They Return to the Villa

MS and BP, after systematically painting the town various shades of red and mahogany, return to their extravagantly decorated living room. MS sits in his black, high-backed, leather, heavily-padded king chair, and BP grabs a stool and snorts a quick line. Meanwhile, MS kicks his feet up on his desk and says in a leisurely tone, "The world could be ours. The world could be ours."

The musicians then phone short, amply muscled sherpa BK, just back from another Everest expedition, and engage in a conference call during which they brainstorm ways to make money to pay for their fledgling album, which without any shadow of a doubt will be hailed as a paragon of artistic genius, a fierce singular statement squelched too long by The Man, being The White Man. Their ideas range from the gutter to the sublime. They are sticks twisting in the wind.

(1) Enroll in Pfizer's phase II pharmaceutical trials. (Pfizer's headquarters is located but a mile from MS and BP's palatial estate). The money could be big, but phase II means you are the first human beings to try a drug formerly tested in dogs. Moreover, likely they would collect urine for a toxological screen to ensure that participants are not junkies.

(2) Sell their goods. But BP, after a long snort that leaves the tip of his nose heavily powdered, remarks that this would mean that they can no longer do their own stuff.

(3) Rob houses.

(4) Rob jewelry stores.

(5) Beg their parents for money.

(6) Make money legitimately, perhaps by bartending or waiting tables or washing dishes in a filthy kitchen.

(7) Look for twenty dollar bills people may have dropped on the street.

After some time, they tire under the weight of their ideas, and decide to hope to run into street bills. (A stiff moral sense is their tragic flaw). BK leaves the country again for another expedition. BP collapses in a pile of crank. And MS bites his nails, and thinks, "Money --> Power --> Women? Or is it, Power --> Money --> Women? Or maybe, Women --> Power --> Money? No, definitely not the last one." He retreats to his bedroom, where he cracks a book. Before he turns out his nightlight, he resolves, ultimately, that that shit don't matter. Though easy to say alone in your room.

Asleep, he dreams of places wide and far.