It’s four A.M. Eastern time when the helicopter finally lands on top of the Statue of Liberty, where a private jumbo jet has been idling, waiting for his imminent arrival for the last two days.

The helicopter door swings open violently. Four tigers wearing chains are led out first by a bodyguard dressed in all black everything. Three Victoria’s Secret models, Richard Branson, Tupac, Tupac’s hologram, Bill Clinton and and sixteen more tigers emerge. They make a blood-pact to plot together more often and go about their separate ways. The helicopter door waits.

An hour goes by. Smoke? Fog? Visible Wifi? billows out as the door slowly cracks open.

He emerges. Customized ostrich-feather Uggs. Pants made out of assorted leather chaps, crystals, magic beans, and camouflage cargo jorts. A corduroy pancho. RAY-BANS that were hand-crafted at a LensCrafters by Ray Charles before he passed. He waits until the rising sun basks in him.

As he boards the jet and the door locks, sixty more tigers come out from the helicopter. They are still riding high on molly and as the plane takes off, a tiger-rave commences on the Statue of Liberty’s hand-crafted scalp.

The building looks dilapidated beyond repair. Rust drips from the roof like it’s bledding and it looks like it is going to collapse if you whisper in its general direction. The only security appears to be a dog with three-legs wearing a DO NOT DISTURB SIGN. If you smell the air, you take in the gentle waft of forever-ever dissapointment and bodega cigarettes. A feral Pharrell roams in the nearby alley.

He goes up to what appears to be a dreamcatcher (it’s a hula hoop with spider webs and licorice rope) and waits. The retinal scan recognizes (“retizines”???) his orbs and the red front door with the peeling paint slowly creaks open. You walk in expecting the roof to fall on you before any roaming whinos can shank you. “The outside of the building is a purposeful mask,” he tells magazines.

The front hall has a floor that exposes an ocean? pool? full of crocodiles and Bill Murray impersonators right below your feet. As they swim, so does your head. You get caught up in the bicycle shop, the roaming giraffes, venison couches, and the almost never-ending supply of watercolor paintings of Zach Galifianakis in the nude that take up the main lobby.

He takes the private elevator. He’s the only one that knows the six-digit passcode to get in. On the ride up all ninety-nine floors, he writes fours songs, two beats, and starts a new fragrance line. His lips are chapped. He is thirsty but he is seconds away.

He is jovial as he walks into his private study. It’s completely empty, aside from the jars of tiger’s blood and TRUE DETECTIVE posters that adorn the walls and a granite pedestal where he keeps his chosen chalice, Prometheus.

His smile fades when he looks down and sees it: Prometheus is shattered into a million shards. The only part that remained intact is a ruby that Bruce Lee smuggled out of Hong Kong shortly before his death. It used to belong to Jack Ruby.

“WHO THE FUCK BROKE MY CHALICE?”

The words echoed for what seemed like three minutes because that’s exactly how long it took.

He took out his safety mirror. He knew that he didn’t do it. He couldn’t have. But what about him?

“Did you do this?”

“Me?”

“You!”

“Us?”

“YEEZUS?!!”

“Yes?”

“Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“PETA paid me $10 million dollars.”

“What are talking about? Why would they give an ish about what I’m doing?”

No response.

“Tell me! TELL ME! Man, you can’t tell me nothi- hahaha! I see what I did there!”