Written and directed by Chris Riker

K. So, I guess I’m writing and directing a scene for the fucking Neogenian movie now. So be it. Edward Furlong as Fat Jan, whose Immenseness is a prodigy. Something to behold, you know. Somehow, as with the Grand Canyon, the eye cannot take in the sheer scale of Fatso’s fatness. Philip Seymour Hoffman as Necrophil. Oh… Hoffman’s dead? Then someone get me his fucking ghost.

For months, Fat Jan has continuously rejected Necrophil’s advances. Necrophil takes Jan prisoner in his house in Creston where he tediously subjects His Majesty the Lardness to all his bottles of absinthe and their backstory, his Marilyn Manson memorabilia collection, and pictures of his dead cat Midnight. He makes an entire wardrobe out of Fat Jan’s skin but keeps the Fatness alive in a vat using the powers of “logic and reason”. Now, let’s map this shitshow out from the beginning.

Necrophil is absolutely degenerate. His disclosures to a former Neogenian moderator in private chats confirm this. He’s like a Woke, autistic version of the Marquis de Sade, whom he idolizes. Apparently, Necrophil wacks off at least five times a day and likes to zap himself with an electric wand. Let’s kick this scene off with Necrophil crying in his bed over pictures of his recently deceased cat, Midnight, that he would never fucking shut up about. Fucking cunts and their pets. Then, being the perverted swine that he is, he gets hard over the thought of death and starts swiping through screenshots of the Eternal Fatness … Jan the Man and gets to wackin’ and zappin’.

Necrophil is the definition of a deviant. He’s into scat. Revenge porn. Hardcore homoerotic gangrapes where a bunch of bears beat down and absolutely ravage some twink. Phillip, of the Necro type, wants to be the

twink. He lives to defile human flesh. To be defiled. He loves Jan. He wants to wear her. In his excitement, he sends Jan another message confessing his love for her/him/it and his longing to be with it. He tells the frigid blob, who hates the taste of cum and would rather jerk off her roommate Vince in lieu of paying rent than go out and get a real fuck, that he must have her and will not take no for an answer. This enrages the amorphous triglyceride mass, and she declares Necrophil anathema and canceled, then threatens to tell on him to Susan who no doubt is itching to diffuse more childish, hyper-emotionalist, retarded drama from within her own Neogenian inner circle. A common occurrence with the puffy Mormon.

Necrophil starts to panic. He doesn’t want to fall out of favor with Susan because he adores her head pats. He never got any heady patties from his real mommy, a fundamentalist Christian Trumpanzee, so he’ll stop at nothing to retain the favor of his Woke pseudo-mommy. Jan’s a fucking loose cannon. Something will have to be done about it. Necrophil then apologizes to the coagulated Mount Everest, temporarily making nice and upping his Patreon subscription to Mindless Gonad to ten bucks a month, buying himself the time needed to formulate his plan.

This will conclude the bedroom shot. Necrophil’s bedroom walls are lined with that 1970s-style wood paneling. There’s Manson posters all over, as well as posters of that fucking cringe band Ghost, which Necropants adores. Necrophil never mentally evolved beyond angsty 13- year-old boy.

The lighting will come from just two flickering incandescent bulbs on the ceiling. I’ll be filming this entire scene myself on a Sony FX6 that I jacked from some Woke hipster cunt I shit kicked at a music festival last summer.

The next shot will have Necrocreep sitting on his couch talking to the bloated bag of puss on his landline HyperPhone he got off the Neogenian grift market for 180 bucks where he used the one-time code “analplay” to save ten percent, thanks to the generosity of Morgue Official. Basically, he lures the fatso to his repugnant lair with the empty promise of six months of premium testosterone, a Sailor Moon DVD box set, sixteen pounds of uncut, Canadian back bacon, and all nine of ABBA’s studio albums on mint condition vinyl. He also offers to pay for her gas and to cover the cost of

her missing her only four-hour shift of the week at the farmers’ market, her sole contribution to the working world. She gets by grifting Vince and the government for handouts. She whines about this a lot on the phone call.

The 28-hour drive from Pacific Grove to Creston is too much for the epic beast to handle as her extreme obesity has rendered her back totally fucked, so Phillip ups the ante and offers to fly her in Woke class where she will be subjected to her very own safe space and all-you-can-gorge pizza buffet. Since Necro has no social life and no longer needs to worry about buying cat food, he has no problem footing the bill.

After lengthy deliberation, Fat Fuck Jan the Bloated ASS finally accepts the offer, but not before squeezing Philly for double the amount of back bacon, 50 gallons of vodka, 20 vape cartridges, and a 500-dollar gift card to Guns n Ammo. Philly is unperturbed. He knows he’s got her by the fake micro-cock now.

Over the duration of the phone call, the human skin mannequin will be pervertedly zapping himself with his electrowand, grinning proudly over his degenerate cunning. When he hangs up, he throws on his bootlegged vinyl copy of Marilyn Manson’s Smells Like Children album, and blasts Rock ‘N’ Roll Nigger as loud as it will go, as he spanks it to an old picture of him and his DEAD black cat, Midnight.

The next shot will be the arrival of Ms. Fatson at the Necrotic residence. She will be fully decked out in Lulu Lemon attire, at least three sizes too small, but seductive enough to entice Necrophil’s perverted member to immediately stand at attention. The depraved manchild will waste no time. He invites the fatness into his dimly lit living room where he has the flaccid lump take up real estate on his couch. He then offers to serenade her with his ocarina. (Seriously. This cunt has an ocarina he plays in real life. Just ask the former mod whom Necrophil helped to maliciously SWAT.) She bellows out a bemused cackle but accepts, much to her impending doom. He immediately busts out Zelda’s Lullaby and plays it flawlessly as he dances and twirls like an amused forest imp. Jan is out cold. Necrophil the Deviant hilariously dips his nut sack in Fatson’s yawning mug and winks at the camera to end the shot.

Fade to black and hold for ten seconds of silence. Camera on. Jan is

strapped to a wooden chair in an empty cellar in Necrophil’s basement. She’s staring at the camera, deadpan. A single light bulb is hanging and swaying a few feet above her fat fucking head. The she-beast is flummoxed. Catatonic. She starts tilting her gelatinous neck back and forth, quietly muttering “cis people are so fucked up” over and over. This goes on for a good minute. Then she looks down at her left arm and lets out a banshee scream. The skin from her elbow to her wrist is gone. All she can see is fat and sinew and some blood spotting here and there, but not much. Phillip, the Necro Man, out of view, chuckles and quips that that particular sample will make a good cock sock. Jan looks up at the camera again, fatly (I want to imply that Necrophil is directly behind the camera, the audience looking at Jan through his eyes). The beast then begins to cycle through the five stages of grief in a horrifically obese manner.

Denial. Jan refuses to accept that someone as pathetic, weak, effeminate, cowardly, dim, lonely, bald, treacherous, degenerate, and retarded could have possibly coaxed someone as self-evidently amazing as her into such a snafu. She gyrates and yells and bites down on her tongue in an attempt to wake herself up from this horrible dream, but to no avail. Necrophil, the dastardly fellow that he is, drops trou revealing the forearm sheath delicately wrapped around his cock and balls, reminding fatty fats of the reality of the situation. Philly boy laughs hysterically.

Anger. The Woke Berserker erupts. Jan’s portly face is as red as a tomato. Phillip does the helicopter with his junk, enraging the blob further. She vows to have him utterly canceled and even suggests banning him from her Patreon, even though she’d be absolutely destitute without that monthly ten spot. She toys with the idea of banning him from her YouTube channel, even though the shortage of narcissistic supply would kill her. She doesn’t care anymore. She would give her grotesque life away just to see this monster canceled with extreme prejudice. Necrophil jolts his left nipple with his zapper set to eleven. Jan shits herself with rage. Her first bowel movement in six days. The relief this brings allows her to move on to the next phase.

Bargaining. She almost gets the bastard here. One blow job a day for the rest of his life. She’ll even swallow. She even offers to help Necrophil lure his marks for skin extraction. She offers her hand in marriage. Anything.

Fuck, she’ll even type up a letter of recommendation to Susan to have Phillip, the Necrotic One, promoted to top gimp. But alas, the Autist de Sade cannot be swayed. His eyes locked on the smooth patch of skin occupying the whale’s inner thigh. Jan begs. She’s histrionic. Her tears only stoke the arousal in her captor.

Depression. Deadpan. Catatonic. Morose. The she-he-beast has lost all hope. She spits in Phillip’s direction. She farts uncaringly. She says she doesn’t give a fuck anymore. Just kill her. Necrophil says that won’t be necessary. He’s been planning this out for months. He has no need to kill her. In fact, she’ll be of extreme use to him alive and well. Her eyes widen though it’s hard to tell because of all the fat congealed around her eye sockets. She lifts her head. The lights flicker off, only for a moment. Lights on. Necrophil is now standing directly in front of the camera with his back to it. He walks toward his skin farm and admires his crop. Harvest season is here.

Acceptance. Jan Fatterson considers that her new life with her boo won’t be so bad. She’ll be fed. She won’t have to work the grueling four shifts per month. She can vape and pound back the voddy all she wants. She just won’t be able to leave The Vat. This is the device that will keep her alive while Phillip harvests her gigantic form for its skin. The colorless jelly that Jan will be submerged in will facilitate rapid skin growth and repair, allowing Necropants an unlimited supply of the precious dermal organ. He even offers to allow her to act as his fashion consultant, as he already has an exclusive contract with Morgue Official to sell his necrosuits on the online Neogenian grift market. There is no financial remuneration of course, but Morgue Official said he would allow Philly to continue moderating and teaching the WHOLE brainwashing classes while basking in the secondhand spotlight of a Z-list narcissist. Fucking deal.

To end the scene, Phillip gently takes his leave, reassuring Jan of her safety, and notifies the blob that he’ll be gone a few days attending a rally, but there’s plenty of pizza and beer and vape juice in the fridge next to the vat, within fat arms reach. Jan shits in the jelly but it’s immediately chemically broken down. She ponders if logic and reason could really do all this, or if it was some sort of magick?

You will notice I haven’t included character lines here or any kind of

script. It won’t be necessary. When it comes time to shoot, I’ll start chucking back thick lines of coke with Furlong and the ghost of Philip Seymour Hoffman and I’ll just get them to improv the whole fucking scene. They’ll have been tasked with preemptively studying Mindless Gonad and Neogenian Plagiarism deadstreams, so they will have the gist of it. I’m not trying to wow those faggots at the Academy or anything.

And that’s that. I’ll take my paycheck up front, you HollyWoke cunts.