We, the readers, are greeted with a 12 point Times New Romans message, reading:
Denny, Chris R. needs you.
Denny wakes up in the middle of a hallway; the flooring is checkered and the walls a blank white color. He gets himself up and looks around the hallway, trying to balance himself up in his dreamy state. He sees a window on his right and looks through it; the outside is filled with stark black lines on a white background; there are some gray clouds thundering. This world is definitely not Earth.
He remembers the floating words, “Denny, Chris R. needs you.” Those words clutter up his thoughts. Who in the world is Chris R.?
He finds himself walking straight and there are faint sounds of screams and bullets. Denny decides to run to the scene to find out what is exactly going on. A white Victorian stairway pops up into view and Denny climbs it, reaching a closed wooden door. His right hand reaches for the brass doorknob, twisting it.
Click! The door squeaks.
It leads Denny outside and he can feel the harsh wind blowing; the strength of the wind makes Denny believe he is in the top floor. It looks like an empty rooftop.
A mid-sized figure lands on the center of the rooftop, his back facing Denny. He wears a black T-shirt and Denny can see some of his lacerations dripping blood. Sweat and panting. His head turns a bit towards Denny, angling his posture in a 45 degree manner. He opens his mouth.
Then, Denny can’t see him; some kind of black object moves too quickly to be seeable and apparently smacks the man off the rooftop. The object disappears. Denny sees an empty rooftop again.
Denny runs to find the man, but he can not find him. Looking down the rooftop, he sees floating debris that break the law of gravity; the clouds are at the same level as the debris. Nevertheless, the man is nowhere to be seen.
“Denny, look behind you.”
It is a weasel with emotionless red eyes; well, it is not exactly a weasel but looks like a wily old fox. Its droopy ears and silky white fur is a stark contrast with the bleak dystopic environment. It stares into Denny’s eyes, observing every detail of his face.
“Denny,” the weasel-fox creature said, “that human being down there is going to get killed by the creature above you.”
Denny looks up and gapes.
A giant flying fortress hovers above the two characters’ heads; it is no underestimation if one compares it to the moon. Cannons, nuclear missile warheads, giant baseball launchers, and everything a young boy can use are all on the exterior of the fort, aiming for its small prey: the mysterious figure. He sees the figure swooping from right to left, dodging cannon fire. Denny feels the thuds and the vibrations of every fire.
“I have a modest proposal. If you want to save the man named Chris R., I suggest to make a contract with me.”
“Yes, this contract will make you a powerful magical boy warrior as powerful as you wish it could be. All you need is to think of a wish and the contract will be written duly.”
The baseball launcher fires, spitting out fast balls onto a shadowy figure in the air. One of the baseballs hit the head of the figure and he falls, soon landing on the rooftop head down first; Denny can see the man’s blood leaving a trail with a eerie resemblance of a waterfall.
“You have to hurry. Chris R. won’t live long.”
Denny hesitates and says, “I wish…”
Denny opens his eyes; instead of a giant fortress, he sees a ceiling fan spinning. The room is in yellow light — his parents are not big fans of buying new fluorescent light — and empty; there is only a bed with a groggy Denny and a mirror. The sunlight has just entered the room and the shadows fade away. He scratches his brown hair and dandruff flakes falls into his table.
That was a weird dream, Denny thought.
In his tattered school uniform, Denny runs to his friends. The streets of San Francisco, California, while myriad, tend to diverge when everyone is reaching for the one single destination known as school.
His friends look more exquisite and unique, sometimes a bit rowdy. They are Tommy Wiseau and Mark; the three of them are good friends ever since the beginning of middle school. Not one occasion in school does anyone see them alone without each other.
Tommy is a thirty year old sophomore and has not graduated because he has poor grades in English class. Recently, he has saved money selling leather jackets imported from Russia to other students; this money, he hopes, will be used in his first feature film.
Wiseau cries out, “Oh hai Denny. Haw are yew doing?”
“Hey Wiseau and Mark. You ready for the chemistry test?”
“Me ready? I’ve been ready since the day I was born!” Mark says.
Mark is a twenty-five year old senior, but he has no common sense and forgets many things; the only things he remember are having sex and masturbation. He keeps forgetting to return his library books, thus stopping his graduation. If he finally returns the Kama Sutra, there is a likely good chance the school principal will sigh in relief and let him graduate.
“Dat’s a gewd one, Mark. Yew’re funny.” Wiseau says.
“Anyway, Tommy and Mark, I’ve got this weird dream. It was like watching an anime done by German Expressionists.”
“Doo tell, Denny boy. Aye love listening to this type of tory, yew know.”
Denny explains his dream; his audience employ spectacular and confused emotions: smiles, exasperation, flabbergasting gapes. Wiseau nods in appreciation.
“Denny, yew should work four Studio SHAFT. Dey like this kind of stuff.”
The school isn’t necessarily big, but it can hold about two thousand students. At least fifty students are in a classroom; the room will always feel stuffy without the air-con blowing at 17 degrees. Even so, there is a plethora of pungent odors roaming in the air. Denny hates that.
He sits in the third row, fourth seat — the tables are arranged like an actual data table or matrix. Two seats in front of him, there is a green-haired girl chewing on the rotten remains of an apple; she is notorious for trying to save money. Her clothing is apparently salvaged from the junkyard twenty miles away from the metropolis. Sometimes, every ten minutes or so, she looks behind and sometimes wink at Denny, writing down notes on her cellphone. Some people say that some of the notes are to her dead mother and the others are observations of Denny.
Denny’s teacher, Kinzo, is sobbing on the teacher’s desk in front of the whiteboard.
“OH DESIRE. BEATRICE, I WANT YOU SO BADLY!”
Kinzo stands up, pushing the chair backwards, and raises his hands. Then, he sits down again, crying again.
“I’m gonna kill my family afterwards.”
The bell rings.
Everyone is supposed to stand up and greet the homeroom teacher; however, Kinzo looks too pissed to even care. The man has been wishing for Beatrice — from what Denny can tell, it seems to be a visual novel character so it should be fictional — at least thirty years now. Reportedly, there is a secret storage room in the school where all of his occult books stay; the principal has ordered Kinzo to attend Gaming Addicts Anonymous, but to no avail. Thus, everyone stares at the whiteboard.
Denny realizes the green-haired girl has disappeared; a middle-aged man with a business suit sits there, adjusting his tie. He has thick black framed glasses and eyes out for competition; he looks at the watch: 8:21AM. Is there any competition? If not, he will buy more territorial space in the expanding classroom market size. To the man, there is no such thing as no to a million dollar opportunity.
Denny hears footsteps. It seems to be louder. Definitely not walking or sport shoes. Sounds more like…
Everyone’s heads veer toward the figure who just walks in; the figure looks really similar. The newly appeared man gives a grunt to show that he has appeared to take this class. Kinzo stops crying and looks at him, his tears already wetting his white beard.
“Come in, new child. Be tortured by the Californian public school system. I just want Beatrice.”
Denny realizes who the man is: Chris R.
Chris R. shifts his head towards Denny, shocking him.
Is the dream true all along? What is going on?
“Introduce yourself, non-Beatrice being!”
Chris R. writes his name on the board and stares at Denny. He introduces himself:
“I’m a fucking drug dealer and I take steroids for the hell of it. I stole thousands of army-owned vehicles and weapons down in the school’s garage and kill magical monsters for a living. My favorite shows are Hidamari Sketch, K-On!, and Kiss x Little Sis OVAs. Does anyone have any questions?”
The green-haired girl appears again without her apple. She is sobbing along with Kinzo; apparently, she sold her apple and the other assets she holds stock in IBM to get back her classroom seat.
But the attention still lies at Chris R.
Lunch break has started.
Everyone crowds around the new student. Except Denny. It is, after all, eerie to see a deja vu pop up oh so bluntly in front of him. He looks at the green-haired girl; again, she disappears. Instead, it is occupied by Mickey Mouse.
The crowd dissipates as Chris R. stands up.
“I have a headache. I feel sick. Oh dear.” His voice is monotone, devoid of any emotion. “May I have Denny, the class representative, guide me to the medical room?”
Denny fidgets, but nods his head. How can Denny be so unsympathetic to a man who clearly has a headache?
“Do not talk to Kyubei.” Chris R. mutters.
The two of them stop at their tracks, looking at each other. Class has just started and no one except we, the readers, is observing them. The setting is a hallway and to our right is a series of windows overlooking the cityscape of San Francisco; if we squint enough through the fog, we may actually see the mighty red Golden Gate Bridge. On our left, there is a bulletin board with messages printed in Comic Sans MS. There are some red bloodstains on the messages, clearly from the bulging typographists’ eyes; they may have committed suicide when they realize they have not eradicated the unholy font yet.
On the center of the stage, our two characters stand.
“I said, do not talk to Kyubei.”
“Who is Kyubei?”
“And do not try to be a Magical Boy Warrior. Seriously, don’t.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Don’t try to, pipsqueak. The world doesn’t need more of those.” Chris R. leaves, confusing Denny.
Isn’t Chris R. having a headache?
After school, the usual Freudian trio hangs out in the maid cafe. We, the readers, notice that the writer is going to reference Soredemo Machi wa Matteiru; the absent-minded Hotori is spilling Java coffee cups on her Math teacher again. However, it seems that the writer decided not to in fear of being called a Studio SHAFT fanboy.
Instead, he references something completely different.
As Wiseau begins to order, a loving couple stands up and aims around the maid cafe with a gun.
“Hands up! This is a fucking robbery!”
Robbing a maid cafe is an occasional crime in the lands of Animeca; California is no exception.
The man asks a Travolta-looking character for his fucking money; the Travolta-lookalike character seems fucking pleased enough to not get trouble. He’d rather be extorted than appear in a fucking terrible sci-fi movie he funded by himself.
“Motherfucker, are you fucking kidding me?”
A Samuel L. Motherfucking Jackson-lookalike aims a motherfucking gun at the guy. The girl utters a motherfucking scream and aims the Motherfucking Jackson-lookalike.
The three actual main characters sneaks past the Pulp Fiction-like scene, hoping they won’t get fucking sued for fucking copyright.
“Waznt that a weird scene, ha?” Wiseau laughs it out while browsing through the classical CD selections of Mozart and Beethoven.
Mark left a while ago and Denny decides to stay with Wiseau; he likes being with Wiseau more because Wiseau treats him like a little brother to him. He also enjoys seeing Wiseau and Violin Guy having sex with the music of Air on G String.
“Yew know, I wonder if Violin Guy likes Mozarella. I like Mozarella music.”
“Hey Wiseau, I wanna check out the new Radiohead album.”
“Go ahead, ha.”
Denny goes to a listening station; he hears the headphones blasting robotic farts and whining ghosty voice; that’s definitely Radiohead alright. According to the hipster music review website Pitchfork, the new album, Calculators Propaganda is considered like totally their best album after like OK Computer, In Rainbows, and Kid A. They say it’s better than The Antlers’ Exhaustion and Iron & Wine’s The Green Collective. This is some serious hipster crap and it’s so indie none of us readers knows what the fuck does this paragraph mean.
Denny puts on the headphone. We readers appreciate it; the writer has used this paragraph as fanservice. The headphones are filled with Hatsune Miku pictures and Denny smiles in his puni plush caricature. We hear panting in this side of the room — the audience viewing room. Some of us actually put our hands into our pants while others drool in delight. Nevertheless, we are excited readers and we want more of this stuff to be randomly put in.
Denny hears a knock in the vents. A series of knocks goes by. Denny takes off his headphones and follows, leading him outside the music store. Wiseau sees him and follows, crying out Denny’s name. But Denny does not listen.
Denny encounters a hidden door and opens it; its interiors are filled with occult signs like posters of Persona 4 collector’s edition video game case. Tons of Jack Frost T-shirts lay down at the floor; a giant silver desktop iMac sits on a table on the far end, streaming the newest episode of the Persona 4 animation in HD with Commie subs. The occultish aura sickens Denny. This must be Kinzo’s infamous hideout; it is just only a few miles away from the school.
The knocking still ensues, now attracting Wiseau’s attention. He follows it and the knocking stops. The vent breaks and a weasel-creature falls onto the ground, smacking hard. Wiseau claims to have heard its bones crack on impact.
The crying squeaking echoes.
“Whut hath happarned two this pewr creature?”
The weasel creature has opened wounds bleeding profusely; it will not live until a vet sees this immediately, Denny concludes.
“Not so fast, motherfucking weasel creature thingy!”
Denny sees a figure appear from the shadows: Chris R.
“Get away from Kyubei, Denny. Let me finish this.”
Chris R. aims an uzi at Kyubei.
“No!” Denny screams.
Wiseau hugs the wounded creature and the pissed off Chris R. cursed at Wiseau.
Suddenly, a glowing spot brightens in Chris R’s shirt.
“Crap, I didn’t expect this to happen. Lucky bastards.”
Chris R. flees from the scene.
“W-Where are we?” Denny mumbles.
The basement distorts into a snow-filled town. Everything is almost except the two-dimensional brown buildings. Their doors open, revealing cut-out humanoid figures. The graphics look horrendous and this scares the living hell out of Wiseau and Denny.
A fatso in red clothing and blue hat tiptoes in front of them, snorts, and points his thumb, we mean finger, onto them.
“HEY FOLKS, THESE FUCKING ASSHOLES LOOK LIKE ANIME! I HATE ANIME! REAL MEN WATCH MY LITTLE PONY! LET’S SHOW IRRATIONAL HATE IN THE NAME OF FUCKING SATIRE!”
The crowd equips their pitchforks and shovels, approaching the two helpless creatures and a wounded weasel. We readers hear some fart sounds every time they step; we giggle in delight.
Then, Yuki Kajiura switches her classical music style to a more vocal African style.
A man in a business suit stands on top of a building; he has a RPG launcher.
We, the readers, suspend our disbelief.
The business suited man soars up in the sky, aiming the RPG into the unsuspecting crowd. He shoots, recoiling him up to the clouds. The missile crashes into the ground, creating a black crater and killing Kenny.
“OH MY GOD, HE KILLED KENNY! YOU BASTARD!”
We, the readers, know that joke is going to happen.
More missiles rain; the sky is filled with yellow and orange. The man lands and pats his shoulder pads to take off the dust he accumulated from massacring the cut-out figures.
He reaches out his hand to shake with Denny.
“Sorry, I had to deal the copyright problems with the Pulp Fiction scene. The name’s Peter. I work as a lawyer — the same profession Phoenix Wright takes. Except I’m way more awesomer.”
Denny shakes his hand.
Peter looks at Kyubei, drops down to his knees, and puts his hand over the creature. A whitish aura hovers below his hand; the two other characters are awed by the spectacle. Kyubei’s wounds close up and look as if nothing happened.
“What’s your name?” Peter says as he gets up, carrying Kyubei like a newborn baby.
Peter ponders and then says, “Looks like Kyubei and I need to treat you for the wonderful service you have just done. Do you think my apartment is a nice place to chat and eat?”
The music fades. The credits roll. A text box pops up, reading “We hope you enjoyed Commander Obvious’s Puella Magi Madoka Magica and The Room cross-over’s episode one. Please constructively criticize and give feedback. If there is enough interest, he may actually start writing episode two.”
One of us readers stands up and says, “What the fuck did I just read?”