"Shitshow" sounds so crass. I prefer "fecal fiesta."

[Grand Moff Hissa]

Phillip Olivares' life was over. That was some bullshit.

No, really, fuck this.

He couldn't even begin to approach the subject of what was happening. Nope. First rule of magic was misdirection, and since the only way there was even half a hope of him doing anything other than getting dismem-bowled by all the crazy motherfuckers in his class was if some actual, literal, fucking-magnets-miracles tier magic came rolling down from on high, Phillip was doing his part by misdirecting his attention to everything except the reality of his situation.

Like, hey, look on the bright side: they gave him this sick-ass club/paddle thing with chunks of sharp obsidian all over the edges and this weird face on it. That was a pretty funny thing to be supposed to murder people with, so he could show whoever he met and they'd laugh and he'd laugh and then he'd go tap them with it and they'd pull his spine out his asshole like they were in Mortal Kombat or some shit like that. Okay, okay. That wasn't not thinking about impending death. Absurd, overblown images of his demise were still images of his demise and that wasn't what this was about. That was liable to get him hyperventilating and they'd left his inhaler but like, come on, he'd take rectal-gutting over dying of fucking asthma so there was no reason to roll the dice.

Jesus, he was breathing faster. He was wearing his bright rainbow tophat which was like a huge beacon to everyone nearby that he was there, but maybe it'd make him look harmless, or else maybe it'd work like poison dart frogs and shit, bright colors letting everyone know he was one badass motherfucker not to be trifled with. Maybe it could be both at once, like he'd be Schrodinger's psycho clown killer guy.

Wait, Phillip had this weird crazy thought all of a sudden and there was a camera right there and before he could think better he turned to it, tears in his eyes, and he spoke.

"H-hey," he said, "hey, um, hey, Violent J and Shaggy, I know you don't know who I am, and uh you probably don't fucking care, but like I just wanted to say thanks and all. You guys make good music and you gave me a place to feel like I wasn't a loser and I guess maybe the only good thing about this mess is that I can tell you that and maybe you'll hear? So like keep doing your thing and I don't know, I guess, I don't know, I feel..."

He'd been thinking like, maybe they'd do some big fucking tribute to him or something, but who was he kidding? What self-important bullshit was that? Was Phillip really going to try to cash in on his own impending death to get his favorite artists to mention him in a song or something? Hell no. Too much respect for that.

He looked at it again, solemn, eyes itching with tears, and nodded.

"Whoop whoop."

This was a big-ass forest, as an aside, with a whole lot of trees and not a whole lot of other stuff to see, and Phillip thought it could maybe be a good call to figure out where he actually was. You know, now that he'd made a national ass of himself. In fact, probably right now everyone was going "Look at the stupid juggalo kid, I bet he goes and gets himself killed right away by falling off a ledge or kicking a beehive or something." He was probably bringing shame on his people, his fam—

"..oh," Phillip said, turning back around. The grin he'd worn a moment ago, forced and manic as it had been, was wiped clean off his face. He took his tophat off and crumpled it up all small and stuffed it in his back pocket, kicked the dirt once, twice, looked at the camera again.

"I, uh, mom. Dad. Michele and Stan. I love you, okay? And I, um, I'll miss... I'm sorry... I love you. Okay?"

And asthma and the club and the hat and how he died all didn't seem to really mean that much anymore, so he turned and ran, ducking under branches, not a clue in his mind where he was heading.

((Phillip Olivares continued in Welcome To The Fucking Monkey House))