After watching Christopher Nolan’s bank account grow in real time, Alan sleeps peacefully. His dreams about Catwoman’s jumpsuit are interrupted by furious knocking.
Alan: It’s 2 AM. If it isn’t life or death, I don’t care.
Byron: Look in the backseat. Cammy’s not moving.
Alan: I’m sure I’ll know what to do in the morning.
Byron: Alan! Come on!
Alan: She doesn’t look so bad.
Byron: Her pulse is getting weaker. One minute, she’s saying something about some dude named Tzara, the next she’s knocked out.
Alan: Is she breathing?
Byron: I think so.
Alan: Then it can wait until morning.
Byron: Are you serious?! What if she dies?
Alan: She won’t die. I’ve seen this before.
Byron: What? When?
Alan: The same thing happened last summer. She’s in an ironic coma. It happens if she sees too many good films in a row.
Byron: Is this a prank?
Alan: No, I could do better. You see, irony is like insulin for Cammy. Without it, she goes into shock.
Byron: You’re telling me she literally needs shitty movies to survive.
Alan: No, that’d be ridiculous.
Byron: Good, I-
Alan: Television works as well. But she does require schlock to live.
Byron: I think she’s bleeding through her ears.
Alan: Ah, a severe case. I’ll have to get something from the vault.
Byron: And that would be?
Alan: Repo! The Genetic Opera.
Byron: Maybe we should let her die instead.
Alan: I take it you’re familiar?
Byron: No, I just see Paris Hilton’s name on the box. After The Hottie and the Nottie, I can’t let that go.
Alan: We don’t have a choice. She’s getting blood on my couch.
After several moments of soul-searching, Alan bites the bullet and presses play. Cammy springs to life one minute into the first overwrought, under-produced musical number.
Cammy: This is it! The Sultan of suck. The Kwizatz Haderach of failure. The nexus of shit. This is the movie at the end of the universe! And it’s glorious.
Byron: Kwiz-what who?
Cammy: Read a book. Then maybe you’ll have the words to describe what you’re witnessing.
Alan: The simultaneous violation of my ears and eyes? I’m surprised the director didn’t find a way to cause tactile pain while he was at it.
Cammy: Give him time. I’m sure this is the beginning of a long career in pseudo-gothic trash.
Alan: Great. Will you two leave now?
Byron: Are you okay? You were out for a while.
Cammy: I’m more than okay. I’m FANTASTIC! Have you ever seen a movie shoot so high and fall so low?
Alan: Yes. Often.
Cammy: Rhetorical. My point is that this is a watershed moment in independently produced shit. An icon that its peers can be judged by for years to come. When our grandchildren ask why man deserves to live in an irradiated post-apocalyptic wasteland, we can whisper “Repo: The Genetic Opera.”
Alan: Deep. Can I go to bed now?
Byron: Why does this exist?
Alan: I’m guessing it’s a tax loophole.
Cammy: That’s a fine answer for Jack and Jill. Repo! is, strangely enough, a child of love. A child that happens to have fetal alcohol syndrome.
Alan: Too bad that child never learned music theory. You’d think the music would be square one for a musical. But only two characters can sing for shit, and every song sounds like it was written and produced by deaf chimps.
Cammy: Now, now. Deaf chimps don’t deserve that.
Alan: Everyone looks like the spawn of Tim Burton and Lady Gaga.
Cammy: Isn’t it great?
Byron: This is the first time I’ve seen you this happy sober.
Cammy: There’s nothing like experiencing this kind of thing with good frien-
Alan: I’m going to sleep. Get the fuck out of my house.