. . . UNAUTHORIZED SEQUEL . . .
. . . to the 1967 Jean-Luc Godard film La Chinoise. Basically, I just want to shoot one scene, okay?
Remember when the Maoist cell constructs literal walls out of thousands of copies of Chairman Mao's Little Red Book?
Okay.
We restage that scene, and have everybody armed and hyped and singing Maoist arena rock songs to stay pumped, and they're all just ready for the capitalists to lay siege to their bookish fortifications-
-when suddenly, a vast shadow falls over them.
The Maoists look up just in time to see an incomprehensibly dense, terrible, and fast moving tsunami composed of remaindered airport paperbacks-Tom Clancy, Stephen King, Michael Crichton, James Patterson, Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child, Stephen Coonts, David Baldacci, Dean Koontz, Michael Slade, John Grisham-all the names, all the bestsellers as one terrifying wave of a billion papercuts.
WHOOOOOSSSHHHH!
It sweeps away the Maoists and their fortress constructed-quite literally-from the words of Chairman Mao.
But what's more, this wave sweeps every-goddamn-thing away. All the ideologies. All the rival literary and paraliterary genres. All the writers. All the readers. All the currencies-they had to use up all the mint paper to print up all those airport paperbacks, y'know.
Nothing is left but a worldaround vista of sundered pages and broken spines and stupid author photographs and gimmicky covers and all of it intermixed into one humongous-ass Voltronic ULTIMATE AIRPORT PAPERBACK 4 ALL TIMES.
It's something to do with a cokehead alcoholic lawyer deadbeat divorced dad struggling novelist who moonlights as a tormented FBI profiler who just wants to reconnect with his estranged wife and son who has of late become haunted by a phantasmagorical figure who resembles Chairman Mao who keeps appearing in the corner of his eyesight in a gory clown costume astride a kaiju-scale turtle demon whilst trying to prevent a terrorist nuclear attack on Washington, DC and find a sunken pirate treasure-
Five hundred thousand years pass, and the pages have merged with cockroaches and termites and ants, who have all mutated to be able to spurt ink and compose hopelessly convoluted novels expressing brain-searingly ruthless insectoid collectivist ideologies whilst keeping an antenna receptive to the popular consumer tastes of a vast potential readership of billions of ghost humans who haunt the new Masters of Earth long after their spectacular annihilation via extinction level event airport paperback global tsunami-
The strange bug/page hybrid beings keep on composing endless popular entertainment novels in search of a long vanished potential audience as a kind of religion forever observant in the hopes of a messiah, a rapture, an apocalypse, etc.
I mean these weirdo novelist bugs can't even read . . . they're purely writers . . . maybe the purest in the history of Earth . . .
Yeah, so, I got high hopes for this project. Crushes all the quadrants, that's for sure . . .
