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Some small towns hold many secrets. Two military siblings and a newly settled doctor’s family are about to find out this town’s darkest one…the blue filtered way.

Sometimes.

When it’s night, it’s day, when it’s morning, it’s Rob H. Roy on clip art.

His vision:

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A disgraced alcoholic doctor and his family move to a small town that turns out to be populated by athletic Pavlovicians.

Drink?

Everyone in the pub just gawps at them.

Later, on the moors, a cerebrated pole-vaulter attacks and viciously kills the alcoholic doctor while his family is bitten by a disgraced Bill Corbett [the doctor].

This is and always will be The Most Everyman Film ever made.

Rich loves it.

The norms love it.

Love what?

This:

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A pessimist surgeon and the family trapped inside his blackest pathology relocate to a small town in New Hampshire that turns out to be riddled with Communists. What’s more, they refuse to sub-categorise themselves. Or apologise for Chess-ku. What gold?

Struggling to breathe, the pessimist surgeon joins two ex-military siblings in sabotaging union votes, slaughtering activists just outside town limits, posting Mao as Satan pics on the John Sayles sub-reddit, generally being a brainless cunt until the lead Communist says, “MistAAAAke,” and runs off to grab Tariq Ali from the back room.

In the back room, the pessimist surgeon accidentally slits the grunt-brother’s throat. Pessimistic, he blames the communists, puts a napkin over his face, leaks formaldehyde, sangria, weeps bullishly. ‘This isn’t my mother’s dollhouse, Bill. It isn’t. It’s wrong, fictitious. Bill?’ Reeling, he takes off the napkin and puts it on the corpse’s face instead. Yes. Ja. Okay. Hai. This is a man of contradictions fellating stronger contradictions. Guilt as a deflated balloon stamped with blinding Kuromi face. An untalented murderer.

But the grunt-brother isn’t dead. He’s simply dreaming of better worlds, better healthcare. When he comes to, the lead Communist educates him on left wing theory without going full tankie, yes, it’s a tightrope and Tariq Ali doesn’t help much, following the leader/party instead of the idea as usual, but without the capitalist mind clamp, the grunt-brother is released, liberated, enraged that he ever thought this system was a moral thing and now that he’s a re-animated communist he’s gonna-

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Elsewhere, an enigmatic surgeon and his mutant family move to a small town that turns out to have an unmanageable surplus of werewolf costumes and not enough Halloween store windows to permanently display them in.

Aroused, the enigmatic surgeon buys one and has sex with the owner of THE local bar. As grainy day-for-night falls, two ex-military types appear, ostensibly brother and sister but, beneath the underneath, a couple of sleazy Zoroastrians. They are instantly repulsed by the werewolf costumes [they believe in the FLESH, the long living-ness of it] and proceed to murder those town residents too tiny to access the polling station.

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Things go well then circle back around as a morose alcoholic doctor whines to his family that families are worthless when they arrive at a small town in New England that turns out to be in the middle of obliterating itself.

Intrigued, the morose alcoholic doctor drives the car into a dried-up reservoir, drowns his mutant kids, runs back into town and asks the witch analogue rolling up a forest slope what the hell is going on here. She doesn’t want to but sticks her tongue in his ear. Tells him everything in a stick figure animation cut-scene. Learns that he fingered the most ailing of his patients in a terminal cancer ward back in Philly.

‘Doctor, I’m shocked.’

‘They had it coming. Wah, are these your knickers or part of the cloak?’

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Turns out they’re neither, just a Zoroastrian trick pulled by a mesmerised Rob H. Roy who has recently disgraced himself as a pretend alcoholic surgeon at his son’s seventh birthday party and is now passing through a small town in Vermont that turns out to be run by Stanton Mick, a floaty version who wants to see just how far the process of decay can unravel.

Scared in an oblique way, Rob H. Roy as pretend alcoholic surgeon rushes to the ex-military siblings and pleads with them to rent a telepath, reach him telepathically, heal him telepathically, anything except drop a used napkin on his face, but they can’t, they’re already forty years obsolete, no frontal lobe cerebration of any sort.

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It’s the witch then, thinks the pretend alcoholic surgeon, slipping off his lab coat and jeans and taking a shit that just won’t come in the woods with a slight tear in the undergrowth and

out of nowhere, my god,

a hero in a silver werewolf suit

guiding him with gentle slashes to the nearby forest set of Bigfoot Vs. D.B. Cooper, a set that turns out to be psychically charged with dicks en masse, sexual assault a must, two guys infinitely jogging, the god voice of Eric Roberts etc.

‘Isn’t this better than the other thing?’ asks the silver werewolf to the pretend alcoholic surgeon and he can’t answer, he doesn’t know, won’t dare to dream of an artist who might be better than him.

I mean, Jim Jarmusch is okay,

but he’s not at my level,

not even close.

Right D.D.?

Elsewhere far away, a small town and its family arrive inside a disgraced alcoholic surgeon that, like so many medical ills, bought itself back at auction for a nominal price and then sold itself off again.

Aroused, the small town turns into a city school, filling itself with antiquated firetraps and posh kids as ghetto trash stroke blue blood sophisticates stroke Zoroastrians stroke bitch had a knife.

Day becomes night as day is done for.

You norms, you don’t.

And never will.

Says whoever’s free to shoot that day.

Meanwhile, somewhere over Oregon, a discoloured alcoholic werewolf and the cinematographer’s closet kid skid up figure eight dust clouds outside a scarred small town in short skirt that told its parents it was wearing a sleeping bag to Bryan Singer’s treehouse party that night and don’t wait up, I’m never coming back, not with these waves and waves of ex-military types pouring into my-

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