There is only Faygo. No milk, no beer, no liquor has graced us in decades. There is only the artificial taste of Faygo. No one even likes it. You take a drink.

A small child tries to fold a paper airplane. He looks down and is upset to see a Ford truck, folded perfectly. It is an F-150. He tries to make an airplane again. This time he folds a Model T. He begins to cry.

“The water is clean!” Cries Flint mayor Dayne Walling. Brown water with sediment still flows from our taps. “The Flint River isn’t polluted anymore!” He insists nervously. Beads of sweat form on his brow. He clutches a bottle of Evian water in his sweaty hand.

The potholes move and grow at night, they consume cars and children alike. My father had to drive to Detroit last week. ‘Beware of the potholes,’ I warned him. I haven’t seen him since.

The sirens are tested every first Saturday of the month. You hear the sirens, but realize its only Friday. Its not the sirens, but children screaming instead.

The Detroit Red Wings never stop playing. There is a game every night. This has been going on for years and the players miss their families. Please let the Red Wings rest.

A body is pulled from the Flint River one hazy morning. The distant sound of Dayne Walling can be heard over the wind, “The water is clean!” He cries. The body resembles you.

person: haha are u a boy are a girl

me: i do not exist on a physical plane. i am an abstract concept living in a complicated dimension that to your mortal senses can be best described as a strange buzzing noise

person: but-

me:  you ask me for a hamburger. my attempt to reciprocate is cut brutally short as my body experiences a sudden lack of electrons. across a variety of hidden dimensions you are dismayed. john lennon hands me an apple, but it slips through my fingers. i am reborn as an ocelot. you disapprove. a crack echoes through the universe in defiance of conventional physics as cosmological background noise shifts from randomness to a perfect A flat. children everywhere stop what they are doing and hum along in perfect pitch with the background radiation. birds fall from the sky as the sun engulfs the earth. you hesitate momentarily before allowing yourself to assume the locus of all knowledge. entropy crumbles as you peruse the information contained within the universe. a small library in phoenix ceases to exist. you stumble under the weight of everythingness, your mouth opens up to cry out, and collapses around your body before blinking you out of the spatial plane. you exist only within the fourth dimension. the fountainhead of all knowledge rolls along the ground and collides with a small dog. my head tastes sideways as spacetime is reestablished, you blink back into the corporeal world disoriented, only for me to hand you a hamburger as my body collapses under the strain of reconstitution. the universe has reasserted itself. a particular small dog is fed steak for the rest of its natural life. you die in a freak accident moments later, and you soul works at the returns desk for the phoenix library. you disapprove. your disapproval sends ripples through the inter-dimensional void between life and death. a small child begins to cry as he walks toward the stairway where his father stands.

I’m reading the Holes original post-apocalyptic nuclear war script and I’m sad that it was never made. Like Holes is good the way it is but this script is fucking wild