Order and Chaos

So, you're not Commun Marx, right? Not at all. You're this angel, a new cat fresh from Limbo named Grub. Now it ain't all halos and wings — matter of fact, not at all. And one thing you gotta learn is that your job description is whatever they tells ya it is.

Now this Eyeliza broad, she threw a spade in your hand and at first you thought she wanted you to dig, but then she told you to "cut" over and over again and apparently she wants you to play pretend. You gotta fake like you're Commun Marx and you're not sure that's even a real dude. At first you thought you didn't know what you were doing, but now you're starting to think that Eliza doesn't even more than you do. So to speak, she just can't fill Lexos' throne.

And you know how much that matters? Not a gods damned lick, 'cause it's showtime, baby.

Bells a-ring. Ms. Get-An-Eyeful pulls the antenna out on her cell phone, adjusts her tie, and nods a couple times. She thinks you can't see her. (What'sa point of alla them eyes?)

"Alright Grub," she slams the antenna back down, "I think we've narrowed down on a charming rough-hewn quality and I don't wanna over-rehearse you. So we're putting rubber to ground and getting this show on the road! There's been a change of plans, though: Greg's a no-show, so we gotta scrap the lightning. Which means you're gonna have to get creative with killing Commun Marx and taking his place yourself. Okay? Okay. Great! Action!"

Before I could stammer out my waits and my whats, zip and zap, there I am, a celest standing in the middle of the Meadowlands looking every bit the part of some leathery old economist without so much as a knife or a rock to my name. Just great. Now what's the big idea, ya bozos?