writing down things nobody I could find gave shit enough about to do it before me (you may send your requests in ask and maybe ill do them; the more niche the better)
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āThose who open their eyes will see, those who listen will hear, those whose hearts are pure will join us.ā
āSermon from the Project at Edenās Gate
āļø
We needed a refuge away from the city and away from police harassment, a place where we could thrive and be protected from the terrible events to come.
So we unfolded a map of the country and searched for somewhere our community could call home.
We quickly turned to mountainous regions in the Northwest, secluded spots that were easy to defend. Many religious and survivalist communities set up camp there to flee prosecution and live on the fringes of society.
I examined the map closely, my eyes lingering over Montana - and thatās when I found it. The name appeared in tiny print, a name that I had never heard before, but which was extremely promising: Hope County.
Hope. The hope of giving birth to a new humanity, of creating a purer, fairer, more fraternal society from the ashes of the old. We would go to Hope County, where we would find our destiny. I knew it at the very core of my being. I pointed to the name and told my brothers that I knew where we were going. We set off a few days later, determined to spread our message along the way. Our mission was as much to recruit faithful followers and grow our family, as it was to reach our sanctuary. I couldnāt tell you about every single person who joined us over the course of our travels, for there were a great many of us by the time we reached Hope County.
If you listen to your heart and it is pure, you will join us. You will know us all, for you will harvest crops alongside us, you will train alongside us, and you will sing and pray alongside us. But I can tell you about a few of them - like our brother Matthew.
I was giving a sermon, as I later often would, in a supermarket parking lot. The security guard made movements to intercede, until he caught Jacobās eye. He must have done a quick comparison of the peanuts he earned and the potential risk involved, shrugged and chose instead to patrol the other end of the parking lot. It was a wise decision on his part.
Thus, with a simple microphone and speaker attached to the roof of our van, I delivered my message.
Most of the supermarketās customers walked by without listening. They were more concerned with their carts overflowing with purchases, half of which would probably go to waste. Maybe they would think back on this scene when the end times came. Which would haunt them more: not having listened to me, or the bygone days of abundance?
On that day, my words resonated with only one person. He was a very thin young man. He wasnāt grocery shopping, but looking for spare change that distracted customers might have dropped on the ground. At the time, the young man was named John Kennedy. People found his illustrious name hilarious, and he endured pitiless, mocking laughter because of it. Today, he goes by Mathew, and he is nothing like the man he once was. That man no longer exists. And soon, neither will the people who laughed at him. Nor will even the memory of presidents, kings, and prophets of yore.
But the man that Mathew once was had felt empty inside. He felt incomplete, but didnāt quite know what was missing. He felt filled with a fetid breath, as if he were nothing more than a balloon inflated by a chain-smoker. And as often happens in such cases, he pricked himself with needles to try to make himself pop faster. Because, the money that John Kennedy sought in grocery store parking lots, in trashcans, and in gutters, was money for a hit of heroin.
But that day, the young man no longer felt empty. On the contrary - for the first time - he felt fulfilled. The drugs he once took to forget his life gave way to the incomparable light of the revelation. He heard my message and understood it. He became Mathew, and he will be saved.
Like a few - very few - others.
Many have joined since then. I love them all equally. They have become new beings, freed from the burdens of their past, absolved of their sins. They are pure.
In their previous lives, they were homeless tramps and police officers with nothing in common. Today, they are farmers and soldiers, but above all, they are family, equals, all serving our grand plan under a fatherās benevolent eye.
We were also joined by Peter over the course of our trek. In a past life, he had been one of the most well-known geneticists in his field, but he had been kicked out of the medical association for conducting an experiment that proved fatal for a terminally ill patient.
It now seems so trivial to us, we who know that all of humanity has been sentenced to death - all but a handful of chosen ones of all ages and backgrounds.
Having become a pariah of Chicagoās high society, Peter tried to kill himself by crashing his car into a wall. Despite the impact, he was spared by providence - but a fire that began immediately after the crash left his face severely burned. After that, he emerged only at night, hidden beneath a scarf. When he answered my call, I asked him to reveal his face to all of us.
And we accepted him as he was.
As horrifying his scars were, they were nothing compared to the invisible wounds that many of the chosen ones in our large family had to live with.
Others followed. The larger we grew, the louder our voice became, like a choir whose volume swells as its membership grows.
We were the choir of an invincible army.
We soon became a veritable cortege, a caravan on its way to conquer the Wild West - only we werenāt driven by a gold rush, but rather by our faith. We found and fixed up some old school buses to transport those who didnāt have their own cars. We obtained tents and makeshift shelters. Wherever we went, good Samaritans let us camp in their fields, their yards, and sometimes in their houses. Some of them joined us; others did not. May they experience quick and painless death.
Soon, the police and even the FBI began circling us like vultures, and helicopter flybys, snapping photos of our convoy of chosen ones, became more frequent.
They arrested us and searched our vehicles more than once.
But they never found a thing.
We had our brother Luke to thank for that. Luke was probably the handiest man in all of America. With his own two hands, he built a weapons cache under the seats of one of our buses. The work was exquisite and undetectable. For additional security, Jacob spent most of his time sitting on it, and it was rare that someone dared ask him to get up.
We met Luke at a bar in Tennessee. Unfortunately for him, as was common among those who joined us, the feeling of emptiness in his heart had left him a shaky man. It was eight oāclock in the morning, and while we were drinking coffee, he was on his fifth beer. Despite all his talent, he had lost his job as a carpenter and become a permanent fixture at the bar. He spent his days drinking, a friendly barfly.
First he drank through his bank account, then his car, and finally his house. At least he didnāt have a family to drink through, like Old Man Seed had back in his day.
When I began my sermon at the bar, his glass of beer was half-full. He never finished his drink and hasnāt had a single sip since.
Such is the power of my message. Its mere breath rescues the flotsam and jetsam of humanity that society has condemned; the drug addicts and alcoholics whose futures have been shattered by war or by mistakes they have made. There is nobody I cannot save and offer a new life.
And when we finally arrived at our destination, there were hundreds of us.
āWe have left behind only illusions, families that were not our families in a world that was not our world. May that theatre of shadows burn.ā
āSermon from the Project at Edenās Gate
āļø
If he hadnāt uttered those words, I would have passed right by Jacob without recognizing him. There was nothing left of the child I had known, nor of the soldier I had seen in the photo.
In fact, there was nothing left of him at all.
I had found one brother full of rage, but I found the other completely hollow. Je Jacob I stumbled upon that day had become little more than a shadow.
John and I were able to take our brother with us without incident. No one even asked for documents proving we were related. The lives of the shelterās residents were worth less than a stamp, less than a simple photocopy. It helped that everyone wanted to believe in the miracle of a family reunited and for many at the shelter, it was the first time they had ever seen a happy ending.
Finding the Jacob we once knew took longer.
He had seen too much, done too much. Though still young, he had experienced more suffering and guilt than a man twice his age. He was weary. He needed to be reborn.
Day after day, I explained to him - as I had to John - the purpose of all his suffering. He was a natural soldier, but meaningless combat had crushed his spirit.
My spirit was the only one of any value.
I recounted to him what had been revealed to me. I told him about our crucial mission, the noblest of them all.
Slowly, Jacob came back to life.
He regained his strength and courage and, like his brother, swore to stand with me to the end. He was afraid of neither death nor the end of the world. He had already experienced both on a smaller scale.
The Seed blood flowed through his veins.
Today, Jacob acts as our protector. He selects the most determined of the chosen ones and trains them to become soldiers of our community. He teaches them weapons-handling and combat techniques. He teaches them to become merciless. Most are former military men. They understand the realities of combat. But this fight is different and they all know it.
Thus, the three brothers were reunited. And thus were reunited the first members of the last family of the world.
The time had come to recruit the righteous who would save humanity from annihilation. Thanks to John, we found a place where I could preach. A manufacturer loaned us a former slaughterhouse as a token of gratitude toward my brother. John had kept quiet about a murky case involving spoiled meat that had sickened an entire elementary school. Johnās assistance was well worth the red brick building, which the company didnāt know what to do with anyhow. The place still reeked of death and suffering of tens of thousands of animals slaughtered here.
But this didnāt bother me much. I was preaching about a massacre in any case. In the early days, not many people came to our temple. Perhaps it was the lingering stench of blood. Most of the time I preached to my brothers, and occasionally to a curious passer-by or tramp who came in for the warmth.
I wasnāt the only preacher in town - far from it.
The streets were full of people wearing signs and wielding megaphones, employees of multinationals of the apocalypse, faithlessly spouting sermons tested and approved in tall towers by the same men who decided what we should eat, how we should dress, and how we should think.
The world is full of crooked preachers, rip-off miracle-workers who live off the credulity of followers taken in by phony mystical trances, pseudo-miraculous healings, and ketchup covered stigmata.
We were surrounded by wealthy reverends boasting of their virtue only to be discovered later in the arms of prostitutes and corrupt pastors who hide in the shadows of their gods to commit their sins.
I donāt ask my followers for money. I donāt care if they are rich or poor. I am asking them for far more than their fortunes.
I am asking for their spirits and their lives.
I require them to sacrifice their own desires and give themselves over entirely to our grand plan.
If you want to live, this is the price you must pay.
I know that many will doubt me and that many will refuse to listen. We live in a cynical world surrounded by liars ready to slander that which they cannot understand. My message frightens them, and because they are not worthy, they prefer to mock me and treat me like a madman or a crook. I know that they will die soon, but I am afraid that their lives will scare away men and women who might otherwise join us and be saved.
Listen only to your heart and you will know where the truth lies.
Little by little, the pews of our temple began to fill up.
As I had always predicted, those who accepted my message were simple people who understood the abysmal darkness of the world and experienced it day after day. The chosen ones are recruited from among those that society calls losers. They will live, and the society of non-believers that condemned them will disappear, having denied its own collapse up until the last second.
Some came and went, others stayed.
Some were sincere, others less so.
Despite our grand plans, our community also attracted the envious, people who dreamed of power and wanted to exert their dominance. We sent them packing as soon as they were discovered. But one day, one of the schemers who dreamed of usurping me disappeared after we kicked him out. What became of him? We didnāt know. But his disappearance was a pretext for the authorities to come knocking.
They smelled blood.
The police found us and interrogated us. With no proof, they tried to accuse us surreptitiously of murdering the missing man. I explained that everyone in the world would die soon, so we had no interest in such despicable revenge. Everyone would die except those who joined me.
But rumors spread.
Rumors are a powerful weapon. They can condemn the innocent, destroy reputations, and vilify the virtuous. Even today, our enemies spread this poison among the feeble-minded. I donāt care about such slander or those who believe in it. Those people canāt be saved. They are the kind who obey the voice of their masters, who believe everything the newspapers and television say. They bow to authority. They will die without understanding; they will be told there is nothing to fear right until the bitter end.
Today, we have learned from our mistakes, and John ensures that those who join us have pure intentions.
But at the time, in order to save our community, we had no choice but to leave Rome.
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āLet us thank the Father who was chosen by the Voice, the brother who protects us from evil, and the brother who listens to our hearts.ā
āSermon from the Project at Edenās Gate
āļø
Two Seedās had been reunited. There was still one more, but at least I now had a man at my side whom no one could refuse anything. John Seed may have become himself again, but we still needed John Duncan, the man who opened doors. The government was as helpful to John as it had been unyielding to me. Everything from personal data to confidential files became accessible.
This made it fairly simple to retrace Jacobās steps.
We knew that when we were separated, when Jacob had deliberately set fire to the farm, he had been sent to a juvenile detention centre. Thanks to a senior official with a weakness for prostitutes, John quickly had the full report at his hands.
Jacob had been a bit of a troublemaker in juvie.
Rebellious and hostile to any figure of authority, he clashed with the correctional system. Despite this, some reports praised his sense of honor and his leadership skills. It seemed that the guards hated him, but his teachers believed in him.
Regardless, once he served out his sentence, he had the same prospects as the other juvenile delinquents: the army or life of crime.
Jacob enlisted in the Marines.
In his military file - given to John willingly by a high-ranking officer who had gotten mixed up in some shady arms dealing - was a photo of our brother.
He had grown into a broad-shouldered man. His eyes still burned with a wild light, just as they had when we were children, still had that same flicker of insolence that seemed to tell our father he could beat Jacob as much as he wished, but could never change him.
He wasnāt as handsome as John, but his features were smooth and balanced - the type of man you would follow to war without hesitation, the type of man you would put in a military recruitment poster.
But in the military, Jacob had done more than just march in parades. He had been on the front lines and done several tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. He had been wounded and decorated multiple times.
As soon as he was back on his feet, he would return to combat. This lasted until a medical report warned Jacobās superiors that he was a broken man.
He suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, the syndrome of those who have seen too much. The illness that is kept quiet.
Later, Jacob would tell us of what he had experienced over there, everything that the reports kept hidden.
He himself had driven one of the bulldozers that buried enemy soldiers alive in their sandy foxholes. He saw the hands sticking above the sand, still waving. He said they reminded him of a father who, during summers at the beach, lets his children cover him in sand with their buckets and shovels. The hands seemed to say, āStop, thatās enough. Itās time to go home. How, get this sand off of me!ā But Jacob didnāt. He didnāt bulldoze the sand away. Eventually, after a final tremor, the hands became still. It wasnāt his father under there, but he wouldnāt have dug him up even if it had been.
He had hundreds of memories like that one. They could surge up at any moment, tormenting him day and night. He cried out in his sleep.
He had seen many comrades die, most of them young men barely out of childhood, who only realized it wasnāt a game as they bled out in Jacobās arms. He himself had nearly died multiple times in merciless hand-to-hand combat. His face had been slashed by knives, his body shot with bullets, and there was still shrapnel buried in his scarred flesh.
He had killed soldiers; men like him who had brothers who wished to seek revenge in a never-ending cycle of violence.
But this macabre dance will one day end for lack of fighters. All will die, while only a few righteous survive.
Jacob had killed innocent people too. He had taken and lost palaces. He had pillaged, and he had shared his food with orphans. He had been a monster and, occasionally, a human being, in the service of the greed that guided those from whom he took his orders.
He knew instinctively that he was liberating nobody and nothing. He was merely accelerating a change in ownership, nothing more than a process server hastening an eviction, using bullets and grenades instead of rubber stamps.
After he was declared unfit for service, Jacob spent some time at a military hospital. Once his funds ran dry, he was simply tossed out into the street. Thatās the way used-up soldiers have always been treated. They are decorated with medals, then told to take a long walk off a short pier. Maybe thatās what all the medals are for; so that theyāll sink and drown, and blot out those faces that reveal the atrocities they were forced to commit.
The file ended there.
Jacob was nowhere to be found. His pension was untouched, he had no driverās license, filed for no public assistance, committed no crime.
Jacob no longer existed.
But I wouldnāt give up.
I knew that the site of our childhood pulled on the Seedās like a magnet. If Jacob was alive, he would be there.
I decided to visit every homeless shelter in Rome and the surrounding area, those meagre forms of assistance that society deigns to provide to its human sacrifices, whether they are national heroes or just out of work.
The shelters were indistinguishable from each other.
All were bare austere institutions, as wretched and out-of-the-way as the hospital where I had worked. Their residents were identical as well: same stooped posture, same grey faces marked by both excess and hardship, same lifeless gaze.
Any one of them might have known war.
All of them had been defeated, in any case.
I spoke with the volunteers who worked with these men and women. They told me about the fits and the yelling. They spoke of the theft, the fights that often broke out over a piece of bread or a spot near the heater.
Rich and poor alike are always vying for the best position. In the end, the only difference between them is that the poor steal things that are worthless.
Even worse, the drifters who came to the shelter brought with them only what was strictly necessary. If it wasnāt a chipped knife, a lighter, or some spare change that was stolen, it was an item of inestimable sentimental value. I was told a story about an old man who cried for a whole week over a glass marble - a kidās toy - that had disappeared from his pockets. I heard about a young woman who died of a broken heart after a dried flower pressed between two pages of an old book crumbled.
Everyone had some link to their past. If it wasnāt an object, it was a place that they revisited frequently, like the grave of a loved one, or a simple memory that they replayed in their head over and over.
Their world had crumbled around them, and yet they searched the rubble for something to keep as a talisman.
One day, in one of those shelters, I spied a silhouette on a cot. A man curled up in the fetal position facing the wall. He was agitated and mumbling in his sleep, seeming to call out. I only understood two words.
āThey judged you for your manners and they mocked your burns. Soon they will have no manners, for they will be nothing but burnsā
āSermon from the Project at Edenās Gate
āļø
This is my task: to spread my message and unite the members of my new family before the world collapses.
But before I gathered my children, I needed to reunite with my brothers. I decided to leave my miserable job to concentrate fully on finding John. At this point, I hadnāt made any headway despite all my efforts. Johnās face, which I would have recognized anywhere, didnāt appear in any high school yearbook in Georgia. It has also become clear that he must have changed his name.
But I had changed as well.
The weight of the revelation was not a burden - quite the contrary. A fog had lifted. My whole life - all my past sufferings - now made sense. I was being prepared for my destiny, the way ancient warriors were trained in combat from birth.
I could see this fact more clearly, once I had shrugged off the weight of my rage and resentment.
Why let this weight you down when everyone who has ever inflicted pain upon you will soon be reduced to nothingness? I was a new man. I took stock of the situation, suddenly aware that I had missed something in Rome; the radical change my childhood town had undergone was a sign in and of itself.
So I returned to Rome and began making the rounds at real estate agencies, which had sprouted up around the city the way weeds once had. I met friendly people who boasted of the neighbourhoodās safety and tranquillity and of the executives and reasonably avant-garde designers that lived in the area. Property prices had shot up three thousand percent since my childhood. I doubted that the former residents had seen a red cent of those steep gains in value. But I felt no anger, now that I knew that the ashes of executioners and victims alike would soon be mingled.
In the same smooth tones, I praised the boldness of the property development plans and asked who had initiated such a profitable venture. A major law firm was mentioned several times, the one responsible for the project.
The firm was housed in one of those arrogant skyscrapers, in a business centre like so many others around the world. There lay the centre of power: at the foot of those towers, businesspeople walked by at a clipped pace, phones glued to their ears, talking numbers - talking to themselves.
Here more than anywhere else, time was money. They were unaware that they had little time remaining, that all the money in the world couldnāt change this certitude.
All of them would die soon: only a handful would survive.
There was only one John working at the well-heeled firm, an associate with the last name of Duncan. The receptionist looked at me suspiciously from behind her marble desk as I entered the building and asked to see him. I pressed on: Joseph Seed needs to discuss a matter of the utmost importance with Mr. Duncan, and weāve previously met.
I was lying. I had never met John Duncan.
But I knew straight away that the man in the suit and tie who came out to greet me was indeed John Seed.
My brother.
He was shaken, but as a seasoned businessman, he maintained his composure until we entered his well-appointed office, where he fell into my arms.
He recounted the life he had lived since we had been separated at the orphanage. Between our biological parents and our first foster family, none of the Seed brothers had been spared. But for John, the worst was yet to come.
The Duncanās were rich, very rich in fact. But they were religious zealots of the worst sort. They psychologically tortured young John so effectively that he longed for the days of Old Man Seedās leather belt.
The Duncanās were obsessed with sin.
To them, a childās silence could only mean that he was thinking impure thoughts, every absence meant mischief, every movement meant temptation. They were convinced that Johnās soul was tainted and that it must be cleansed, purified by any means necessary.
Johnās childhood and teen years were no more than one long, elaborate exorcism. The Evil within him had to be exterminated. John was urged to confess his sins at all hours of the day and night, and he quickly came to understand that if he had nothing to confess, he should make something up. He played the game as best he could. He ratcheted up the shows of penitence, whipped himself, forced himself to kneel in the tiny, austere chapel the Duncanās had built and pray for entire days at a time. He became the joy of his foster parents, a saint in their eyes. When the Duncanās sent him off to a prestigious law school on the East Coast, they believed that they had succeeded in changing John Seed fundamentally.
In a way, they were right.
They had turned an innocent child into a monster skilled at concealment and full of suppressed anger. Thanks to the endless interrogations from his parents and a series of fundamentalist preachers, John had developed an extraordinary talent: He could show others the face that they wanted to see. In the eyes of his inquisitors, he had become a saint, a pure soul. To everyone else, he was a trustworthy man, a genuine friend and confidant.
Survival instinct had turned him into a chameleon, as heartless as he was shapeshifting.
As a result, people told him more secrets than they told their psychiatrists, parents or priests.
And they never lied.
The truths came pouring out, from the most innocent to the most sordid. Even the most distrusting of men couldnāt help but bare their souls to him. Where skilled torturers would have failed, John was able to obtain information with a simple smile. The President himself would have handed John the nuclear codes without hesitation. Maybe that was how humanity would end.
In any case, John had become the confessor.
He exploited his gift without remorse. He extricated secrets from anybody and everybody, sold information confided to him. He betrayed men whom no one suspected of beating and abusing their children behind closed doors. He had an extensive network of people under his control who granted him favors in return for his silence. Most of the time he didnāt even need to make threats - everyone already knew the score
John was good to them, yet he hated them all.
Physically, he was societyās very model of success. He was strikingly handsome, elegant, and wore tailored suits. His shoes alone cost more than the monthly income of each family that lived on our childhood street combined. His hair gleamed, his teeth shone, and his hands were manicured.
John graduated at the top of his class. The fact that he knew which professors were sleeping with which students may have had something to do with it.
He quickly became one of the fastest rising young lawyers in Atlanta. He rubbed elbows with the political and artistic elite and became acquainted with all the influential businessmen. When you consider where the three of us came from, his rise to success was nothing short of a miracle.
But John never spoke of his origins. He wasnāt here to affirm the American dream of social mobility.
He had paid out more than he would ever receive.
To the world, he was John Duncan, a man born to a well-to-do family who inherited a small fortune when his parents died.
To the world, he was a devoted son who mourned them with dignity at their funeral.
For he was adept at crocodile tears as well.
John was a man constantly in disguise, He wore silk ties the way undercover cops wear gang colors. He hated society. He knew better than anyone that its foundations were sunk deep into the swamps of poverty; that society could not flourish without a bedrock of abused children in the impoverished suburbs of cities like Rome, Atlanta, and elsewhere.
The fact that no one knew of his inner rage made him all the more dangerous.
He wanted to watch it all crumble; he wanted the world to burn.
Today, we know that it will burn, but in his heart of hearts, John always desired the apocalypse more than anyone.
When we were reunited, Johna even hated himself.
He detested his wretched childhood and his adulthood in equal measure. He was living a life straight out of a pulp fiction novel, addicted to sex and drugs, hosting trendy parties with famous actors, notorious gangsters, police officers, and federal judges in attendance, all of whom crossed paths in bed or around trays of cocaine.
Never had flies swarmed so enthusiastically to a spiderās lair.
His public face slowly began to overtake John Seed, a transformation that John Seed himself encouraged by destroying his past - starting where it all began: Rome, Georgia.
As I suspected, he had played a part in the developments of our old neighborhood.
He knew all the right people to make it happen. To make matters easier, the neighboursā crumbling shacks were worthless. Most were abandoned, all were mortgaged to the hilt, and their residents were in no position to refuse a windfall. In the worst-case scenario, if some stubborn resident refused to move, John knew a high-ranking city planner who had awkwardly confessed to being on the take. But it turned out to be unnecessary. No one in Rome had refused the offer of more money than they had ever seen in their lives.
Everything was razed to the ground.
When I told John of my recent revelation, I also explained how our past had been painful, yet necessary training. He had to accept it. As hard as it had been, it was nothing compared to what we would soon endure, on the first day of the end of the world.
The John that he showed to the world could give way to the real John. He could be himself again. All would be destroyed as he desired, for there were others who had reached the same conclusion that he had, that the world was not worthy of persisting.
On that day, John Seed happily killed off John Duncan and promised to follow me and help me, unwaveringly and undoubtingly, unto death if necessary.
I expected no less of him. I expect no less of all those who will join me.
For they alone will live.
Today, John is the confessor in our community. He makes each person new again, relieves our members of the burden of regrets and secrets, so they can be reborn, start over. He tests the sincerity of those who wish to join us. He ensures that their intentions are pure. Thanks to him, I know each member of our family is devoted, body and soul, to the grand plan that I must accomplish and that there are no informants among our ranks.
āForget everything you know, for everything you know will be destroyedā
āSermon from the Project at Edenās Gate
āļø
The facility was in a poor neighbourhood, in an area that was nearly deserted and made up mostly of warehouses. Those who lived near the hospital met most of the criteria for admission there and every encounter had the potential to turn ugly. One evening as I was heading into the hospital for a night shift, I had the bad luck to run into three men.
I had just barely passed them when they jumped me. I donāt remember what they took, but I will never forget what they gave me.
Doubtless disappointed by the lack of money in my pockets, they decided to make me pay for my poorness. Two of them grabbed me by the arms and the third began punching me. When he tired, they switched roles. They beat me with the unbearable contempt that the rich have for a servant. I was invisible to them, nothing more than a punching bag at a rundown gym. More than their blows, it was their disdain that broke me.
I was not able to physically fight off three opponents, so, as men often do, I turned inwards. I beseeched the Voice that had been silent for so long, accused it of having abandoned me after promising me a destiny, of having lied to me, and played with my innocence. I cursed it and insulted it - in my head. I had suffered so much for it since my childhood: our separation, the adoptive families, the miserable jobs, and the humiliation. I realised that the Voice had been the source of all my misfortune, pushing people away and narrowing my job options. It was all a cruel game.
But then the Voice answered me. The Voice broke Its silence and showed me.
And I saw.
I was no longer on a poorly lit street - the Voice picked that day to show me our future. The worst possible future.
The end of the world, complete collapse, call it what you will. Everything you know will soon be gone. Humanity has been condemned. It is inevitable, imminent, and terrible.
The Voice did not show me exactly how it all would end.
Humanity is incredibly imaginative when it comes to self-destruction. It could last the brief instant of an explosion or it could be slow and agonisingly painful. I could take the form of a century of resource depletion.
We have brought about so many catastrophes, created so many new threats. Our corruption is so deep that we have earned more than just one punishment. I hope the voice condemns each person to the ending he or she fears the most, to know that it would take back what it had given without pity in a final, multi-pronged curse. It was inspired by the cruelty of mankind, we who kill, lie, and steal what others hold most secret. No one is innocent. Each person will experience the end they dread.
May those who fear the atomic bomb watch as the world disappears in a succession of mushroom clouds that vaporise everything they hold dear.
May tribes in the Amazon forest see their serpent gods devour their families and villages.
May those who fear the volcano gods be consumed by red-hot ashes and lava.
May those who fear illness be struck down by epidemics with neither cure nor vaccine.
May sea peoples be drowned by waves so high they obscure the sky.
May ice peoples die of cold and desert peoples be burned by the flame of the sun.
May drug addicts die without their drug, alcoholics without their drink, and perverts without their perversions.
May scientists exhaust themselves along the worldās resources and eat each other before dying of hunger.
May those who pray to the stars disappear into the dark dust as asteroids crash into the Earth.
May believers see demons from their holy books rise up from the bowels of the earth or descend from the sky to vomit the ice and sulphur of their hells unto humanity.
This is what I desire from the bottom of my heart: to gather up the sum of all our fears, all our pain, and everything inflicted upon us. In light of what we committed, this punishment is just.
But the Voice also told me that humanity would not disappear entirely. Billions of people would die, yes. But some would be saved.
A few thousand pure souls, whose mission would be to start over and repopulate the earth.
This was our last chance and it was up to me, Joseph Seed, son of the most horrible man, bellhop at the most miserable hotel, garbage collector, and then a caretaker who could never care for anyone, chosen to take on the greatest responsibility ever shouldered by a man - the responsibility of selecting and leading the chosen ones who would save not only a people, but the entire human race. I was only a son, but I had become a Father.
A Father who had to gather his children, and it was essential for two of them to be Jacob and John. To fulfil our destiny, the brothers had to be reunited. Then the Voice went silent and I suddenly was back on the street.
The man beating me stopped with his fist mid-air. He gave me a strange look. In turn, I gazed back at him curiously. I felt no physical pain, no anger. I now had a very clear mission to fulfil. The man told the others it was enough, that I looked like a martyr thrown to the lions. He felt like he had done me a favor by hitting me, and it gave him the creeps.
He was the ringleader so the others obeyed him begrudgingly, like children who just had their toy taken away.
When I arrived at the hospital, my shirt was covered in dried blood. One eye was swollen shut and one rib had been broken, making it painful to breathe.
But I was a new man.
The on-call nurses treated my wounds while they complained about safety issues and layoffs, which also affected the police. Then they moved on to unmanageable shift schedules, insurance, overtime compensation, and broken-down coffee machines. They had completely forgotten Joseph Seed, just another poor guy down on his luck.
When they finally remembered I was there, they concluded by saying that the world was going to the dogs and that it would all end very badly.
I couldnāt disagree.
That day, I also understood that the Voice had spoken to me for the last time. There was nothing more to say. Everything was in my hands. I would never again doubt my destiny. I was ready. The beating I had received from those three thugs - who would soon be nothing more than dust - was my coronation, my anointment. The Father was revealed.
Those who want to live must follow the voice of the Father, the voice of Joseph Seed.
āDo not be afraid to punish those who bar your path to the original paradise. Worry not about the justice of mankind. For theirs is the justice of the guilty and the dead.ā
āSermon from the Project at Edenās Gate
āļø
I remembered Jacob as a child. More than anything else, he loved nature and the forests, and only felt comfortable in the outdoors.
I could not see him living in Atlanta, or any other city for that matter, so I decided to look for him in northern Georgia. I visited every small town along the vast Chattahoochee forest. Day after day, I followed the narrow roads and lanes that sometimes led to woodcutter shacks but more often led to clearings with not a soul in sight. I asked everyone I met whether they knew anyone named Seed, or even Jacob.
There were plenty of Jacobs, but no Seeds.
I would return exhausted from my meanderings, covered in sawdust and insect bites. I expanded my search further north, into Tennessee. I went into every bar, every store. Sometimes I would find a job if they were hiring. Storekeeper, dishwasher, gas station attendant - the type of work didnāt matter.
But still no Jacob.
In despair, I decided to look for John. He had been adopted by a rich family at the time of our separation and I thought he might have gone to college. Unlike his brother, he would enjoy the city.
It was no more ridiculous to search through the wilds of a city than through a forest. So I went to the capital, Atlanta, a place that was likely to attract smart, ambitious young people.
I had never set foot in a large city before, but I was no longer a child and I had already seen too much in my life to be impressed by much. The backdrop may have changed, but people were the same everywhere. Whether in Rome, Georgia, along the banks of the Ganges River, or beneath the shadow of the Pyramids, the same drama of lies and desire played out around the world. I knew that inside those ostentatious skyscrapers, proud men dreamed of moving ever higher and expanding their dominion over us pathetic ants below. I knew they sometimes amused themselves by watching our wretched lives through binoculars, like cruel, selfish children, that they would love nothing more than to crush us, to make magnifying glasses large enough to burn us alive. To them, we were nothing but numbers, statistics, and growth curves.
Soon, those arrogant towers would crumble and their lords would be dying under their ruins.
I began by looking for a place to sleep and a place to work. I didnāt need much. I sought neither physical comfort nor professional success, only my brothers.
Once again, I squatted in an abandoned building that awaited the whim of city planners who couldnāt decide between restoring it or knocking it down. I found a job as a garbage collector. I was assigned to Atlantaās nice neighbourhoods. Our routes began very early in the morning. Rich people donāt like seeing garbage trucks, donāt want to see the people who carry away their trash, and donāt like the way the garbage or the workers smell.
Sometimes I met locals with shiny trashcans that were cleaner than any car in the Rome of my childhood. They would look at me strangely, like an anomaly. Why is this man, who looks so much like me, working in such a lowly job?
They did not like anything that disturbed their world. Soon, they will have no world at all.
But this schedule suited me. I could spend every afternoon studying at the library. Plus, the houses were charming, the streets were tree-lined and welcoming, and the roads were nicely paved. Even the songbirds seemed livelier and in better health than in the Rome of my childhood. As I recalled, the birds of these times were grey and sang as if they had smoked their entire lives.
I discovered what people threw away when they owned everything.
I discovered that there was as much to be learned from observing what people threw out as from what they kept and cherished.
I learned that the rich arenāt as prudish as the poor.
I learned that the habits of the richest of the rich evolve, and others imitate them, from where their salmon is caught to what brand of toilet paper they buy.
At least we never found dead homeless people or drug addicts in the dumpsters, as sometimes happened in less-affluent neighbourhoods.
Two or three of us would stand at the back of the garbage truck and chat. My co-workers talked about their sexual exploits, and their dreams. I talked about the Voice. After a while, they got tired of my talk and complained, and once again, I was fired.
I must confess that after that, I went through a period of depression. After all, the Voice had only spoken to me once and I had been so young. A single, enigmatic message had promised our miserable brotherhood an extraordinary destiny. But in reality, I had completely failed to find my brothers or keep a single job, no matter how pitiful. Though every day my heart told me to believe, now and again the serpent of doubt would creep into me.
But I did not give up and soon found a job at a psychiatric hospital. This was an old dilapidated building where poor people were committed. It was for those who did not have insurance or jobs.
The poor fools.
Inside, the paint was flaking off the walls, the rusty bedframes squeaked horribly, and the place was understaffed. But at least the thick walls prevented the wailing and screaming from being heard outside. We were not there to heal, but to keep the patients from bothering the rest of the world. And so, they were given copious amounts of drugs to quiet their illness and sedate them. For some residents, their daily dose looked like a bowl of childrenās cereal: multi-colored and full to the brim.
I suspect there were other, much more luxurious places of the rich schizophrenics and psychopaths, places with manicured gardens, thick carpets, and private rooms that were completely secluded. Surely, those institutions would not be called psychiatric hospitals, but rather wellness centres or rest homes. Even euphemisms come with a price tag. I wondered if they despised the poor who shared their mental troubles or if they formed strong family bonds regardless of the money.
To my great surprise, I discovered that most of the residents were less unhinged than those on the outside. They were simply a nuisance: less prone to silence, incapable of hiding their quirks, or understanding that some things you keep to yourself instead of sharing with the world. For the most part, their only problems revolved around etiquette and proper behavior. Their main illness was not being able to accept the worldās hypocritical rules and so society had created a prison to keep them hidden.
All the residents were extremely sensitive, and nearly all of them could sense that I was different. Some were fascinated, others frightened. They were worn out by life, beaten down in one way or another. Even then, I knew that those who would answer my call could only be those exposed to suffering and rejection: The pure souls would be found among the wounded, veterans of the endless war society waged.
The hospitalās doctors were not among them. Far from it. They protected society and acted as a buffer for it. They would never shout in the streets or leave their house stark naked. They would never muitate themselves in order to offer up a piece of their body to a loved one. They would never even miss a dinner without apologising, attend church without a tie, or watch a military parade go by without removing their hat. They would never be able to understand my message.
āThey command you not to kill, not to steal. Do you think they are doing it to save your soul? No. They could not care less about your soul or your life. Killing, stealing - they just want to be the only ones allowed to do those thingsā
āSermon from the Project at Edenās Gate
āļø
One night, Jacob woke John and me. Without a word, he led us out of the barn and began pouring gasoline on everything inside it. Then, he set it on fire.
After that, he freed the animals and burned the stables as well. As the flames rose higher, the light, the crackling, and the cries of the animals woke up our guardians. They ran outside in a panic, still wearing their pajamas.
By then, Jacob had swapped his cans of gas for a sturdy axe handle. He knocked out the still drowsy man with a few blows. He was left lying on the ground, face bloodied, illuminated by the flames, his wife screaming in terror while we watched the sight without the slightest feeling of pity.
We had been lied to. Now there was no chance that we would call them Mom and Dad.
Jacob also burned the house, the cars, and everything our guardians owned. When there was nothing left to burn, we sat on the ground and watched the fire consume and purify the place where we had endured so much suffering, like scouts watching a campfire.
And so we confirmed the suspicions of the psychiatrists who had examined us the first time: the Seed brothers were dangerous. They had a tinted and nefarious bloodline. What did it matter that we had been humiliated, exploited, and starved? The rest of humanity was not satisfied. Who were we to dare to rebel? We had to be stopped. We needed to be separated, urgently.
The authorities placed Jacob in a Juvenile detention centre, which could be more accurately described as a prison for minors. He left between the arms of two police officers, like a guilty man, like our father. But before he did, he reassured us, promised us, that we would be reunited soon and that we would never leave each other again.
He told us everything was going to be ok. He couldnāt have been more wrong.
For John and me, still at the orphanage, it was time to get back on the adoption merry-go-round. We were visited by infertile couples, by people who were bored but too allergic to get a dog, by those who wanted to save their souls by doing a good deed; we saw anyone who wanted to adopt a child, whether or not they had good intentions.
John was the first to go. He was the best looking, the least odd. He was adopted by a rich family who, I imagined, lived in luxury in Atlanta or one of those gated communities we had never set foot on.
As for me, I was picked a few times with varying results. Once, and only once, I ignored the psychiatristās advice and talked about the Voice. I was immediately sent back to the orphanage, the same way you return a defective household appliance. I think they were hoping I was still under warranty and they could quickly exchange me for a more normal child, free of charge. But most families who welcomed me in, treated me well. They were brave people who almost made me forget that my brothers were far away.
I hope they do not suffer when the end comes.
Of course, I came across many other children during these years: temporary siblings, classmates, teammates, and the like. I had a hard time connecting with them. I was different. I could feel it.
Everyone saw me as the odd one out, secretive, a lonely orphan. Teachers and professors worried about me spending so much time on my own. They did not know I wasnāt alone. The Voiceās message was on a constant loop in my head, promising me an extraordinary destiny.
And so, I went from family to family, year after year. When I became a man, and was free to travel wherever I liked, I returned to Rome with the intention of finding my two brothers.
I had not heard anything from them. We had not seen, called, or written each other. I knew that the government would not help me. They did not have the right and no one would make the smallest effort for the brothers to find each other. But I did not doubt that we would be reunited. That was our destiny. I returned to our neighbourhood, looking for our street, our house. But neither the house nor the street were there any longer.
Instead, there was a shopping centre. One fine morning, someone had decided that our suburb needed to become both respectable and profitable. And to do so, the rabble had to be pushed out and their hovels razed. Someone had simply thrown a dart at the map and thus sealed the fate of dozens of families.
Because, when the rich move in, the poor get kicked out. Where the Seed house once stood, there was now a fancy pet store with a frame marker and an overpriced barbershop onside.
The neighbourhood was unrecognizable. Back then, people threw rocks at stray dogs and shaved in broken bits of mirrors, and the most valued skill was knowing how to avoid having your beagle possessions seized by the repo man or a collection agency.
The local residents had also radically changed. They now had jobs and cars, houses with manicured gardens and happy children. They didnāt need to borrow money to pay their bills.
I would find no answers here, in this place where I no longer belonged. I left before any of the residents, casting suspicious glances my way, could call the police.
I began squatting in a part of town that looked more like where I began squatting in a part of town that looked more like where I had grown up. It was an old packing plant, unused since its production line was relocated elsewhere.
I no longer needed to worry where I was going to sleep, but I didnāt have anything to eat. I was a well-presented and polite young man, so it was easy for me to find a job as an elevator operator at a hotel.
It was a night job paying minimum wage, but my needs were few and I wanted to keep some of my time free, to search for leads on my brothers. It was a win-win.
My duties consisted of asking people who got in the elevator what floor they wanted and pressing the right button. That was it.
I suppose it must have been reassuring for customers to see a man dressed like an organ grinderās monkey paid to press a button for them.
One night, after several uneventful months, three drunk men wearing tuxedos entered the elevator. Alcohol had made two of them extremely chatty, clouding their better judgement, which usually prohibited them from talking to the hired help. The third man was blind drunk, and I had to help the other two get him back to his suite. They offered to buy me a drink as thanks, but I declined.
They asked if drinking was against my religion. I said no. They asked what religion I belonged to. I said I didnāt know, but that the Voice spoke to me. They didnāt say anything in response, but notified the hotel manager the next morning.
He called me into his office and fired me on the spot. As easy as pressing a button.
I took it as a sign: I need to refocus my energy on finding my brothers as quickly as possible.
I searched the archives and newspapers. I flipped through yearbooks, scanning all the faces in the pictures of dances and sporting events until my eyes watered, but I never spotted the name Seed or the familiar faces of my two brothers.
While frequenting the city's libraries, where I had become a regular fixture, I grew interested in religion. In spite of myself, I still sought to understand why the Voice had chosen to speak to me.Ā
Living in a society where people who wore the wrong brand of shoes or who hadnāt read the right books were openly disdained, how could I understand why the Voice had chosen to speak to the middle child of a poor family from the South?
Society is harsh and insidious; it keeps us from living just as it keeps us from rising. Society needs to disappear.
I read everything I could get my hands on. I discovered something about those who took a vow of silence, who danced to exhaustion, who lived in caves as hermits their entire lives; those who fasted,vowed celibacy, prayed non-stop, ingested hallucinogenic plants to speak to spirits in the afterlife, flagellated themselves in the name of their God. All of them had the same goal in mind: They were begging for something to fill the emptiness inside them.
These people know they are missing something, something that cannot be found in this world, at least not in the world as it is today. They are the most sensitive people in society, the most tormented, the most radical, and also the craziest. It is from these people that saints, martyrs and chosen ones are selected.
I knew that when the time came, I would have to choose from among these same people to share my destiny
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āThey may be united by blood or joined by fortune, but they cannot claim to be a family. For the only legitimate family, the only one spared from evil, is the family of those who serve the Fatherā
āSermon from the Project at Edenās Gate
āļø
While my father was whipping me with his old leather belt that June, the Voice didnāt just order me to hold back my brother Jacob.
It proclaimed that we three - Jacob, John, and me - had been chosen to achieve Its destiny. And to give Humanity one last chance.
Not for a moment did I doubt that I was hearing the Creator in my head. It was much more than just a voice. It was, and still is, a presence that envelops me and warms me to my core, a language that every cell in my body understands, one which I am spreading far and wide to try to convince the pure of heart to join our family.
Nothing can stop me, because this is the mission I have been assigned and nothing can contradict me, for I am the messenger.
That night, I spoke to Jacob in the tiny bedroom we shared. I managed to convince him not to confront our father. Later, he would recount how my eyes shone feverishly in the dark and how my faith had stayed his hand. I was no longer his quiet, timid little brother. The Voice had transformed me.
I had awakened.
As it was, our father never did hit us again: a few days later, two cars, one from the police and another from social services, pulled up in front of our house.
Teachers at Johnās school had noticed the belt marks crisscrossing his back and immediately called child protective services, who had been forced to send officials all the way out to Rome to investigate.
They examined us. The scars on our backs told the same story three times over.
We climbed into their car.
I looked back at our house through the car window for the last time, then at the neighbourās yard. Amid the brush, I spottedĀ the familiar shape of a rusty lawnmower that had been there as long as we could remember. It sat as a testament to a bygone era when we still cared about such things - a time when the lawnmower was still manicured, when we hosted barbecues and gave to those less fortunate than us - because there were such people.
All that was in the past now.
Soon there would be nothing, because the world I knew was going to disappear, but I didnāt know that yet.
I never saw my father again.
He got into the police car along with my mother.
The officersā desire to mete out punishment on their own was palpable. I imagine they did that later, somewhere where we couldnāt see. We had seen enough as it was.
My father died in federal prison in Atlanta towards the end of his sentence. Many years later, when I started preaching, I ran across a former prisoner who remembered Old Mad Seed, as he was known then. The ex-prisoner told me that he had died in prison after failing down a set of stairs. Was it really an accident? Itās hard to say. But I remember that my fatherās sermons could be very annoying.
I do not miss my mother. She was already a ghost when we all lived under the same roof. Today she must be haunting some institution, doubtless glad to be far from the man who erased her life. She might already be dead. She will be soon anyways, like the others.
We went to an orphanage at first, where doctors and psychologists examined us. I quickly understood that it had little to do with caring. This was more about determining the amount of mistreatment that we had suffered than it was about healing our wounds. Our suffering might make us violent and poorly adapted. We might present a threat to society. And that was to be avoided at all cost.
They gave me a rag doll and asked me to point to where he had touched me, but I was one of the rare children in the orphanage who was lucky enough to have been only beaten.
They placed ink blots in front of me and asked me what I saw. I saw butterflies, dancers, squashed animals, black swans, skulls, dwarfs, and a little girl with pigtails whose stomach had been opened up. All of that was perfectly normal.
And I talked about what the Voice had told me.
The men in white coats talked to me about imaginary friends, post-traumatic stress disorder, subconscious defence mechanism, transient schizophrenia, and emotional scars - none of which I understood.
I understood only one thing: that I had been chosen.
Throwing up their hands, they finally told me to keep my mouth shut about the things I was hearing if I ever wanted to find a family before the age at which I and the voice in my head could be thrown out on the street.
I decided to keep quiet.
Several months later, social services placed all three of us with a childless couple who lived in a small town not far from Rome. As soon as we were in the car, winding down the small dirt roads to our guardiansā house - who the social worker told us not to hesitate to call Mom and Dad - they started talking to us about our new start, our new life. We were promised love and fresh air. We dreamed about pies cooling on the window still, laughter under thick blankets. We imagined ourselves putting up fences, pushing a mower across the lawn in front of a white-painted house. We thought that we would grow up in loving hands. We thought we were living a TV show.
But what was awaiting us was even worse than our parents. This couple did not want children - they wanted free labor.
They treated us like livestock. We worked before and after school until we fell asleep, without a single day to rest. We took care of the animals and the garden. We cooked meals, cleaned the house, and did the laundry for our guardians, or rather, our owners.
We could not complain. We did not even think of trying. The adult world was too hostile towards us. We had to handle it on our own. We were child laborers shackled to their workbench, child soldiers on the front line, more despised than beggars and day laborers one searches for on the other side of the border, in slave markets by another name.
We slept in a barn and were only fed because otherwise we would not have the energy to work.
Today, I know that was a test we had to undergo to harden us and prepare us for the heavy task awaiting us. To help us understand how this world is flawed, how it deserves to disappear.
We suffered daily, beaten down, but we also became more resilient, stronger.
āThey quote prophets who were born slaves. They sing praises of saviours born of the people. But in their arrogance, they will never understand that the messenger is not of their casteā
āSermon from the Project at Edenās Gate
āļø
When the voice spoke to me, it had been a long time since Iād heard anything comforting.
Father had just taken me and Jacob out of school to homeschool us himself. He meant to pass on knowledge more faithful to his convictions, away from evil influences, as he proclaimed to anyone who would listen.
Which was no one.
I no longer had the stories our teachers innocently recounted of the adventures of pious, tightknit, loving families of pioneers who conquered the country by braving all sorts of dangers. If those pioneers had known what would become of their dreams, they most likely would have chosen not to brave anything at all and to slaughter their oxen and burn their covered wagons. But home-schooling was quite common and perfectly legal in the state of Georgia as long as one of the parents could read and write. Father met both of these criteria. The fact that he was an alcoholic who beat us simply did not concern the authorities.
As for the neighbours, they were too busy with their own problems to worry about the fate of Old Man Seedās boys.
It wasnāt that they were heartless - on the contrary, they were good people. But despite their kind nature, they had been hardened by misery. In our town, everyone worked the same job - collecting unemployment.
We lived off a patchwork of welfare, food stamps, charity, and soup kitchens funded by rich liberals from wealthy suburbs, paid for to buy themselves a conscience or so they could brag about it at the dinners they threw at hip Atlanta restaurants.
In these parts, everyone had their own cross to bear. Some had more than one, and the worst off had enough to fill a cemetery. Thus, we were alone with our problems, just us, members of a family descended from pioneers who failed to conquer anything but vast nothingness and gained only the right to settle their misery in one place.
Amid this emptiness, my sole source of joy was running to the corner gas station at the very end of our street. Our mother would send us there to buy - often on credit - the hot dogs and frozen pizza that formed the bulk of our diet. And whiskey, of course, for our father.
The owner was a good man at heart who let me skim through the magazines next to the register, without a word. I would sit alone in a corner, enjoying the cool breeze of the noisy air conditioner and the sound of the radio playing over worn-out speakers. I read and the world disappeared. Sometimes heād give me a soda, for no reason, without asking for anything in return, as if he werenāt from around here.
Later, when I began founding my community and gathering believers, I decided to give him a visit and bring him the message I bore.
I wanted to save him the way he had saved me.
Thatās when I learned he had been shot years earlier in a robbery committed by people who couldnāt have been from the neighborhood - everyone in town knew that the contents of his cash drawer werenāt worth three .38 bullets.
May he rest in peace. At least he wonāt be around for the horror of the end of times.
Why did the Voice choose to speak to me on that day in particular?
I believe itās because recently my brother Jacob had begun to clash with our father more and more.
We were separated by more than just age. He was also bolder. He was the first one to jump into the polluted reservoirs, the quickest to go adventuring in other neighbourhoods, despite the bands of kids who marked it as their exclusive territory.
He was also the one who pinched candy whenever possible, at the risk of severe punishment, just so we could have a bit of sweetness and comfort in our lives. He was surely a thief, but I came to admire him as a modern day Robin Hood, with a forest of broken down houses, cracked roads, and overgrown gardens.
We were accustomed to our fatherās mood swings, the stench of alcohol on his breath, his maniacal sermons. We were even used to his smacks and kicks, to the lashes of his belt.
But he had started beating our little brother, John.
Jacob was strong and determined, and I was somehow able to retreat deep within myself during whippings. But John was young and so delicate.
It tortured Jacob to see him cry and howl after being beaten. And the anger Jacob felt mutated into a fierce hate.
Our motherās lethargy only made things worse. She glided through the house, listlessly, always wearing the same nightgown. She had never been anything more than a ghost to us, of no help whatsoever, possibly doomed to derangement for all eternity, having been crushed by her marriage to a man who spoke like a saint but acted like a demon.
Violence seeped into the cracks between the father and his oldest son.
We certainly didnāt lack examples. Violence filled our neighbourhood. Robberies, fights, drug deals, domestic violence - what kids from nice neighbourhoods saw on TV, we saw from the windows. The full range of misery, and its faithful companion, crime, was everywhere we looked. We had all the inspiration we needed. Violence had become so normal that when we went to bed, Jacob talked shamelessly with us about the various strategies he had come up with for getting rid of our father. Maybe he was only plotting and dreaming out loud, like mistreated employees who think about revenge after a few drinks. Nonetheless, I understood that I needed to talk to Jacob and hold him back. We could lie and steal and be forgiven, but could not raise a hand against our father.
For behold, this is the greatest of all sins - the ultimate, unforgivable sin.
Why, then, did the Voice speak to me and not my brother?
I have often asked myself this question.
I have never truly understood, never received a response. I was no better or worse than any of the other children.
Maybe it was just that I was available, in the right place at the right time to hear the Voice.
In time, I stopped asking all these questions and accepted that I was the messenger as I had accepted the message. I spread the message, tirelessly exalting the souls, like the crackling speaker that warmed the heart of a child sitting under a flashing neon sign in a gas station in Rome, Georgia, USA
āHe who ignores the low flight of the bird, the darkening skies, and the taste of iron in the blowing wind deserves the thunder and lightning that will rain down upon himā
āSermon from the Project at Edenās Gate
āļø
Many people claim to hear divine voices. There are numerous lunatics out there, and if itās not the voice of angels speaking to them, itās aliens, George Washington, or John Lennon.
Every busy street corner has a chosen one, a mad prophet. They announce that āTHE END IS NIGHT!ā, that humanity has been irredeemably condemned for its sins and misdeeds, ordering you to repent and damning you to the eternal flames of hell. They frighten children and inspire a vague sense of pity in adults - especially when you catch a whiff of their body odor as you pass.
Yet they claim to be heralds of the holy word.
Why should I be any more believable? How am I any different? Probably because Iām not here to talk about saving your soul. Iām here to talk about saving the human race, here and now, on this earth. I am talking about life before death. Iām only here to help you survive the impending chaos. Donāt get me wrong - the world is coming to an end. Its destruction has been foretold. And as glassy-eyed as your street-corner proselytizer is, as confused as his spirit is, I canāt help but respect him for understanding better than anyone else that the clock is ticking.
But whereas he only senses a murky feeling of doom deep in his bones, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt. I know it because the Voice told me so.
The Voice of the Creator.
I am here to tell you that God has tired of humanityās behavior and intends to take back everything He has ever created.
Manās pride has made him so forgetful and ungrateful, that God intends to start over. For we have learned nothing. We have left our filth on everything, soiled it all. And as indescribable cruelty we inflict on each other has fanned the flames of His anger.
How can we still doubt the approaching deluge that will wash us all away?
We may have been created in His image, but we have reinvented ourselves, adding make-up, and contorting ourselves into strange shapes to become ghastly creatures.
We who were once so pure, who lived in Paradise, now wallow in much day and night, entombing our original goodness under a thick layer of filth.
We have enraged our God and we will pay the price sooner than we think.
Look at what the world has become. Look at how some bask in opulence while others drown in misery. Witness the vicious cycle of conflicts spiraling out of control, of crusades driven by the greed of men.
Greed - that is what drives mankind. In manās endless quest, a quest that never ends well, those with nothing are worth no more than those with everything. Victims never dream of a more just society, they yearn only to join the caste of unjust, to tread on the poor in turn.
The greed of men destroys everything: forests, oceans, their fellow man. Men kill, they poison, they corrupt. Men care not whether individuals die on the other side of the world al long as we possess the latest technology; they care not whether multitudes are trampled upon as long as they can fill their cars with cheap gasoline.
In their frenzy for possessions, they mock everything. Nothing is sacred anymore. They dance atop ruins, march through cemeteries parading the still-warm ashes of those who were sacrificed in the flames.
In a society where selfishness triumphs, where people canāt see beyond the end of their own noses, where they worship themselves, what becomes of the righteous? What becomes of goodness? Of the humble or those who wander abandoned in this vast wasteland that the world has become? What becomes of those who prefer to understand rather than to possess, to share rather than to keep? They are ridiculed.
We scoff at the generous, at those who care for others.
We laugh at those who feed the destitute; we mock people who prefer the real world to virtual illusions.
We point and laugh, call them weak, simple-minded misfits.
We heap insults upon them and beckon them to join the macabre carnival of frenzied consumption. And if they refuse, we become suspicious of them and cast them out.
Who else do the FBI and other government agencies persecute these days? Such pariahs are constantly harassed and subjected to the relentless zeal of federal authorities. They are subpoenaed, hunted down, kept tabs on, and humiliated. Sometimes theyāre dragged off to prison and driven to madness or suicide.
Look deep inside your heart: isnāt this exactly what youāve always believed too? Are you not a member of this new crop of martyrs, devoured by the invisible beasts of despair and solitude unleashed upon you in the worldās arena?
I see that you hesitate to answer, that you dare not agree. Your suspicion is understandable. This vice-filled world - a world to which you donāt belong - has for so long forced you to hide your true self away, taught you in painful ways to protect yourself, beat down the impulses of your heart, distrust words, distrust others - and even distrust yourself.
But let me tell you what the Voice told me: The Creator has never turned a blind eye to the distress of the righteous. He has been watching mankind and has seen those who desecrate His word, who desecrate themselves in a race toward material wealth and vainglory. Such sinners have angered Him and it wonāt be long until He unleashes His righteous punishment.
The wheat will be separated from the chaff.
This is the mission bestowed upon me.
I must gather those who will be touched by the grace of Its message and bring them together to form a family.
The emptiness you feel inside is a resonant chamber that amplifies the Voice so that you may know It is genuine.
What if you could be one of the chosen ones, along with others who believed in me?
What if you could be one of those whose preserved purity allows you to grasp the divine source of the message that Iām spreading?
What if you knew that from the instant we met that I wasnāt just another fool at the crossroads?
If you too dream of restoring the worldās original beauty and harmony - if you have the faith and the drive - then join me, and you will survive the cataclysm that is upon us.
To live again in the Garden of Eden. The way we did before
āBless the name of those who have dealt you blows. Be grateful to those who have caused you harm. For it is these sufferings that have led you to meā
āSermon from Project at Edenās Gate
āļø
If a person had been walking down the poorly maintained road out front of the Seedsā house on that afternoon in June and felt the strange urge to glance over, they would have witnessed a bizarre sight.
They would have seen a man dressed in black pants and white undershirt, frothing with anger, brandishing a comic book in one hand and a Bible in the other at his son, a child of about ten. But no one had been down this road in the poor suburb of Rome, Georgia, in a long time. Not ice cream trucks, not social services cars, not even police patrols.
In any case, in these parts, people kept their noses out of other peopleās business, even when that business took place on a porch out in the open.
The father trashed his arms furiously while the boy, young Joseph Seed, stood with his head bowed, contrite and seemingly fixated on floorboards. If he had looked up, he would have seen the kaleidoscopic colors of an old issue Spiderman flashing by, alternating with the smooth black leather of his fatherās Bible and the ruddy face of the father himself. He would have seen the grey teeth - few and far between - of Old Man Seed, as the locals called him, or Old Mad Seed behind his back, as Josephās big brother Jacob had snickered to him. Dental care was not a priority in the Seed household. The money was needed for other things. So, his fatherās teeth always reminded Joseph of the rocky crags that pirate ships washed up on in picture books at the library.
The priority in the Seed household, as everyone in the neighborhood knew, was cheap whiskey, which the father drank from dawn ātil dusk. The more whiskey that went in, the more Bible verses came out - and the more often his children felt the switch.
The cause of parental fury was simple: comics were forbidden in the home - comics and books, records, magazines, radio, and television. Only the Bible was allowed.
Once, when the entire elementary school went to see Gone with the Wind at an old theatre in town, Josephās father had leapt up in rage like a drunken jack-in-the-box, and before stunned teachers and students, launched into a rambling sermon condemning the sins of Hollywood, insisting this Babylon had long perverted the most fragile of minds and was responsible for the downfall of all of America. With Joseph under one arm and Jacob under the other, he stormed out of the room, still hurling curses.
This time when they arrived home, he beat Jacob only, because he was the eldest and thus responsible for his younger brother.
At least the brothers had had the time to see Atlanta burn.
Thus, when Old Man Seed stood on the porch and began sliding off his belt, the child simply removed his T-shirt, folded it carefully, and bent over to offer his pale, delicate back to the worn-out strap of leather.
Josephās head was turned towards the well maintained - at least by local standards - house of a quiet, gentle widow. He considered it a blessing, if a small one. Facing the other way, he would have had to look at the other neighbourās house, which even by local standards was so run-down as to be hideous to the eye.
When they were younger, the widow used to bake them cakes, probably out of pity for them. The childrenās mother wasnāt exactly an impressive chef. She wasnāt exactly a loving mother either. But the widow didnāt bake much of anything anymore, now that she was dying of cancer. Instead, she spent her days on her porch in a rocking chair, rain or shine, tottering gently. Jacob and Joseph argued over whether the low groaning came from the wooden rocking chair or the old women.
Sometimes the widowās daughter would stop by, just long enough to steal her motherās medication and barter it for heroin. She never stayed long; prospects in the town were so few that not even junkies wanted to live here.
On this particular day, the young Joseph, age seven, received 25 lashes. It was the price to pay for having read about the adventures of a man bitten by a radioactive spider. He bore his punishment and hardly even cried.
You may be wondering who I am to know so much about the banal misery of this family living in a poor white neighborhood like so many others. I am Joseph Seed. And if you want to know why I remember that scorching day in June so clearly, itās because that was the first day that the Voice spoke to me.
The messenger is often attacked for delievering bad news.
You will hear a great deal about me:
People will tell you that I am a liar, a cheat, a con man, a mad man, and even a murderer.
People will tell you anything and everything
because I am the bearer of bad news,
because I am the messenger.
I am the one who must warn you of the ending of this world and gather the chosen ones who will build the next world.
If you want to live, you need to ignore the slander.
You need to believe me.
You need to follow me
-Joseph Seed
.
Next |
[Written down from this list, which I found on tvtropes page of fc5]
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
ā Live Streamingā Interactive Chatā Private Showsā HD Qualityā Free Actions
Free to watch ā¢ No registration required ā¢ HD streaming
I've been wondering lately, if I bought Smosh channel membership and transcribed the only-member videos (nothing from this year just in case, it wouldn't feel right either way) like I did the Anthony Roast, would I be in any legal trouble?
Like, I wouldn't download them and publish copies of them and link every video in the title, I would just write down what they're saying in it and give some additional comments about what's happening on screen for context, like I did with the previous ones.
Anthony is Dead: The Funeral Roast - The Full Thing
[I've made it in segments beforehands, if you're interested in less compact form; I'll link them in segment titles]
.
The Pastor
[After some flashback montage and the intro]
(Josh is playing church music as Ian walks up onto the podium)
The Pastor: (To Josh) Thank you.
The Pastor: (towards audience) Hello my children, Iām pastor Ian. Iām your ordaine host, walking you through the roast (gestures towards Anthony) of Anthony Padilla.
The Pastor: Alongside me are several spirits, be they friends, foes, or work-mandated acquaintances - *ekhm* Arasha *ekhm*.
The Pastor: And since I know him the best, according to public record, Iām here to kick things off.
The Pastor: So, I asked the ChatGPT to write an obituary for me, for Anthony, and all it said back was āFinally.ā, so I had to write one on my own.
The Pastor: So, here we go!
The Pastor: Born September 16th, 1987, Virgo sun, Cancer moon, Fuckboy risingā¦ Anthony was born in Sacramento, California, which is like if a stock photo had a hairworm problem.
The Pastor: Anthony will live on partially through the YouTube videos he's made, but mostly through the Angry Birds movie and the sequel Angry Birds movie, "the Angry Birds movie: let's make it worse by not casting Ian."
The Pastor: He built Smosh from the ground up, learning coding before it was cool, which is actually pretty funny because, you know, codingās already deeply uncool. Yeahā¦
The Pastor: (looks directly at the camera) Oh, Iām sorry, did I piss you off, nerds? Hereās some ones for you, zeroes! (flips the camera off with both hands)
The Pastor: Fuckinā gotāem. Gotāem! ā¦
The Pastor: *sigh* Itās so dumbā¦
The Pastor: After working many years here at Smosh, he decided to pursue making unwatchable content on his own. And, it was so inspiring that Smosh decided to do the same.
The Pastor: The Washington Post described Anthony as āYouTubeās Interview Kingā, which is kind of like YouTube calling Rhett & Link the Kings of Original Content, which isā¦-
The Pastor: Oh sorry. By the way, Rhett & Link will be here but currently theyāre shooting their magnum opus - Rating Rhettās Holes.
The Pastor: So, Anthony is known for some famous quotes, such as: āLifeās not that hard, just be hotā, or āSorry, I canāt come to your party - Iām gonna be tired that dayā, and my favourite quote, āGirlfriends wonāt be mad if you just tell them youāre workingā
The Pastor: Nowā¦ One of his main frustrations, back in the day, was that the audience perceived him as āThe Hot Oneā and me as āThe Funny Oneā. So, when Anthony finally went on his own, the audience was finally able to see the kind of comedy that Anthony could bring on his own. And to the audienceās surprise, for once, they were actually right.
The Pastor: But really, itās so nice seeing so many of his friends here. Itās just too bad he wasnāt alive to see this. Because, as we all know, Anthony is very good at taking a joke and totally cool about getting criticized.
The Pastor: I meanā¦ Honestly though, the fact that he agreed to do this confuses me more than Brendon Rogersā continued success.
The Pastor: So, in conclusion, Iād love to tell you the rules that Anthony lived by, he referred to it as his five commandments - he wouldāve wrote ten but, being mid is just what he does.
The Pastor: So, hereās his first commandment: āOne - Thou shalt not leave any finger unringed and any ring unfingeredā
The Pastor: āTwo - Thou shalt not do yoga in your underwear, unless youāre filming it for Instagramā
The Pastor: (turns towards Anthony) Seriously dude, people donāt need to see your hogginā downward dog, alright? (turns towards audience) Am I right ladies?
The Pastor: āThree - Thou shalt tattoo the word āinhaleā on thy neck to remind thyselves to breathe every time youāre looking at your neckā, and, I donāt get it, ācause you canāt actually see the āinhaleā, like the only way that you can see it is if youāre looking into mirror so itās backwards, so itās āelahniā? I donāt get it, itās weird.
The Pastor: Anyway, āFour - Thou shalt not change your favourite movie, Home Alone 2, even though Donald Trump is in itā
The Pastor: And finally āFive - thou shalt focus on work so thou donāt have to deal with thy problems, but when work becomes a problem, thou shall focus on making videos of thou doing yoga in thy underwear and posting it on thous Instagramā!
The Pastor: ... Anyway (puts his hands in praying gesture) peace be with you, letās make it a funeral to be remembered, yes!? (spreads his arms)
The Pastor: Alrightā¦ Alright. Now, letās hear from our first guest of the night. Is she funny? Let me just say, Mexican salsa, yes she is. Itās The Fortune Teller.
.
The Fortune Teller
(Amanda walks up to the podium. She looks down, then startles and looks back up)
The Fortune Teller: (Looking at Anthony) Hello! Hi! Greetings! Hi!
The Fortune Teller: Iām Angelica Angela LaCroix. I am a medium, but at the Atlantic City T-shirt Shop Iām an (?) and I donāt understand it. Itās insane, yes itās weird, their sizes are weird.
The Fortune Teller: Iām here to deliver messages to (gestures towards Anthony) this boy. This wonderful, beautiful, handsome little boy-boy, this little boy, who grabbed a bunch of lipsticks to contour all over and called them tattoos.
The Fortune Teller: I have the messages, from the beyond! The beyond! And not just the beyond, the (?) too! Ha! Ow!Ā
The Fortune Teller: Iām kidding, that was a medium joke.
The Fortune Teller: Okay, before we start I just wanna say- (starts swating around) Iāve got cobwebs all over me, this is outrageous.Ā
The Fortune Teller: (turns towards Anthony) I just wanna say, youāre not really dead, ok, and itās very- itās very offensive to the dead community. (gestures at Anthony) Look at you, youāre in a full blown ghostface! And youāve got a past with brownface - āAnthony is mexican?ā, 15 million views! (turns sharply towards audience) Look it up! Look it up!
The Fortune Teller: ā¦ Hi, hello! How is everybody? (glances at Anthony) Oh, good, I woke your guy up. (pulls out deck of cards)
The Fortune Teller: Okay- (swats around) Stop it, get off!
The Fortune Teller: Now, I think the question we all have for this, this little rotten little beefcake, little boy boy-boyā¦ Is he at peece? Is Anthony actually at peece 'ight nyow? (starts shuffling the cards)
The Fortune Teller: Well, we have to find out. And the only way to find out is to ask the cwords. The cwards. (brings up the deck) The tarot cwards.
The Fortune Teller: (turns towards Anthony) Okay? Iāll pull these for you, honey. (turns back) *sigh*
The Fortune Teller: So I am your guide. Iām your guy to the guide to the stars to the guy to the star, (gestures at herself) guide, (gestures at the audience) star. *sigh* Here we go. (pulls out the card)
The Fortune Teller: First cwardā¦ Oh! (shows the card) The Fool! This is a very very very good cward, okay? The Fool is definitely your younger self. Itās your younger self that saw the sketch āBigfoot is Gayā with guest special Shayne Topp would age well! (looks directly at the camera) 9.4 million views, look it up! Look it up!
The Fortune Teller: *heavy sigh* It didnāt. (looks down and pulls out another card)
The Fortune Teller: The next cwardā¦ Oh. The Empress. This is a very very very good cward, okay? So this cward represents abundance of wealth, wealth and spiritual satisfaction. Which is interesting, because you bought this watch company and it started begging for handouts! (does a surprised face while looking around)
The Fortune Teller: I love Smosh, theyāre very funny and Iām being paid to be here. (looks down)
The Fortune Teller: *starts gasping and grunting* Oh! Oh! I got chills, oh my god I got chills! Iāve got spirit chills!Ā
The Fortune Teller: Oh, thereās something happening! (looks and gestures towards other participants) Oh my goodness! Youāre- youāre Shayne, right? Thereās something right behind you - it is your TV career. (waves around in his direction) Okay? Okay? Okay, stick with me here, buddy. Itās your TV career and itās dead, itās dead. Itās done. (points at him) Donāt look at it, Itāll bum you out, alright? Iām here to protect you, alright?
The Fortune Teller: ... (nods) Very good. (looks down and pulls out another card) Sorry about that.
The Fortune Teller: Oh! Another cward, this is a very very good cward. Okay, so this is The Ten of Cups, okay? And this is a positive sign that you have reached completion and satisfaction on your journey- (looks down) Oh. Oh! Itās reversed, it means none of your partners have ever reached completion. Look it up! Look it up. (looks down and pulls out another card)
The Fortune Teller: Oh! Oh, The Lovers cward. (gestures at Anthony) This is not for you honey, Iām getting a- Iām getting a- Oh. (shows card to the room) This is a cward to little friends that go by Rhett and Link, okay? Okay, Rhett and Link. Itās your love, but itās also love for the bullying of every member of your staff, alright?
The Fortune Teller: Oh, another spirit chill! (points) Chanse. Itās someone you need to look off. Itās someone who doesnāt serve you anymore. Itās Straight Chanse. Okay? You donāt need him anymore honey, it doesnāt take a psychic to know who you're gonna bed with, okay? Look it up! (looks down)
The Fortune Teller: Okay, okayā¦ (pulls out a card) Okay, King of Hearts? This is for Anthony, a known ladies manā¦ King of Fuorts, this is clearly for Ian.
The Fortune Teller: King of Fuorts. Fuorts. And Ian I can read your thoughts right now, no, Iām not producing milk. (looks down, then startles and looks at the back)
The Fortune Teller: Thereās a man! Thereās a man in the corner with a beard, oh my god, who's that? Steven (?) . This is for Angela. He says youāre a brilliant performer and that you deserve Broadway, and he canāt wait to see you eating sriracha tampons on Smosh Pit Next time!
The Fortune Teller: In conclusion! Smosh is a very sexless place, okay? And Anthony brought a lot of sexappeal and structure, (looks at Anthony) and are you at peece?
The Fortune Teller: Hello? Are you at peece? Are youā peece? Anthony, are you at peece?
(Anthony, cowering a bit, cracks one of his eyes)
The Dead: Y-yup.
The Fortune Teller: (turns back sharply) Great! ā¦ *heavy sigh*
The Fortune Teller: Thank you guys, thatās my time. You guys should have appetizers or at least a pot full of mea- meatballs! Donāt google me!
(Amanda walks down from the podium. On her place walks up The Will)
.
The Will
(Tommy walks up onto the podium and looks around)
The Will: (Gestures at the walls, draped in black torn up cloth and cobwebs) I see we decorated the walls with Anthonyās leftover sweaters. (uncovers his face from beneath the veil)
The Will: (takes out a scroll and opens it to read it) We gathered here today because we witnessed rising of the dead. (looks up) Thatās right, the main channel is finally getting views again. *sigh* (looks up towards the sky) Thank fucking God.
The Will: Iāve also seen someone come back to life - I have never seen Ian happy. And, actually I am so happy, that I could be here. Because if it were up to the 2017 Anthony, we wouldnāt be.Ā
The Will: Unfortunately, Anthony is dead. No longer will he be able to spend a day with weird people to ask why theyāre doing all (waves his hand around) that.
The Will: Anthony had a very hard life. His skin, marked from the time he tragically tripped in the Sharpies factory. His ears and hands, proof that heās a victim of manic Claireās employee. Only a tragic life could lead to looking like if a motorcycle was gay; I can say that, Iām a motorcycle.
The Will: But Anthony wasnāt known for his struggles, he was known for his accomplishments... Like making Obama jokes in 2023. Truly broke the mold, imagine, someone this conventionally attractive doing something so conventionally unattractive.
The Will: People also frequently ask about the meaning of his tattoos, and now that heās passed I can reveal that it was so he could fuck goth girls.
The Will: And, not many people know this, but Anthony was also great at impressions - he does a really good āAnthony Padilla does not hate Tommy Boweā
(Anthony is shown shaking his head in denial, wide-eyed)
The Will: And now, the moment weāve been waiting for. My Groundhogs Day - reading of the will. (looks down at the scroll)
The Will: Amanda will receive Anthonyās copy of Frankenstein, ācause she was brought to life when lightning struck a bassoon. Amanda, if you donāt know what a bassoon sounds like, (lowers his voice pitch), āsounds like this. [1]
The Will: Anthony has already given Shayne the Smosh podcast channel; it was a social experiment to see if Shayne could have a normal conversation for an hour.
The Will: Anthony leaves Ian the Boxman head, so that he has somewhere to live when Smosh is over. Anthony also promises to possess Ian and use his body as a human host, which is risky, because as weāve seen on YouTube... Ian is not the best host. Remember when my We Watched Show failed? [2]
The Will: Anthony leaves Courtney his tattoo artist so Courtney can finish her list of ātattoos from movies nobody gives a shit aboutā. Courtney will be soon getting a Smosh movie tattoo - itās just one star.
The Will: Chanse will receive Anthonyās secret diary, containing Anthonyās true sexuality. Unfortunately it wonāt work out because, as they say it, you know, two bottoms donāt make a ride, but they do make me infuriated.
The Will: Anthony leaves Tommy a king sized bed so he can finally put himself to sleep.Ā
The Will: Angela will receive a backwards cap, to go along her current physical form and Amber Alert on rollerblades.
The Will: And, Anthony gives Arasha his blackout curtains, to match her Friday nights.
The Will: This concludes everything Anthony had to give away, except for the rest of his clothes which he gave to Charity, who is a really hot goth girl.
The Will: Oh! And if anyone objects to Anthonyās death, please speak now or be silent forever.
???: Wait!
(camera pans away towards the corridor on the other side of Anthonyās casket, revealing a man, The Comedian)
The Comedian: Dammit, I object!
.
References:
[1] - bassoon is an instrument similar to a clarinet if you're wondering. It's also called the english f-slur in my native language, which paired up with Tommy being gay is a little funny to me
[2] - apparently, at least according to Reddit users, Tommy was referencing his "I Watched [blank] for the first time" video with Ian, which at the time had the least views on the whole Smosh Pit channel
.
The Comedian
(The Comedian strikes a pose, straightening his lapels and smiling to the audience, then walks up to the podium)
Brandon: (slaps his hands down the podium) I objectā¦ (pulls ot a folded paper) to not saying anything before we throw this (gestures with the paper towards Anthony) fucker into river, so lets do it. (unfolds the paper, which is shown to be torn and stained) Alright, sorry, I just came from, uh, the bathroom.
Brandon: It is an honor to be here tonight, (gestures at the casket) a highlight of Anthonyās career. When I heard it was a funeral I rode right over; I am such a whore for the funerals, (slaps down the podium to emphasize) Iām the biggest whore for the funerals, but today weāre joined by Courtney, soā¦
Brandon: But weāre not here to remember church sluts, (gestures towards Anthony) we're here to remember a church virgin.
Brandon: Anthony was a major advocate for mental health. And, today, we honor the most (slaps the podium) remarkable thing heās done for his fans' mental health - die. Itās- that wasnāt a joke.
Brandon: Itās a shame he had to die before he could become interesting.
Brandon: No! Like thatās wrong- (points at Anthony) The only way he could get a show where heās a star of it, is if it's about other people. Just saying, maybe he shouldāve spend some time with a (slaps the podium) fucking hobby, (looks at Anthony) you boring prick!
Brandon: ā¦ (hands by his mouth in praying gesture)
Brandon: Anthony, thank you for dying. All of the oxygen that wouldāve been wasted on the rest of your life is going to people with talent. (looks at the audience) Yes!
Brandon: And- and I have to say, this is a second time Iāve roasted (points at Anthony) this cuck in a casket, and the third time he better be in a fucking urn.
Brandon: Sorry, that was, uhā¦ Rude. I-...
Brandon: Letās eat Anthony.
Brandon: We can do it! No, because, he canāt say no no more. (points at Anthony) And look at all that meat. Yeah, āveganā my ass. (walks up to Anthony and grabs his arm, sizing it up) Look at all this muscle, heās been working out! One of his arms has enough muscle to do what he never could in life (pats Anthony) - feed a family.
Brandon: And also, fun fact! Anthonyās hairstyle is in Trolls 1 and 2. Yeah, it is! Before we threw him in the box (pulls out a bit of black curled wig and puts it on his forehead) I snipped some of his hair and I trough, maybe- maybe I could be the new Anthony. But! (smiles widely at the audience) This time hot and funny!
Brandon: Now I know he died early, āat such a young ageā. (slaps the podium) Bitch, thirty- Three is a big number. Three decades?! I didnāt think heād make it this far! Three is a very big number - thatās the amount of stars IMDB gave the Smosh movie! (shrugs) Yeah.
Brandon: (leans forward over podium) So I would just like to say, congratulations to you Ian. You are, finally, the most attractive original member from Smosh! (smiles wide-eyed and claps his hands)
Brandon: Now, the rest of you- what a pathetic goddamned lineup. No wonder it took all of (gestures around with his hand) this to replace this king! (points at Anthony) I donāt even know who the most of you are!
Brandon: Like, Arash- is that how you pronounce it?
The Coroner: Arasha.
Brandon: Well, Iāve never met you, and I wonāt.
Brandon: And- you know you got a gay group of friends when Chanse blends in with the rest of you.
Brandon: And what- (points at Shayne) The Chosen Topp in the back? Doesnāt Shayne look like someone who has OnlyFans for Only Him?
Brandon: You fuckers should be ashamed of yourselves! (points at Anthony) This man was promised comedians at this event! And all Iām seeing is (counts) one, two, three, four, five, six, seven cumshots and Tommy. And Tommyās here only because there will be seven cumshots! Tom-my. (slaps the podium) Youāre in your thirties, itās Tom now, motherfucker!
Brandon: *sigh* Anyways, Iād like to say in all seriousness. Anthony was a great friend, (points at Anthony with his hand) and he looks like a dream tonight. And itās a shame morticians couldnāt get the smell of Rhett and Linkās balls out of his mouth.Ā
Brandon: Rot in hell Anthony, I love you.
(Brandon walks away towards the participant audience and sits down. His place on the podium takes up The Coroner)
.
The Coroner
(Arasha walks up onto the podium and stares directly into the camera with dead-eyed RBF in silence)
The Coroner: ā¦ (in the flattest, deadpan, raspy voice) Hi.
The Coroner: *sigh* Iām the medical examiner who conducted Anthonyās autopsyā¦ And apparently the only one you know.
The Coroner: High-key, I was so excited for this assignment. See? (barely quirks her lips)
The Coroner: Iāve been wanting to be in a room with Anthonyās naked body since his video āAm I Gay?ā - I find queerbaiting really attractive.
The Coroner: Either way it leaves somebody disappointed. Soo brave.
The Coroner: When I started to examine him closer I realised Iāve made a horrible mistake: this body is medically sus.
The Coroner: Itās like a pretty car, but under the hood is a nest of anxious wet rats in a circlejerk.
The Coroner: I spent a day with Anthonyā¦ and Iāve got an ick. This is what I found:
The Coroner: His hair was difficult to examine, as it was matted into curls after being burned, crunched, and forced into being straight for yearsā¦ Like Chanse growing up in Tennessee.
(Chanse is shown doing the Shaka Sign[3])
The Coroner: His hemoglobin levels were normal, which was surprising, considering how much his blood boiled due dealing with Ian during years 2011 to 2018.
The Coroner: Vitals were all around normal, except his rizzā¦ (frowns) Lowest Iāve ever seen.
The Coroner: Itās widely known Anthony had no game, and speaking of wide - he had a nose job.
The Coroner: Several years ago he (moves fingers in quoting motion) āfixed his deviated septumā... *quiet snort* Sure, kingā¦
The Coroner: Now that heās dead his nose is being repossessed, because he bought it (turns towards Ian) with Defy stocks (quirks her lips and widens her eyes in fake surprise)
The Coroner: He called himself a vegan, which usually means eating healthy, but then he only ate chips and protein barsā¦
The Coroner: Anthony is vegan the way Ian is our bossā¦ the way Angela is an adultā¦ the way Amanda is a podcasterā¦ the way Brandon is a comedianā¦ the way Tommy is- chillā¦ The way Courtney is chill.
The Coroner: The way Shayneās moustacheā¦ (frowns) worked?
The Coroner: The way Rhett and Link are friendsā¦ And the way Chanse is 22.
The Coroner: Now. Anthonyās skin has faced a lot of mixed treatment, clearly by being only inside for decades on his computer and then blasting his pores with stick-and-poke tattoos. (turns towards Anthony) Thereās another way to get a tattoo, you know?
The Coroner: His neck is chafed by Ian constantly breathing down itā¦ also, thatās the highest that Ian can reach on Anthony, being that Ian is 5ā8āā and Anthony is 5ā11āā. Thatās a 3 inch difference- Ian, I believe youāre familiar with 3 inches...?
The Coroner: (looks down) Iāll find that out one way or anotherā¦
The Coroner: Anthonyās nervous system was in tatters - we found lethal amounts of marihuana and extra strength yerba mate. In our field we call this ācocaine boundingā
The Coroner: (turns towards Anthony and looks at him in contemplation) ā¦
The Coroner: Upon examining his heart, I found that it is healthy. Though it contains many healed wounds, he is still full of love and support for his people. (turns towards the audience)
The Coroner: It takes strength to live fractured and come back home whole.
The Coroner: ...
The Coroner: Speaking of hole - flat ass.
The Coroner: Thatās it. Coroner, out.
(she takes her files and stands down from the podium. Her place, once again, takes up The Pastor)
The Pastor: Alright folks, we are about halfway through our members.
The Pastor: Also, (gestures towards the keyboard hidden in church organs) quick shoutout to Josh everybody (starts clapping), doing a great job on the organ.
The Pastor: You know, Josh is kinda like our own āPhantom of the Operaā, heās- heās like an angel of music that is- behind the scenes and, holding women hostage, with stories that never end.
(Josh makes an offended face, then looks down with a sad face)
The Pastor: ā¦
The Pastor: Anyway. Iāve been told that we have an extra, special half-time performance.
The Pastor: From Chanse, who is extra. And Angela, who is special.
The Pastor: (Nods) Take it away.
(He walks down from podium, as Chanse and Angela run up towards the camera that starts tracking them and piano music starts playing)
.
References:
[3] - The Shaka Sign
.
Anthony: The Musical
(Angela and Chanse walk up to the camera, backward caps on their heads[4], looking towards it as they start talking to each other)
Angela: Hey Chanse.
Chanse: Yes?
Angela: You know how they gave us 10 minutes to do whatever we want, you think what Iām thinking?
Chanse: I think what youāre thinking.
Angela: Yeah.
(Chanse starts talking directly towards camera)
Chanse: So thereās the thing: we bought the rights to Anthonyās life on Craigslist and we made a play out of it.Ā
Chanse: So, we present:
(They move their bodies to form an A)
Both: Anthony: The Musical!
Angela, singing:
An emo girl on YouTube, but nothing strikes a cord..
A dude that hears music in video games, but knows thereās something more..
A salesman who sells phallic foods, but nobody thinks itās funny..
A white teenage guy, in 2005, with no one to give his money...[5]
Both:
Who do we give our money?
Chanse (Anthony): So, youāre saying I just press this button here and a video goes to the entire Internet, Ian?
Angela (Ian): Yeah, Iām Ian.
Chanse (Anthony): Well, here goes nothing. (touches near the camera with his finger, then waves) Hey guys!
Chanse (Anthony), singing:
My name is Anthony, and Iām here to say
I make funny things, in a teenage way
Pokemons or the parodies, for adolescents
Too scared to smoke weed!
āCause Iām the-
Both, singing: Man with the viral touch!
Chanse (Anthony): We need a catchphrase
Both, singing: Man with the viral touch!
Angela (Ian): Shut uup!
Both, singing: Man with the viral touch!
Chanse (Anthony), singing: And Ianās here too!
(Angela (Ian) pats Chanse (Anthony), peeking out from behind his shoulder)
Angela (Ian): Iām right here.
(Chanse (Anthony) moves aside)
Chanse (Anthony): Oh, sorry.
Chanse, narrating: Meanwhile, at the YouTube headquartersā¦
Chanse (Anthony): Mr. YouTube! Mr. YouTube!
(Angela (Mr. YouTube) is shown walking with an umbrella, using it as walking stick)
Angela (Mr. YouTube): Ah! Donāt bother me now, Iām in an awful mood, after a bad call with a store runner!
Chanse (Anthony): Well-
Angela (Mr. YouTube): They-! They are crushing us in the horny teen demographic! They are absolutely crushing us! I feel like Iām trapped in a box, man! A box, man!
Chanse (Anthony): Well, thatās just what I was gonna say! Look at this!
Chanse, narrating: Ladies and gentleman: Two teenage boys!
Both, singing:
Man with the viral touch!
Chanse (Anthony): Weāre getting monetized!
Both, singing: Man with the viral touch!
Chanse (Anthony): We sold to Defy!
Both, singing: Man with the viral touch!
Chanse (Anthony), singing: But I still want moreā¦
Angela (Ian): (progressively draping herself over Chanse (Anthony)ās shoulders, her face getting more deranged) Anthony!! How cool is this! We have movies, TV shows, Babble adds! Weāre gonna do this thing until we literally work ourselves into the grave! Isnāt it great?! I love you, but Iām also weirdly and constantly comparing myself to you when youāre around!
Chanse (Anthony): (shrugs Angela (Ian) off) Oh, my God!
Chanse (Anthony), singing:
Why would you make me hot, when Iām so smart?
Can I get to a place where Iām notā¦
Both: Hot and smart...
I made this channel back when I was sick,
My hair is grey and my waletās thick
And my best friend gives me the ick [6]
(falls at his knees)
What is next? What should I do?!
(bangs his fist on the ground)
This is not the Smosh I knew!
(looks down at his hands)
Chanse (Anthony): But- I can fix this, right? Cause Iāmā¦
(Angela (Ian) walks up to him and kneels down next to him)
Chanse (Anthony), singing:
Should I even tryā¦ (Angela (Ian) awkwardly puts her hand at his arm, but he brushes it off and stands up)
Iām gonna quit Defy
Now itās me, myself andā¦ (turns back and sees Angela (Ian), then looks back away)
Meā¦
Chanse, narrating: We cut to Anthony two years later. Heās making his own content, which is mostly him talking about why he left Smosh, over, and over, and overā¦ and over again. Itās not sustainable, and he knows it.
Angela (Anthony): Think Anthony, ugh come on! Your channel is getting terrible views, itās almost like your content is really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really bad. Come on, I can do this! What do I have that Smosh doesnāt? Thinkā¦
Angela (Anthony), singing:
Comedy is bullshit,
Vlogingās just for squares
Iām saying that ācause I tried both and views just donāt compare,
To what I hadā¦
Both:
What should I do?
(camera gets really close up to Angela (Anthony)ās face, with her holding her fist up in front of her like sheās singing into a mic)
Angela (Anthony), scream-singing:
I GOTTA FIND MY NEW SEEELF!!!
MAKE MY OWN FIVE MINUTE HIT!!!
I GOTTA FIND MY NEW SEEEELF!!!
OR I WILL LOSE MY FUCK-ING SHIT!!!Ā
Angela (Anthony): Think Anthony! Cāmon! Do some yoga! (camera pans down to show Chanse doing a Crow Pose[7]) Downward dog- (gibberish)[8] Ugh! Itās not working!
Angela (Anthony): Wait! The answersā¦ (looks down at her hands) theyāre in the tats!
Angela (Anthony), singing:
Dig down deep, search myself!
Need something o-ri-gi-nal!
If only! I could know! POVs outside mine own!
Both:
Sexworkers, Kidz Bopps or adult babies!
Ex-mormons, trans people, nudists, furries!
Huge bodybuilders, professional cuddlers!
Flat Earthers or strippers, and substitute teachers!
Angela (Anthony):
But most Importantly!
They get to talk to me!
Chanse, narrating: And just like that, he found it: āI spend a day withā¦ā - a show where Anthony interviews marginalized people for an hour and then keep all the profits! You know, like a hero! And just like thatā¦
Angela (Anthony), scream-singing:
I FOUND MY NEW SEEELF!!!
IāVE MADE MY OWN FIVE MINUTE HIT!
NOW THAT I FOUND MY NEW SEEELF!!!
I DONāT NEED SMOSH, IāM! THE!! SHIT!!!
Chanse, narrating: Meanwhile, across the river at Smoshā¦
Both, singing:
(both of them move from one side of the view to the other, hunched over as if searching and moving their hands like robots, completing it by accenting their singing like ārobotsā)
Where are you, An-tho-ny, where are you?
Where are you, An-tho-ny, where are you?
Where are you, An-tho-ny, where are you?
Where are you, An-tho-ny, where are you?
(camera panes out toward the organ)
Josh: Ha! Iām Rhett and Link! And we'll take your channel and see if it will pizza! *menacing laugh*
(camera pans back)
Both: *screeching*
(Chanse is shown wearing blond wig)
Chanse (Shayne): Agh, Iām Shayne, and Iāve been carrying the channel on my back for so long and I canāt hold on much longer! Smosh is in trouble! If we donāt do something immediately, weāre toast! You have to make the call, Ian!
Angela (Ian): Iām Ian and I wonāt make that phone call.
Chanse (Shayne): You must!
Angela, narrating: Meanwhile, at Anthonyās mansionā¦
Chanse (Anthony), singing:
My channelās finally found a voice,
And Iām making so much money
But if Iām being honest, I miss my friend,
And being funnyā¦
Angela (Ian): *ring ring ring* Hey, uhā¦ Itās Ian.
Chanse (Anthony): Itās Anthonyā¦?
Angela (Ian): Yeah, I know, uh- I was just wonderingā¦Ā
Chanse (Anthony): What?
Angela (Ian): Listen, I really like the work youāre doing; Giving people with different perspectives a platform, butā¦ Doesnāt any part of you want to go back to making the same, ill-informed, sexist, homophobic content weāve made fifteen years ago?
Chanse (Anthony): Wowā¦ I spent a day with so many people, but I guess the only person that I havenāt spent a day withā¦ (exaggeratedly shrugs) is my best friend.
Angela (Ian), singing: Iāll spend a day with you!
Chanse (Anthony), singing: (in a much deeper voice that he used before) Youāll spend a day with me!
Both, singing: Weāll spend a day together, once again,
Weāre Ian and Anthony!
Iāll spend a day with you!!!
Chanse (Anthony): Weāll summon a demon!
Youāll spend a day with me!
Chanse (Anthony): Be given an (?) !
And the future of Smosh is okay,
Cause Iāll spend a day,
Iāll spend a day,
Iāll spend a day!
Angela (Ian): *sigh* Everything is back to normal
Chanse (Anthony): Yeah! Let's agree to never sell our creative property to a major corporation again
Angela (Ian): Let's never ever ever do that!
(Both turn to look directly into the camera while pointing at it)
Both: Hold us to it!
(They look back towards each other)
Chanse (Anthony): And one more thing. We should address the sexual tension between us, thatās perpetrated not only by fans but our own actions, on screen AND OFF. Letās talk about it, right here. Right nowā¦
(They slowly move closer, grasping and embracing each other as if they were about to kiss)
(Then Chanse (Anthony) abruptly pushes Angela (Ian) back and sharply turns away)
Chanse (Anthony): No, hah!
Chanse, narrating: We cut to the Smosh studio where the whole gang is reunited.
Angela: Iām the Smosh cast and half of us are late to the meeting!
Both: (jumping up in excitement) Yay!!
Both, singing: (clapping to the rhythm of music)
āCause heās the man with the viral touch!
Chanse: Iāll spend a day with you!
Both: Man with the viral touch!
Angela: I only wanna be with you!
Both: Man with the viral touch!
And we have all!
Been!!
Touched!!!
ā¦
..
.
(Music abruptly cuts offā¦)
.
References:
[4] - These caps have "Ian" and "Anthony" written on them, with Amanda and Chanse wearing them respectively. I just wrote down who is playing which role at the moment (cause they do switch the caps) for simplicity
[5] - They make this bit in the TNTL #143 (the second musical one)
[6] - According to Wikipedia articles on the topic, the ick is used to describe "A sudden feeling of disgust or repulsion for someone one was previously attracted to"; do with that what you will (I didn't know it until just now)
[7] - The Crow Pose, also called Kakasana
[8] - the gibberish sounded like a butchered version of original name for the Downward Dog yoga pose (written in latin it being Adho Mukha Svanasana), but I didn't know how to write it's botched version so the reference would still be clear
.
The Hecklers
(...to Keith running onto the stage while his Stripping Bit Music is playing. He dances with Chanse and Angela fo a bit, the throws off his clothes and dances only in his gold boxers for a while)
(After everything is cleaned up, The Pastor walks back up onto the podium)
The Pastor: Wow!
The Pastor: Wow, give it up once again to Chanse and Angela, that was incredible! (clapps)
The Pastor: In-credible!
The Pastor: Also, give it up to Keith!
The Pastor: I think thatās the eight times youāve done the striptease in a video? Which qualifies you as a sex offender, so congratulations. (clapps)
(Keith, smiling widely, turns towards the audience and joins clapping)
The Pastor: No, donāt- donāt clap to that!
The Pastor: Um- (leans over the podium) You got all your money?
(Keith is shown picking up all the āmoneyā he dropped when he threw off his coat
The Pastor: Um, Okay. (looks up) Everyone, we have a very special guest that we kept a secret from all of you. Some describe them as Smosh from an alternative universe, if that universe was a little less funny and a lot more gay.
The Pastor: Ladies and gentlemen: Dan and Phill!
(Two people in red monk? robes bring in a TV screen on wheels, putting it besides Anthonyās casket. The screen is showing static, which then cuts to a video showing static)
Phil: My guysā¦ thanks for having us.
Dan: This is a sad time. (Turns towards Phil) I feel like Iāve lost a brotherā¦ People always think that me and Anthony look so similar - same eyes, same hair, same nose- well, we used to have the same nose but thenā¦ *awkward cough*
Phil: We were so proud when Anthony got Smosh back, but weāre also proud about his impactful and original solo content, like āI spent a day withā¦ā, and his sketches with us.
Dan: *chuckles* Remember that time when he just vlogged himself in his swimwear, doing slip-n-slide with his ex-girlfriend. Good content, bro!
Phil: But while legacy, Smosh used to be the most subscribed channel of all time! What happened? Itās almost like two guys yelling at each other for six minutes stops being funny when youāre not six years old anymore
Dan: Hey! Smosh may not have epic and impressive stunts like Mr.Beast, but as long as Shayne can just read shit off Redditā¦ Youāll be alright
Phil: For a man who identifies as a straight man by their proximity in a hot tub, Anthony has the worst gaydar ever! Once at VidCon we got smashed on tequila sunrises with Joey Graceffa, and Anthony thought we were having a ābro momentā.
Dan: I have, unironically, bought the Sexy Anthony Calendar when I was 19, and when he found out he just said āThanks for your supportā. I once told him I couldnāt wait to get back to his house to slobber over his fatty, and he took me to a burrito truck.
Dan: What a dumbass! A dumb, fuckable assā¦
Phil: (nodding) The world lost a good himbo.
Dan: Hey, look! I donāt do this to be mean. Heās not dumb, he just smoked so much weed that he thinks sitting in a chair with someone for 20 minutes is spending a whole day together
Phil: Weāve been with him through some hardest moments of his life!
Dan: So many exesā¦
Phil: He stayed at our house when he got his tattoo, came all the way to the London, spent all that money, only to look like someone dropped a plate of Squeal Out paste [9] on a C-Tier OnlyFans twink.
Dan: The tattoo artist actually got violently electrocuted while it was happening, but just played it of as intentional *sigh* Now he looks like someone just inverted colors on my Sexy Anthony Calendar after I spent a five minutes with it in a bathroom
Phil: It felt like he finally got to a good place in his life, where he could be truly authentic. He found a āuniqueā way of styling himself - he searched āedgyā... on Pintrest.
Dan: Anthony dresses like if Edward Scisorhand fell into a cabinet at a pornshop.
Phil: Hey!
Dan: Sorry, we apologize. That was very insensitive to Edward, he would never let his hair get this crusty and disgusting, like he had someone jizz on them and then left it on the sun for ten days. Like my Sexy Anthony Calendar
Phil: We wish Ian all the best in running Smosh without Anthonyā¦ Again.
Dan: But if you need another YouTubers to bail out Smosh again do not come to us, okay? Not because we donāt have the money, but because we donāt believe in you.
Phil: Goodbye!
(The whole screen turns into static, then cuts back to the funeral set.)
The Pastor: Wow! Wow, wowā¦ Wow!
The Pastor: Thank you Dan and Phil, that was- that was crazy horny.
The Pastor: So, um, hopefully our next guest isnāt as horny, and that is- Oh, shit! Itās The Bikini Girlā¦
.
References:
[9] - Squeel Out is a disk break grease paste for bikes with a cartoon pig on it's jar, it usually comes in black.
.
The Bikini Girl
(Cortney struts up to the podium, ostentatiously shaking her butt, then pulls out a note from her bra)
The Bikini Girl: (in high-pitched, overly sweet tone) Ooh! Huhā¦ warmā¦Ā
The Bikini Girl: Hahā¦ Hello people wearing clothing!
The Bikini Girl: Today, Bikini Girl, the barely clothed lady that Ian and Anthony put in every video from 2009 to 2015, and, for some reason, present day!
The Bikini Girl: I am honored to be speaking at the funeral of Anthony Penis. Iām honestly honoured to be speaking at all! Usually Iām only allowed one line, and one puke. Get you a girl who can do both two things one time! (does a peace sign)
The Bikini Girl: I am so, so sad Anthony is deadā¦ *exaggerated anime-like fake crying* Wah! Oh, waah! Wahā¦
The Bikini Girl: He and Ian always reminded me of my boobsā¦ because thereās two of them! And one of them refuses to go to therapy! Plus seeing only one is unsettling and shockingly sterilizingā¦
The Bikini Girl: Um, you know, uhā¦ *high pitched chuckle* Sorry, not used to talking for so long
The Bikini Girl: Actually, you all remind me of boobies, hihi!
The Bikini Girl: One thatās so perky itās honestly alarming - thatās Arasha! One that is firmed up from being overused and overworked - thatās Shayne! One that always pops out at 3 am at WeHo - thatās Chanse!Ā
The Bikini Girl: One that when you squeeze it, it feels like itās squeezing you backā¦ thatās Amanda! Hihi, uhuh!
The Bikini Girl: One that if you breathe near it, it will go āOh my gosh! That is literally the smartest thing you've ever said!ā - thatās Angela! One boob that knows how to edit, but is just a cunt - thatās Tommy!
The Bikini Girl: I know two that- that are hairy and old, those are testicles and these are Rhett and Link!
The Bikini Girl: One boob that is definitely listening right now, thatās Keith!
(Keith is shown, visibly not listening)
Keith: Wha-what did you just say?
The Bikini Girl: One boob that you see at middle school and makes you think, āAm I Gay?ā - thatās Brendon.
The Bikini Girl: I loved working at Smosh. My job was bikini. Just bikini. My day rate was 200$, and as a tip I could make men act uncomfortably for 12 hours.
The Bikini Girl: And, uh, you know (spreads arms) many other women had played role of Bikini Girl, which reserved me roles that were more respectable for women, like āUgly Pikachuā and āWomen on date with Ianā
The Bikini Girl: Not to toot my own thumb but I was a star! A big star, uhuh! Thumbnails are so important, why else would you click on the video, because itās funny? No! (starts laughing at high pitch and jumping up, making her boobs jiggle)
The Bikini Girl: I was even in the video āSlow-mo Bikini Girl - Behind the scenesā. It has a behind-the-scenes clip where Ian and Anthony spray me with a hose in their front yard and call it āpervo visionā. Ian looks to the camera and says āItās wish fulfillment kids - this is why you become a writerā. Such an awesome thing to say!
The Bikini Girl: They got 14- oh, oop- they got 4.9 million views, and I got hypothermia! *in a whiny sad tone* I couldnāt use their towels ācause they were too crustyā¦
The Bikini Girl: Anthony, Ian! Are you shaking in your boobs right now? Okayā¦
The Bikini Girl: But give them a break, they were boys when they wrote those sketches. And they still are.
The Bikini Girl: But- oop, sorry, not these words- hello, hiā¦ Oooh, thatās a new letter, thatās funā¦Ā
The Bikini Girl: Oh, yes! They are still boys. Boys will be boys, girls will be girls, and please- oop, oh God! So many words!
The Bikini Girl: Boys will be boys, girls will be girls, and women will be two scawy, aah! Women awe scawy, cause itās Bikini Girl, remember? Bikini. Girl. To clarify, not Bikini Woman, it's an important distinction. Girl. Iām a girl. In a bikini. You put a girl in a bikini- thatās how you wrote it!Ā
The Bikini Girl: No Bikini Woman, because Bikini Women awe so scawy! women awe so scawy, ugh! Whatās under your blouse, two perfectly round guns?! OOh!!
The Bikini Girl: Donāt worry, Ian and Anthony had grown so much since then. Theyāre self-aware now, and how problematic it is, and theyāll do it anyway!
The Bikini Girl: Um, I love you both. But, if you want me to come back it will be on my terms. Okay? And those terms are:
The Bikini Girl: Let a woman into the writers room, literally any woman.
The Bikini Girl: Also, let the writers room be a jacuzzi, yay! (starts squealing and jumping up)
The Bikini Girl: If anyone objects to these terms, speak now or forever hold your penis!
???: We object!
(Camera cuts towards the corridor that Brandon walked through, revealing two people standing in it)
.
The Custodians
(Rhett and Link slowly walk up to the podium, as The Bikini Girl skips back to her seat)
The Bikini Girl: (waving over her shoulder) Hi daddies!
Both: (eyes trailing her) Hiā¦
Rhett: We object and I am holding my penis.
Link: Sorry we didnāt dress to the occasion, we know that we arenāt guests thatā¦ you wanted to invite.
Rhett: Definitely not the first choice.Ā
Link: Uh, yeah. Ianās Mom didnāt wanna come, she has a āgirlfriend experienceā scetchuled for her top OnlyFans payer.
Rhett: She also said that five minutes were not enough time to say all the things she wanted to say about the emaciated cuck of a son.
Link: We donāt know why you guys just didnāt invite some cancelled YouTubers that appeared on the Smosh channels over the years. Isnāt that a pattern? A YouTuber comes over, they get cancelled? Why canāt you just forgive them the way fans forgive Shaynes new show?
Rhett: *ekhm* Or did they notā¦
Rhett: You know, itās honestly hard to come up with something bad to say about (gestures with both hands) this guy, like. Anthony Padilla is just a genuinely good guy, right? But, you know, now that heās passed I think this is a perfect opportunity for us to reveal the real story of what happened when Ian and Anthony came to us wanting to buy Smosh back, okay?
Rhett: So thereās a story in the press that makes everybody look good, and then thereās the truth. And it didnāt start when we bought Smosh, or when we sold Smosh- It started the day that We Bought Smosh.
Link: Youāre right. And from the beginning we were always like, yeah, it would be great if Anthony came back, weāre open to it! But the moment we brought it up with Ian he said, and I quote: āFUCK THAT GUY!!ā
Link: āHEāS OVER THERE FUCKING- SPENDING DAYS WITH PEOPLE!! AND THAT MOTHERFUCKER ISNāT ACTUALLY SPENDING A DAY WITH PEOPLE, HEāS SPENDING HOURS WITH PEOPLE!!! HEāS SUCH A FUCKING LIAR!!! I HATE THAT BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL MAN!!!
Link: Thatās what he said.
Rhett: (nodding) Yeah, I remember that. I was there.
Rhett: But over time Ian had a change of heart, he came to us and said āI feel like I need to rekindle my friendship with Anthony before Iām older than Rotten Tomatoes audience score for Smosh: The Movieā
Rhett: (looks into the camera) And if youāre at home taking shots every time somebody makes a joke about Smosh: The Movie, take your third shot.
Link: So then one day Ian and Anthony together showed up at our office to say (turns towards Rhett) they wanted to buy Smosh backā¦?
Rhett: (nodding) Mhm
Link: ā¦from us.
Rhett: Yup.
Link: And in order to tell you exactly how that went, umā¦ letās roleplay.
(Link rips his shirt open)
(Rhett pulls out a Sharpie and starts to draw over his chest and arms)
Link: Hands, get the handsā¦ and there (points at his neck and shows it to Rhett)
Rhett: Iāve never seen the backā¦ (starts to smear all over Links chest)
Link: (flinches back) Hey- donāt get the nipple!
ā¦
Rhett: Alright! (claps) Iāll be Anthony.
Link: ā¦
(Link starts to put his shirt back)
Link: Ugh, whateverā¦
Courtney: Theyāre making you put it back on-?!
(Link continues to, slowly, put his shirt back on)
Link: Hold on! I-Iāll be usā¦
Rhett: Yeah, sure. This is exactly how it went down, okay?
(Rhett stands in front of Link, arms linked and head down)
Rhett: ā¦
Rhett: (In baby voice) Can we pwease have it back? Can we pwease have it back, can we-can we pwease? I meanā¦ We sold it fow fwee, can we get it back fow fwee?
Link: Anthony, itāsā¦ We canāt just sell it for free, I meanā¦ thereās still some value associated with it. I mean the main channel still has 36 million subscribers, and 1.5 of them- still watch, occasionally.
Rhett: And thatās when Anthony said:
(Rhett starts to exaggeratedly hyperventilate and clench his hands)Ā
Rhett: Iāll do anything man, listen- (leans really close to Link) Iāll show you my secret for making my interviews not interestingā¦
Rhett: (rears back and starts waving his hands around) Oh, no no no, I got it-! I got it-! I got it-!Ā
Link: Yeahā¦?
Rhett: Iāll keep making the same shitty content that Ian has been making without meā¦
Rhett: Oh, no no no, I got it-! I got it-! I got it - Iāll give you 10 plain black T-shirt thatās like 7000$...
Rhett: Or, no no no, Iāll spend a dayā¦ (leans in really close to Link) with your wifes.Ā
Link: He- he did say that.
Rhett: Oh, no no no, I, uhm, I, uh, I- IāLL TEACH YOU GUYS HOW TO SUCK YOUR OWN DICK!!! WHY DO YOU THINK I STARTED TO DO ALL THAT YOGA?! TO SUCK MY OWN DICK! AND NOW I CAN- I CAN SHARE MY KNOWLEDGE WITH YOU GUYS!! I CAN TEACH YOU HOW TO SUCK MY- YOUR OWN DICK!!!
Link: And Iāve said: Heh, youāve got a deal!
Link: Ian was ecstatic, but he had three requirements for the deal to go trough:
Link: Uh, he wanted to ensure that he would continue to only give at most 30% effort, at any moment.
Link: Um, he also wanted to keep parking his Porsche next to his editorsā Honda Civicsā¦?
(Ian is shown nodding along, mouthing āyeahā several times)
Link: And he really wanted to make sure that he could still drink breast milk from a hydro flask at every singleā¦ meetingā¦?
Rhett: Yeah. And we denied all these requests but he caved really quickly. The deal went through, we added a clause to the agreement though and that was:
Rhett: In case of Anthonyās death, Smosh reverts to us. (spreads arms) So youāre looking at your new owners again!
(Ian is shown acting distraught at this)
Link: Of course weāre too busy to be involved at day-to-day level so weāll bring a new CEO, heās great. Heās from the companyā¦ (snaps to remember) Whatās it called again?
Both: (pointing at each other) Oh! Defy Media!
Link: Dustin Diamond?
(they proceed to walk down towards the audience seats, not saying anything else. Their place takes The Chosen)
.
The Chosen
(The Chosen walks up to the podium, stands with his back to the audience, then looks over his shoulder all badass. He then turns back completely, leaning with his hands on the podium)
The Chosen: Greetings. I am the Chosen.
The Chosen: Youāre probably wondering why I look so badass right nowā¦ Itās because weāre on a cusp of the greatest battle in the entire history of the whole universeā¦ And also I got queso on my three-wolves-moon shirtā¦ And I fell off my razor scooter on the way here.
The Chosen: Laying before us (turns towards Anthony) is the greatest adversary, in all of human history. (turns back)
The Chosen: The final boss: Anthony Padilla.
The Chosen: *deep sigh* If he reawakensā¦ the world will be thrown into a freaking. Hellscape.
The Chosen: Tragically, it wasnāt always meant this wayā¦Ā
The Chosen: In fact, believe it or notā¦ Anthony was onceā¦ The Greatest Chosen to ever exist.
(audience gasps)
The Chosen: His tale begins eons ago, the year 2005. Merely 4 years after 9/11, Anthonyās powers wereā¦ undeniable.
The Chosen: He created Smosh entirely by himself. And he was a Master of Coding - which is code for being able to use code.
The Chosen: Despite this, The Chosen Council was sceptical. You see, Anthony didnāt look like your typical Chosen. His appearance could be only described asā¦ (glances at Anthony) Magician with allegationsā¦ Or if Pete Wentz was white.
The Chosen: Despite my protests, The Chosen Council denied him. So, Anthony had to carve his own path. He left Smosh, and after making some of the worst content known to menā¦ he decided to spend a day with every kind of person, absorbing their powers.
The Chosen: Artists, scientists, survivors, satanists, furries andā¦ Dream.
The Chosen: He truly spent a day with every kind of person besides an acting coach.
The Chosen: When he returned to Smosh, his powers were so great he had gained power to alter environments - like how he completely erased the entire cast from the main Smosh channel. But these powers proved to be too temptingā¦
The Chosen: Anthony began to stray from the light - he stopped gaming, and began to cover his body in stupid tattoos that, unlike mine, do not come off in two to three washes.
The Chosen: Worst of allā¦ Anthony Padillaā¦ had sex!
(audience gasps)
The Chosen: (progressively louder and angrier) He broke the sacred No-Fap Rule of The Chosen! With every excruciating nut, his personality became more cringe! With every devastating bust, his content became more like Jubilee!! He comet his entire purpose away!!!
The Chosen: Until he became (turns towards Anthony) Calamity Chosen!
The Chosen: And no matter what I did I couldnāt stop him! (turns towards Anthony)
The Chosen: You were The Chosen one! It was you whoād bring the balance to Smosh, not leave it in darkness! You were my brother, Anthony! I loved you!
The Chosen: *sigh* (turns his back towards the audience) I couldnāt save himā¦ I failed us. (turns back)
The Chosen: And now, on this very nightā¦ Calamity Chosen will return.
(starts humming repeatedly āpaā to the Avengers credits music cadence)
ā¦
The Chosen: In order to defeat himā¦ it will require every Chosen in the known multiverse, including The Chosens in this very room whoāve been lying dormant, awaiting for this very moment. Prepare now, to be Chosen!
The Chosen: Brandon Rogersā¦ is Chosen. His ability to hold time is impressive. His YouTube channel has stayed in 2015 for 8 years.
The Chosen: Courtney Miller is Chosen! Itās fascinating to witness what a middle schooler would be like at 28 years old.
The Chosen: Arasha is NOT Chosen. She is more of a ChoseMe.
The Chosen: Tommy! Tommy is Chosen. Because being gay is a choice.
(general sounds of disagreement)
The Chosen: Just-! Just kidding. Being gay is not a choiceā¦ but being depressed is.
The Chosen: Angelaā¦ is Italian.
The Chosen: Amanda is not Chosen, because she looks like shit, smells like shit, and is overall a massive piece of shit!
(Amanda is shown flipping him off with both hands while laughing)
Amanda: Fuck youā¦
The Chosen: Ianā¦ *sigh* Anthonyās sidekick.
The Chosen: Believe it or not, you are Chosen. The plot of Five Nights At Freddys is actually based on Ianās experiences at Chuck E Cheese. Just ask Matpat whoās here- (starts frantically looking around) Is he not here-? Oh shit, Matpat was supposed to be here. Oh, weāre fucked-!
The Chosen: No, weāre not. Okay! Chosens, weāve got this!
(takes out a katana from scabbard on his back)
The Chosen: The battle against Anthony will be fierce! But if we stand together we can defeat him! And once we do, we will dine (raises the fist with a katana into the air) at Chillies!!!
(Shayne walks down from the podium, surrounded by ovations. His place takes up The Vessel.)
.
The Vessel
(Angela walks up to the podium)
The Vessel: Hey everybody! Itās, um Angela. Sorry, Iām just not feeling so well-
(Her eyes start rolling, she starts gasping and grunting as a much raspier voice speaks through her)
The Vessel: Itās me! The Vessel! Iām your daddy and Iām gonna eat your ass family style! Agh!
The Vessel: Oh guys, sorry that was weird-
The Vessel: Itās me, The Chat! Taking over to roast Anthonyās itty-bitty assy! These are directly submitted by you guys, the fans! *verbally keysmashes*
The Vessel: Ugh! Letās begin the roast, okay?! Yeah!
The Vessel: You all submitted over 6 thousands roasts; there are just some of them- JK, just the good ones! *gibberish*
The Vessel: /105punkroad said: āAnthony is so vegan that he canāt even eat pussyā *laughs maniacally*
The Vessel: /Amy wrote: āAnthony looks like if a 5 year old drew her imaginary boyfriendā Uggh! These are fucking good!
The Vessel: /Brett wrote: āAnthony is like if a Skunk became a real boy.ā
The Vessel: /ClaireVamp wrote: āAnthony is the first straight man to experience twink death.ā
The Vessel: /Darwin wrote: āAnthony looks like he goes āwhereās my hug at?ā to peopleā Agh! That was a good one!
The Vessel: /MJPXD - sick nick by the way - wrote: āAnthony Padilla: died byā¦ chickwin. ā¦ Joulkink. ā¦ Chelkin?
Ian: Jelqing!
The Vessel: I donāt know what that word is! *verbal keysmash* Fuck!
The Vessel: /PageAshlyn wrote: āThe lines on Anthonyās body are the failed attempts to find the clit.ā
The Vessel: /Cecile(?) wrote: āWe all know Josh can find the citorys-! (looks back down) ā¦huh? ā¦ Thatās what it read. Nevermind-
The Vessel: /CD4999 wrote: āAnthony is like if you took an image of every Johnas Brothers, compressed it into one and then made it into a JPEG, sounds like it tooā *verbal keysmash*
The Vessel: /QR(?) wrote: āYou might be wondering why itās never Anthony and Ian - itās actually because Ian always comes firstā Oh! This is some good shit!
(Both Anthony and Ian are shown facepalming)
The Vessel: /Jenna wrote: āHey Anthony, are you Keithās cancer? Because Iām sure as fuck happy youāre goneā Aagh! That one hurt even for me!
The Vessel: /CJ wrote: āSmosh is (?) for mentally illā That one hurt to say, CJ.
The Vessel: /(?) wrote: āArasha loves the Bollywood movie ā3 Idiotsā. Funny enough, that's the equivalent of brain cells she has.ā
(audience boos, shaking their heads in disappointment)
The Vessel: ā¦ It was more of a comment than a joke, my guy. Ughhā¦
The Vessel: /swagmoneypugs wrote: āThe Chosen has baby nipplesā *chortles*
(camera shows everyone turning towards Shayne to look at his chest and many of them comments that itās true; he looks down with a sad face)
The Vessel: /anonymous wrote: āIan is like if Chanse was gayā
(everyone is shown to be confused)
(Amanda gasps suddenly)
The Vessel: (deep breath) Oh! Thank God I didnāt have to say anything mean-!
(she starts gasping again)
The Vessel: When Anthony laughs, it kinda sounds like this: *fake-sounding laugh* It sounds like a dolphin on a first date, ugh-! Just kidding! That was me, I just did it in the voice.
(The Vessel walks down the podium and The Pastor replaces her on it)
The Pastor: Alright, *clap* letās give it up to The Vessel (claps) ā¦ Wow. Frickinā... a lot of-... a lot of vagina jokesā¦ which is fine.
The Pastor: Also, letās give it up one more time for Shayne. (claps)
The Pastor: You know, both Shayneās father and grandfather were pilots in the military, which explains why Shayne is able to go under the radar of Hollywood for so long.
(Shayne is shown covering his face as if in shame)
The Pastor: Well folks, we are nearing the end of this live and look! We didnāt have to make a single cringy-ass life video!
The Pastor: You see, Anthony made two of them - because after the first one, he had notes.
The Pastor: Howeverā¦ There was one more secret that was kept this entire time, and I think itās about time for this secret to be uncovered. (to the audience) Are you guys ready for this? Are you ready?
(Everyone nods in confirmation)
The Pastor: ā¦The secret is, that I was the hot one!
The Pastor: (in goofy excederated voice) Yeaah! Thatās right! It was me! You donāt believe me?! You want proof?!! Okay! Youāll get proof! (pulls out a framed picture) This is Anthony as a baby!
(audience screams in shock)
The Pastor: Thatās right! THAT (points at picture) is actually Anthony! This ice climber with frostbite was Anthony! This is The Hot One?! I donāt think so! What, was his motherās womb full of bees?!
The Pastor: I mean, heās got the- heās got the hairline of a 50 year old construction worker! After I saw this photo, I had to google if Benjamin Button disease was a real thing! Iā¦ It looks like heās cringing it- all the cringe content that heās about to create! (puts the picture down) But reallyā¦- (picks it back up) Iāll just show it one more time, Jesus Christ. Thatās- thatās bad. (puts it back down)
The Pastor: ā¦ *sigh* Okay, letās never see that again.
The Pastor: Uhm, but now that itās settled, I think we all can finally lay Smoshās second hottest member to rest. But before I do that, I just wanna say, [insert quick genuine comment about Anthony]...- Oh, sorry. The writers put that in there for me, but I couldnāt come up with a nice thing to sayā¦ (shrugs) Sorry.
The Pastor: (turns towards Anthony) But- But seriously though, I feel so fortunate to have become your friend again. And, honestly, I probably wouldāve still been working at Chuck E Cheese if it wasnāt for everything that you did for Smosh.
(Anthony is shown listening intently, tearing up a bit)
The Pastor: You are one of the hardest workers, you have such a great eye for content. Iām so proud to be down this path with youā¦ (spreading arms towards Anthony)Ā I love youā¦?
(audience is shouting in surprise)
The Pastor: Soā¦ Now that itās been all told, I think thereās just one more thing thatās left to doā¦ *deep sigh* I have to show Anthony my cock.
(Ian starts walking towards Anthony, grabbing himself by the front of his pants)
(suddenly, Anthony sits up with a gasp)
.
The Dead
(Audience screams in shock and Ian stumbles back, as Anthony sits up in his casket. He stretches, yawing, then rubs his eyes)
The Dead: Sorry, gotā¦ water in my eyes, becauseā¦ that was about to come out and it isā¦ onion. Yeah.
(takes out a piece of paper and unfolds it)
The Dead: Good. All goodā¦ Woah! Thank you all so much for that! That was the most affordable version of āUndercover Bossā (looks sternly and points at everyone in a sweep, then tapps his ear) Iāve been listening the whole time.
(looks down at the paper)
The Dead: āWhile itās honestly been so much fun etc.ā
The Dead: First of all I just wanted to say, thank you for recycling the same three jokes, over and over. Um, before we bought Smosh I had a feeling this would happen and I wrote down a fewā¦ guesses of what you would talk about. Letās see how many of those I got right:
The Dead: (reading off the paper) Something about my tattoos, something about my clothes, something about me leaving, something about me being vegan, something about my obsession with yoga, something about my dick piercing, something about my hairā¦
(the whole audience erupts into questions)
Chanse: Wai-wait, what was the last one?
The Dead: The hair.
Chanse: Before that!
Audience #1: The other one!
Audience #2: We need proof!
(everyone cracks up)
The Dead: Pretty much covers it, right? Uhmā¦ Yeah, I really wrote that beforehand, itāsā¦ crazy.
The Dead: Iām not gonna counter-roast. Iāll let you bask in- in what you just said and feel bad, for what you just saidā¦ Yeah.
The Dead: (snaps his fingers) Like (points) Shayne, for example. ā¦ You are funnier than Ian and me combined. ā¦ Thatās like two Ianās and ten meās.
The Dead: I wonāt talk about how you were once known for a promising TV careerā¦ and now youāre known for wearing a T-Shirt with limes on it. ā¦
The Dead: And also I just want to say, Iām grateful for your laugh. Youāre the only one that can laugh louder than me, andā¦ you also remind us that Smosh Games was supposed to be funny.
The Dead: ā¦
The Dead: ā¦Iām not done, with you Shayne. I used to forget how to spell- I used to forget what your last name was. Entirely. But then, I remembered that youāre top-heavy, like a sexy dreidel.
The Dead: ... (snaps his fingers) Ian. I have so much to say to you in a second. But firstā¦ (points)
The Dead: Arasha. In the past six years that Iāve gotten to know you-
(audience is confused)
The Dead: Sorry, six months! Iāve been stalking you-. Itās been great to see you grow into your own voice at Smosh. But there is somethingā¦ That I have been made aware of, that Iād like to address, now. Live. Youāre in an ad for republican dating appā¦?
(gasps and yells of shock)
The Dead: ā¦Where you essentially call guy a cuck for wearing a fanny pack?
The Dead: But donāt worry! Donāt worry, okay? Iām happy to let everyone know that weāre fully restructuring the vetoing process here at Smosh! ā¦ From now on weāre only hiring republicans. (hyping her up) Keep up the good work! Letās go Brandon-!
The Dead: Rogers. ā¦ Brandon Rogersā¦ is if the Joker bought a ring light.Ā
The Dead: When I describe our friendship to people, I describe it as ā¦ āfriends that have done shrooms togetherā type of friends. Yeahā¦ which means we were either really close or were on some YouTuber party and some YouTuber brought shrooms, and letās just say - there is a huge difference between 10$ shrooms, and 1 million shrooms. Huge differenceā¦
The Dead: (looks towards audience) That being said, donāt do drugs.
The Dead: But speaking of drugs - Keith.
(everyone bursts out laughing)
Keith: ā¦What?
The Dead: Just want to sayā¦ it has been amazing, watching you go through this journey and Iāmā¦ so impressed for overcoming and survivingā¦ that wasnāt easy. ā¦ Smoshās 8 Am call times.
Keith: I- I- I get here at 8:15.
The Dead: You will always be an inspiration, and a heroā¦ for being able to coast, for years, by saying Big Dick Bee one time.
Keith: ... *defensive* Thatās iconicā¦
The Dead: Speaking of creatures that I need a flyswatter to fend off, Angela.
The Dead: I wasnāt here when you got hired, but I quickly realised that the word is a better place because you are hereā¦
(some of the audience is cooing)
The Dead: If you were a teacherā¦ kids would think 9/11 just happened. If you were a lifeguardā¦ you would use fallopian tube as a live preserver. If you were a mortician, you would accidentally drink formaldehyde. If weāre keeping you employed, the world is a much better, safer place.
The Dead: But seriously, Iām so happy that youāre in a cast- That- That you were cast.
(Angela rolls her eyes and rolls up her sleeve, patting the cast she has on her left arm)
The Dead: Speaking of formaldehydeā¦ Celsius Energy fan number one, Chanse
The Dead: Chanse, Iām so sorry I came back to Smosh and ruined your one joke, saying āWhoās Anthony?ā over and over and overā¦
The Dead: But seriously, youāre like a little brother to meā¦ (starts pulling out his phone) Which is weird, because you slide into my DMs, all the time?
Chanse: (Nodding proudly) I do.
The Dead: All the time!
Chanse: (shrugs) *smugly* You responded.
(Anthony does an offended face, while everyone is losing their shit)
The Dead: ā¦ Like the other day, for example, I post this selfie and you said:
Chanse: (gestures at his neck) And whereās my collar?
The Dead: ā¦ Are you proud of that?
(Chanse nods)
The Dead: Speaking of pride, Tommy.
The Dead: Tommy, you are really, really, really special.
The Dead: ...
(people start laughing)
The Dead: That wasnāt the joke!
Audience: Oh, sorry!
The Dead: Youāreā¦ on a special list of members at Smoshā¦ on camera, despite not being a cast member at all. (starts pointing at things) Youā¦ grey couchā¦ red phoneā¦ and Spencer. ā¦
The Dead: But seriously, I love how well you work behind the scenes and in front of the camera, I love that youāre an entertainer, and I love your personal YouTube show, servingā¦ (looks down at the paper) where you serveā¦ C-wordā¦-
The Dead: (looks behind the camera) Am I- am I actually allowedā¦ to say thatā¦? (nods and gives thumbs up, presumably back) Good to go. (turns towards Tommy) Clinical depression.
The Dead: Also I heard you readed your wardrobe and youāre desperately looking for someone toā¦ tell you look good, I hope you find that.
The Dead: Alrightā¦ Ian. Listen to what I have to say to Courtney.
The Dead: Courtney, we have known each other for so long, and since coming back to Smosh I was surprised how everyone grew and evolved - youāve grown into such an independent creator. You directed this whole funeral - round of applauseā¦ (starts clapping)
(everyone cheers and claps)
The Dead: ā¦But there are some glaring issues, if you donāt mind.
The Dead: Um, let me just say - the trailer was amazing, no notes. The show? Some notes.
The Dead: First off, I wanted to commend you directing in a bikini. I've heard Steven Spilberg did this on the set of āJawsā. Right up there.
The Dead: Uhm, and your acting is really great and Iāve seen you have improved over the last years - you acted like you have never heard any of these jokes before, despite being in the all writers rooms.
The Dead: Also (points down), can I just note that this coffin is the most uncomfortable piece of shit Iāve ever sat inā¦ I had to prop myself up this entire time with myā¦ body, because otherwise Iām gonna fall off and break this flimsy piece of shit.Ā
The Dead: Uhmā¦ I had to prop myself up just likeā¦ I haveā¦ My number one thing on Smosh is to prop you up. Remind you that you are talented AND funny, can you PLEASE stop doubting yourself?! ā¦ Canāt you just do it yourself?Ā
The Dead: Like, I have a lot important things to do- I have more important things to doā¦ Like bouncing off this fucking ledge. Iām serious, my- myā¦ dick has fallen asleep. ā¦ And I donāt know if itās the coffin, or if the show is just boring for my dick, whichā¦ Which is weird because my dick is usually very engaged.
The Dead: But I should- I should give you some slack though, directing is a very tall orderā¦
The Dead: Amanda.
The Dead: You are the warm hug of Smosh. And I mean that. When I hug- when I hugged you earlier it was very warm, did you piss yourself?
Amanda: ā¦ Yes. I didnāt have time to go-
The Dead: It is so warm!
Amanda: Yeah. Iām sorry about that.
The Dead: You have such energy itās hard to put into wordsā¦ but I will try.
The Dead: Youāre like ifā¦ Jessica Rabbit drove a minivanā¦
Amanda: ā¦Oh my God, I love that!
The Dead: Youāre like, if Betty Boop listened to true- true crime podcastsā¦
Amanda: *clap* I fucking love it..!
The Dead: Youāre like if Marge Simpson was Marge Simpson.
(Amanda is shown scrunching her nose in disgust)
Amanda: Ewā¦
The Dead: Speaking of questionable parents that keep eating disgusting shit all the time, Rhett and Link.
The Dead: When I was gone it was so comforting that Smosh was in hands of such capable leadership, and if you guys (?) that would be great. You saw Smosh through its most difficult days and you kept it Smosh alive so I could join up after Iāve done some growing myself.
The Dead: Youāre like Smoshās divorced parents, andā¦ you should keep the kids, and by that I mean (points) Chanse. (shoos him away) Go on, go on! You can visit on weekends, you can call Link daddy now. Be careful! Watch out, he DMs!
The Dead: Which brings me to the man of the hourā¦ Ian.
The Dead: One thing I know abou Ian is, he may have some problems showing emotions, andā¦
(Ian stares directly into a camera like in The Office)
The Dead: ā¦And since Iāve known him for 24 years, Iāve learned that he just has a unique way of conveying them. Iāll explain it to all of you
The Dead: If Ianās nervousā¦ he hides it by subtly burping mid sentence. And it works! Nobody thinks heās insecure, just that heās disgusting!
The Dead: (turns towards the camera) Why donāt you ever cut it out by the way, āOh, the video is too long-ā Just cut. Out. All the burps!
The Dead: If heās trying to impress someoneā¦ heāll lie.Ā
Ian: Wha-?
The Dead: Okay, so fans may recall that in 7th grade-
(Ian rolls his eyes and throws his hands up)
The Dead: -Iāve told him that Iāve kissed a girl - and yes, this is coming up again - I kissed a girl, and Ian goes āOh, I kissed a girl too! She goes to another schoolā... And also you may remember that, his first kiss was in my bedroomā¦ while I was kissing my girlfriend-
The Dead: Donāt worry though, I did not look! I was busy. But I did hear some sounds, mostly asking her if he could kiss her-
(Ian is shown pinching his nose in exasperation)
The Dead: And donāt worry, Ian is a consent King! I heard every 3 seconds - can I still kiss you? Can I still kiss you? Are sure you wanna- *burps* -still kiss me?
The Dead: Another tell is when Ian wants to confront you, heāll sneak around you. When weāre in highschool I found out he was hanging out with these two girls, at the mall, and he didnāt invite me-
(Ian facepalms)
The Dead: -Which is weird, because we used to hang out every single day. And when I confronted him, he said āevery time you hang out with girls you date themā.
(Ian throws his hands up)
Ian: ā¦True!
The Dead: But Ianā¦ you should have invited me, I would have protected you. These girls made you buy skinny jeans that dayā¦ and I wouldāve never done something so terrible. Skinny jeans were my thing back then, and 20 years after that.
The Dead: If Ian is lonelyā¦- Ian is lonely if he third wheels with me and my girlfriend, and you can tell that Ian has a girlfriendā¦ when heās gone entirely. Yeah.
The Dead: But alsoā¦ (pulls out his phone) when you got him you gotta lock him in, okay? You gotta lock him in because itās really hard when you flirt with Ian. Hereās my impression of Ian flirting:
The Dead: Have you seen this? Have you seen this? (holds up his phone next to him with sad face, staring blankly forward)
(Sad violin starts playing loudly, as a guy says that āthis is what people on Titanic might have sounded like.ā Then the video plays sounds of people screaming in panic, with the sad violin still playing. This goes on for about 20 seconds)
Ian: Works, every time!
The Dead: (turns off the video) ā¦It does.
The Dead: But for real, thank you, thank you, thank you so much. I really appreciate you welcoming- welcoming me back to Smosh, and Iām really proud of every single person here at Smosh, every person that's ever touched the show. Everyone that made this happen, turned this into the biggest event in Smosh history.
The Dead: I really appreciate all you, for showing me love, by roasting and berating me, I really appreciate it.Ā
The Dead: And, umā¦ Iām just so grateful for you.
The Dead: Ian said when we bought back Smosh, āIf we burn it to the ground, Iām happy to do that with youā...
The Dead: And after tonightā¦ sounds pretty good, Iām gonna burn this place down.
The Dead: (points towards the corridor) You got- you all got five minutes to get the fuck out.
