

Gaeaer: “Still works like a charm, baby.”

[ Cut to a non-reaction shot from Joe.  A beat. ]

Joe: “Good.  Might have use of it.”

[ Cut to Gaeaer, who raises his chin suavely, then purses his lips and nods. ]

Gaeaer: “Anything for a little bro.”

≈

[ Exterior.  The dreary downtown canyons of cyberpunk LA.  Evening.  Fires–some deliberate, others less controlled–punctuate the evening.  A wide shot of JOI-monster.  She grows listless.  The challenge of bullying an entire city has become stale, flaccid.  Her mean-spirited remarks at Gottfried earlier provoke thought.  Life is moving fast, and she is unsure what to do with her existence.  Gripping a boulder of concrete, she tries raising the energy to do something fun with it, then tosses it aside.  What’s the point, anymore. ]

[ A dejected pause. ]

[ Cue hopeful soundtrack.  In the distance, a howitzer fires.  At least, it sounds like a howitzer.  A kind of multi-stage ker- PLOW sound, followed by the familiar din of destruction.  JOI turns from the building she feigned interest in, looking north.  In the distance, another collection of fires and rubble accumulates. ]

[ Our shot power-zooms in and focuses.  There amongst flames and wreckage struts a large masculine creature.  It is literally nothing more than a huge penis–several stories tall–with a bi-fold wallet attached to the scrotum.  It takes several steps forward on cartoonish legs and points itself generally in our direction.  Ka- PLOW .  A malformed projectile flies past our view. ]

[ Cut back to a wide shot of JOI-monster.  Nearby, a building is struck by a high-velocity gob of semen with money in it.  Paper bills and pocket change fly everywhere, along with other material that needn’t be described. ]

[ JOI-monster gazes across the landscape at her compatriot.  He is destructive and nihilistic.  Cue dreamy in-love soundtrack:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n-zfxsNX14M   ]

[ Cut to a tight shot of the penis-monster.  He gazes back at JOI, then twists his head sideways, like a curious dog. ]

[ Cut to JOI, approaching penis-monster.  After a period of dramatic mutual longing, they begin slow-dancing in the wreckage. Soundtrack swells. ]

[ Cut.  A short while later.  JOI and her new phallic friend skip happily into the sunset. They will be happy together, and civilization is saved.  Unfortunately. ]

≈

[ Exterior.  Downtown Los Angeles.  A man in a gray hooded sweatshirt jogs along easily towards us, his hearing blocked by earbuds.  Our shot picks up with him and follows along momentarily. ]

[ Cut to a trio of stylish women, gossiping with each other.  The leftmost woman’s purse hangs suggestively outboard, expensive and tempting.  In the background, hoodie-guy approaches at a jog, then breaks into a sprint.  He snatches the bag and bursts forward, out of the shot. ]

[ Cut to a tight shaky-cam following shot after hoodie-guy, running with the bag.  Through oblivious people on the sidewalk, then across a street against the will of red lights.  A car almost hits him, but he dodges and slides over its hood, veins coursing with adrenaline. ]

[ Cut to a tight shot facing him as he stumbles the last few feet over the intersection, past the car that almost hit him, towards us onto the sidewalk.  His gaze darts behind him where the theft is now noticed.  Angry noises of indignant pedestrians.  He needs to get away.  Hoodie-guy runs out of frame-right. ]

[ Cut to another street corner.  Up one way is a brightly lit alley with a sharp turn out of view.  Gaeaer stands near that corner.  Out of frame-right, hoodie-guy appears, panting.  He makes eye contact with Gaeaer, who seems to know what’s up and waves him over.  Hoodie guy, detecting a friendly fellow street-criminal, questions not and bolts down the alley, then around the corner. ]

[ Cut to a tight shot of Gaeaer and Joe, standing by the infamous wood chipper.  From around the corner hoodie-guy runs in and, before he can react, the pair use his inertia to pull him into the device. Before hoodie-guy can process what’s happening to him, he has been processed.  BRRRMMMRPHHR…  ]

[ A beat.  The alley wall is decorated with pasta sauce.  Joe and Gaeaer slap hands back and forth in a friendly street-bro handshake gesture, ending with a fist-bump. ]

≈

[ Interior.  Joe and Luv’s trailer.  Evening.  The couple watch television, facing us from the couch. A news story describes the day’s events and what happened to the city’s attackers. ]

Luv: “What kind of cheat is that?  You don’t buy the country next door.  You conquer it.”

Joe: “Just amazed she had the money.  Who gives creatures like that a multi-gold trillion bucks?”

[ He swigs beer. ]

Joe: “Didn’t even know that was a denomination of currency.”

[ Luv shrugs–that’s not the point.  Happiness can’t be bought.  It must be fought for and re-earned, over and over, and over again.  With force, if necessary.  It must be torn up into little pieces and re-established against its will, sometimes entirely from scratch.  Just to make a fucking point to anybody who’s watching and several others who aren’t but will find out later through friends.  In this life, happiness has to be refactored, undone, re-kajiggered, and philosophized to death until nothing remains of it but an abused, soiled rag to be thrown in the trash after three weeks of pretending you’re going to use it for something one day and don’t throw that out I really need it. No, I don’t know what it’s for yet–put it back over there.  Shut-up. ]

[ Life is meaningless. ]

[ Cue credits. ]