Scary Movie 6

Sheen stared at the chaotic scene: the dead Kolb, the car now half-submerged in a suspiciously clean, blue swimming pool that most certainly had not been there a moment ago, and Lohan, already rifling through Kolb's pockets.

"Seriously, Linds?" he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "A dream about a ballet-dancing chimp and Madea, then I wake up to this? And a pool? In my living room?"

Lohan pulled out a crumpled wad of bills and what looked suspiciously like an old Blockbuster membership card.

"He said you had the good stuff, Sheen," she declared, tossing the keys vaguely towards Kolb's floating corpse, which was now slowly circling in the newly formed pool. "And don't worry about the water, it's probably just a side effect of his 'dream extractor's quantum phase discombobulator' kicking in. Besides, you'll need it for the water ballet segment."

Before Sheen could process "water ballet segment," a familiar voice boomed from the back of the crashed car.

Well, took 'em long enough to get the aquatic stage ready!" Madea, completely unfazed, climbed out of the mangled back seat, adjusting her floral hat.

I told y'all we needed more spectacle than just a stripper ballerina. Now, where's that damn glitter cannon and my synchronized swimming squad?

And then, from inside the car's trunk, a muffled, exasperated growl. The trunk lid popped open, revealing Caesar, the chimpanzee, patiently untying himself from a rope. He looked at Madea, then at Sheen, then at the floating Kolb, and sighed.

Humans," he chittered, shaking his head. "Always with the unnecessary drama. Can we just get to the world domination part already? My shift starts in five.

World domination?

Sheen spluttered, the words catching in his throat. The sheer, unfathomable absurdity of it all—a ballet-trained, trunk-dwelling, world-dominating chimpanzee, a glitter-cannon-wielding Madea demanding aquatic stunts, a literal pool in his living room, and Lohan casually rifling the pockets of a dead man. It was too much. The vibrant blue of the pool warped, the cacophony of voices seemed to echo and distort, fading into a dull roar. His head spun, a sharp, familiar pain thrumming behind his eyes, a sensation that had preceded countless chaotic awakenings. The edges of his vision blurred, and the entire outlandish tableau lurched and then dissolved, as if someone had pulled a plug on a particularly wild matinee.

He gasped, bolting upright in his familiar, if slightly worn, armchair. The living room was... normal. No pool. No submerged car. No floating Kolb, no Madea in a floral hat, no philosophical primate. Just the faint scent of stale coffee and his own lingering confusion. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake off the lingering tendrils of a dream that felt less like a dream and more like a fever-induced, celebrity-cameo-riddled, full-length feature film. "What in the actual..."

Before he could even finish the thought, a voice, completely devoid of dream-logic, cut through the quiet. "Morning, Sheen. Bit rough, judging by that bedhead." Kolb, very much alive and entirely non-floating, stood by the mantelpiece, casually polishing a trophy. He smirked, a knowing glint in his eye. "Heard the studio's finally giving you that big break. And don't worry about the co-star. Word is, you'll be sleeping with Lohan."

The words hung in the air, a different kind of absurd reality settling in. Sheen's eyes widened, a fresh wave of dread washing over him.

Wait, what? Kolb, I just—

He never finished the sentence. A deafening screech of tires, a sickening crunch of metal, and the shriek of shattering glass ripped through the room. The entire front wall of the living room vanished in a whirlwind of plaster, wood, and concrete dust. A car, a sleek, black convertible, burst through the newly formed gaping hole, careening directly towards Kolb. There was a horrifying thud, a brief, choked gasp, and Kolb was gone, flattened against the mantelpiece, which now jutted out at a sickening angle from the car's crumpled front. The vehicle shuddered to a halt, halfway into the living room, its engine wheezing its last.

The driver's side door creaked open. Lindsay Lohan, disheveled but utterly unfazed, stepped out, a single, perfectly manicured eyebrow arched. She glanced at the ruined room, the now very dead Kolb, then back at the mangled car. She tossed a set of keys, seemingly plucked from thin air, onto Kolb's inert form. "You were driving," she stated flatly, brushing a stray piece of plaster from her shoulder. "Always are. Honestly, some people just shouldn't have a license."

Sheen stared. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, a goldfish out of water, or perhaps a particularly confused carp in a living room that was rapidly becoming a crime scene. Kolb, his mentor, his irritant, his alive friend just moments ago, was now a grotesque abstract sculpture of flesh and tweed, permanently fused with a fireplace that was no longer attached to a wall. And Lohan, standing amidst the wreckage like a particularly glamorous, slightly soot-stained phoenix, had just blamed the victim. Again. The dream. The pool. The dead Kolb. The car. It wasn't a dream. It was... a rehearsal? A premonition? His brain felt like a scrambled egg, and the only coherent thought was the chilling echo of Kolb's last words: 'you'll be sleeping with Lohan.' The irony, the sheer, unholy, utterly terrifying irony, threatened to short-circuit his entire being.

Lohan sighed, surveying the destruction with an air of mild disappointment, as if Sheen's house had simply failed to live up to her expectations. "Well, that's that then," she mused, more to herself than to him. She finally turned her gaze to Sheen, her eyes, despite the chaos, unsettlingly clear and assessing. "Right. The script. Did Kolb give you the updated pages? The bit where you drown the chimp needs more... gravitas. And charisma. And maybe a musical number. I was thinking a duet. With me, obviously. The studio wants synergy."

Sheen blinked, the word 'drown' echoing in the crater where his living room wall used to be. A musical number? With her? While Kolb's remains cooled on a dented mantelpiece? He looked from the shattered landscape of his home to Lohan's pristine, unconcerned face. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't even reality. This was a particularly aggressive, non-consensual reboot of his entire existence, and he was pretty sure he was stuck in the director's cut. Before he could even formulate a protest, a new, equally impossible sound began to build from outside – the distinct, rhythmic beat of a thousand tiny, trained feet. Then, from the jagged opening where his wall once stood, a single, perfectly aimed banana soared through the air, landing with a soft thud on the dashboard of the crumpled convertible. Immediately following it, a troupe of chimpanzees, dressed in miniature ballet tutus, began to pour into the living room, twirling and leaping over the debris, their leader, a particularly muscular primate with a tiny crown perched askew on his head, striking a pose on the hood of the car. He regarded Sheen with an unnervingly intelligent gaze, then gestured imperiously towards Kolb's lifeless body with one delicate, gloved hand.

Sheen stared. His mind, already a jumbled mess of shattered glass and forgotten dreams, finally snapped into a thousand even tinier pieces. This wasn't a nightmare; nightmares had internal logic, a terrifying narrative thread. This was... performance art gone horribly, violently wrong. Or a highly elaborate, extremely expensive prank that had managed to kill his mentor and destroy his house. He looked at Kolb, then back at the majestic chimp, then at Lohan, who was now pursing her lips in thoughtful consideration, stroking her chin as if contemplating the perfect shade of lipstick for an apocalypse.

"Ah, yes," Lohan finally declared, a dawning realization in her voice. "The rewrites. I nearly forgot. This is Maurice. He's the new lead chimp. Apparently, the original actor tested poorly with focus groups for 'lack of emotional depth.' Maurice, darling, you're looking absolutely divine in the crimson tulle. Really brings out the gravitas." She beamed at the crowned chimp, who gave a surprisingly elegant bow from the car hood. "And the studio was adamant about integrating the 'simian ballet sequence' earlier in the narrative. They felt the build-up was too slow. Apparently, audiences want more immediate gratification. And more chimps."

Sheen spluttered, finding his voice somewhere between a gasp and a strangled pterodactyl cry. "Maurice? The lead chimp? Lohan, Kolb is dead! And there are actual chimpanzees in what's left of my living room wearing tutus! What in the name of all that is unholy is going on?!"

Lohan waved a dismissive hand. "Details, details, Sheen. We're in a creative space here. And yes, Kolb's... departure... was rather sudden. But we can't let a little thing like that derail the entire production, can we? The show must go on. Especially with the studio breathing down our necks about the Q3 synergy metrics. Now, Maurice, if you please, the scene with the… presentation."

Maurice, the crowned chimp, clapped his delicate, gloved hands together once. The troupe of tutued chimpanzees immediately stopped their twirling, falling into a rigid, perfectly aligned formation. Two of them, larger and more muscular than the rest, approached Kolb's body. With surprising dexterity and a complete lack of discernible effort, they carefully detached Kolb from the now-defunct fireplace, lifting him as if he were a particularly unwieldy, yet precious, prop. They then carried him over to the dented convertible, gently laying him across the back seat, his grotesquely abstract form now strangely at rest.

Sheen watched, utterly aghast, as the chimps straightened Kolb's tweed jacket, even adjusting his fallen glasses. It was a bizarre, reverent act, like pallbearers preparing a body for viewing, except the pallbearers were ballet-dancing chimps and the viewing was in a smashed living room. Maurice then hopped down from the hood, landing softly on the crushed carpet. He approached Sheen, his intelligent eyes fixing on him with an unnerving intensity. He reached out a small, strong hand, not to attack, but to gesture, first to the now-seated Kolb, then to a stack of pristine, cream-colored pages lying innocently on the floor beside the remnants of a shattered coffee table – the 'updated script.'

"Right, the script," Lohan interjected, tapping her foot impatiently. "See, Sheen, this is where you come in. Maurice here is very particular about his scenes. Especially the one where you drown him." The emphasis was slight, but chillingly clear. "He feels it needs to be an emotional journey, not just a plot point. He was hoping for some… collaboration. A duet, perhaps, during the drowning?" She gestured to the script pages. "And given Kolb's... sudden exit, you're now front and center for that particular dramatic moment. Synergy, Sheen. Always synergy."

Maurice, the chimp, tilted his crowned head, a disturbingly human expression of anticipation on his face. He extended a gloved hand towards Sheen, not in threat, but in invitation, then gently tapped the script pages.

The musical number, it seemed, was about to begin.

——————Script Mode————-

FADE IN:

INT. SHEEN’S LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

The room is a disaster. A CAR is half-submerged in a brand-new SWIMMING POOL that most definitely wasn’t there before. KOLB’S BODY floats face down.

CHARLIE SHEEN stares at the carnage, pinching the bridge of his nose.

SHEEN

Seriously, Linds? A dream about a

ballet-dancing chimp and Madea, then I wake

up to this? And a pool? In my living room?

LINDSAY LOHAN is already rifling through KOLB’S POCKETS. She pulls out a crumpled wad of bills and — unbelievably — a BLOCKBUSTER CARD.

LOHAN

He said you had the good stuff, Sheen.

And don’t worry about the water, it’s just

a side effect of his ‘quantum dream extractor.’

Besides, you’ll need it for the water ballet segment.

She tosses Kolb’s KEYS toward the corpse, which lazily spins in the pool.

From the backseat of the mangled car, a booming voice:

MADEA (O.S.)

Well, took ‘em long enough to get the aquatic

stage ready!

MADEA climbs out, floral hat perfectly intact.

MADEA

I told y’all — stripper ballerina wasn’t enough.

We need glitter cannons. And synchronized

swimming. Where my squad at?!

Suddenly, the TRUNK POPS OPEN. Out climbs CAESAR, a chimp, calm as a monk. He unties himself, sighs, and surveys the scene.

CAESAR

Humans. Always drama. Can we skip to the

world domination part? My shift starts in five.

Sheen’s eyes bulge.

SHEEN

World… domination?

The room vibrates. His vision blurs. Everything fades to WHITE—

---

INT. SHEEN’S LIVING ROOM – MORNING

Sheen bolts upright in his armchair. The pool, car, chimp, and Madea? Gone. Just his regular, slightly depressing living room.

SHEEN

What in the actual—

KOLB (alive, annoyingly smug) polishes a trophy by the mantelpiece.

KOLB

Morning, Sheen. Heard the studio’s finally

giving you that big break. And don’t worry

about the co-star. Word is, you’ll be sleeping

with Lohan.

Sheen freezes.

SHEEN

Wait, what? Kolb, I just—

SCREEECH! TIRES. A sickening CRUNCH. A CAR EXPLODES through the living room wall, smashing Kolb flat against the mantelpiece in a spray of dust and plaster.

The DRIVER’S DOOR opens. LINDSAY LOHAN steps out, unfazed.

LOHAN

You were driving. Always are. Honestly, some

people just shouldn’t have a license.

She tosses a new set of KEYS onto Kolb’s mangled body.

Sheen stares, speechless. Kolb is now a grotesque fireplace sculpture.

LOHAN

Anyway. Did he give you the new script? The

one where you drown the chimp? Needs more…

gravitas. And synergy.

Before Sheen can respond, a BANANA sails through the demolished wall and lands on the dashboard.

Dozens of CHIMPANZEES in TUTUS flood into the room, pirouetting across rubble. Their LEADER — MAURICE, a muscular chimp wearing a crooked crown — leaps onto the car hood and STRIKES A POSE.

LOHAN

Ah, Maurice. The new lead. Crimson tulle

really brings out your gravitas.

Maurice bows gracefully, then gestures to Kolb’s corpse — now carefully carried and adjusted by two chimp “pallbearers.”

Finally, Maurice points at the pristine SCRIPT PAGES lying on the floor.

LOHAN

Yes, yes. The drowning scene. Maurice feels

it should be a duet. With you, Sheen.

Maurice extends a tiny, gloved hand to Sheen…

SHEEN

(sputtering)

What in the name of all that is unholy—

The chimps FREEZE mid-dance. A SPOTLIGHT somehow appears.

Maurice SNAPS. The overture swells.

LOHAN

Showtime.

CUT TO BLACK.

FADE IN:

INT. HOLLYWOOD BACKLOT – DAY

A clapperboard SNAPS. The camera pulls back, revealing SHEEN, LOHAN, and MAURICE mid-scene, still surrounded by rubble.

A CREW of STRESSED PAs run around with clipboards and headsets. None of them acknowledge the destroyed living room set.

DIRECTOR (O.S.)

Cut, cut, CUT! Dammit, Sheen, I need

more pain in the drowning rehearsal.

You’re killing the synergy!

The DIRECTOR emerges: TYLER PERRY as MADEA… but not in character. Half-dressed as MADEA, half as himself, he’s switching personas mid-sentence.

TYLER/MADEA

Lord Jesus give me strength. This white man

actin’ like he never drowned a chimp before!

SHEEN

I HAVEN’T!

LOHAN

Method, Sheen. Get with the program.

Maurice SNAPS again. His chimp troupe begins a synchronized ballet routine, complete with a fog machine.

---

INT. STUDIO EXECUTIVE BOARDROOM – SAME TIME

A table of SUITS watches the chaos on multiple monitors. They munch kale chips, sip kombucha, and nod approvingly.

EXECUTIVE #1

Test audiences love chimps in tutus.

Spike in engagement.

EXECUTIVE #2

And Sheen’s meltdown is authentic. People

eat that up. We’ll deepfake him into a TikTok.

EXECUTIVE #3

(writing furiously)

Can we cross-promote with Planet of the Apes?

---

INT. LIVING ROOM SET – CONTINUOUS

Suddenly, the wall EXPLODES AGAIN — this time not from a car, but from a giant, possessed NETFLIX LOGO that tears through the plaster like a kaiju.

SHEEN

Are you kidding me?!

From the smoke emerges KAI CENAT, hyped up, GoPro strapped to his chest, streaming LIVE to millions.

KAI

AYY YO, CHAT! WE IN SCARY MOVIE 6!

LOOK AT THIS — THEY GOT SHEEN, THEY GOT

LINDSAY, THEY GOT A WHOLE DAMN ZOO!

His phone buzzes with DONATION ALERTS.

KAI (cont’d)

Chat just said I should box the chimp.

Maurice, you ready to catch these hands?!

Maurice simply lifts one hand, snaps his fingers, and the chimp troupe forms a boxing ring out of ballet ribbons.

LOHAN

(clapping, delighted)

Oh my god, synergy.

---

INT. BOXING RING – SECONDS LATER

Kai and Maurice square off. Kai shadowboxes, amped. Maurice yawns, stretches, then casually performs a flawless triple pirouette.

KAI

Nah, see, that’s disrespectful.

Maurice ducks, dodges, then lands a single jab that sends Kai FLYING across the room into a pile of popcorn bags.

KAI

(groaning, to camera)

…Chat, y’all better clip that.

---

INT. LIVING ROOM SET – CHAOS

Suddenly, the ground shakes. The POOL from Sheen’s dream violently ERUPTS through the floor again. The car reappears, this time with VIN DIESEL behind the wheel.

VIN DIESEL

Family.

Everyone stares.

SHEEN

…What the actual—

LOHAN

(rolling eyes)

Oh, crossover cameo. Universal’s getting desperate.

Maurice bows respectfully. Vin Diesel bows back.

VIN DIESEL

Family.

Maurice snaps. Pyrotechnics erupt. The chimp troupe bursts into song.

---

MUSICAL NUMBER – “FAMILY, BUT MAKE IT BALLET”

Chimps pirouette around the pool. Lohan belts out off-key notes. Sheen is dragged center-stage against his will. Vin Diesel just keeps saying “Family” to the beat.

At the climax, Kai Cenat cannonballs into the pool, splashing everyone.

KAI

AYY YO, CHAT, WE TRENDING!

---

INT. STUDIO BOARDROOM – SAME TIME

The EXECUTIVES are crying with joy.

EXECUTIVE #1

This is cinema.

EXECUTIVE #2

Billion-dollar opening weekend.

EXECUTIVE #3

But… we’ll need a dead mentor subplot.

Did Kolb stay dead?

On-screen, KOLB suddenly sits up in the pool, coughing water.

KOLB

…I just wanted a speaking role.

SMASH CUT TO …

———DEEPER INTO THE SCRIPT/FILM————-

INT. STUDIO BOARDROOM – CONTINUOUS

EXECUTIVE #1 (Sniffling with joy) He lives! A hero’s journey! We can resurrect him again for the prequel!

EXECUTIVE #2 (Furiously typing on a tablet) And… a love triangle with the chimp! Audiences crave interspecies romance!

EXECUTIVE #3 (Squinting at the monitor) Wait. The Netflix logo. Is it… absorbing the set?

INT. LIVING ROOM SET – CHAOS – CONTINUOUS

The giant, possessed NETFLIX LOGO, previously forgotten amidst the musical number, begins to PULSATE. Its red 'N' glows brighter, tendrils of black data stream reaching out from it, wrapping around the set. The ballet ribbons, the popcorn bags, even the chimp troupe’s instruments begin to glitch and pixelate, being pulled into the logo’s vortex.

The musical number falters to a halt. The chimps shiver.

                     VIN DIESEL
        (Looking grim, but still in rhythm)
        …Family… is being… digitized.

                     MAURICE
        (Clenching his tiny fists)
        They’re trying to cancel us.

                     KAI
        (His GoPro feed glitching, but still broadcasting)
        YO, CHAT! IT’S THE STREAM SNIPER! THEY’RE TRYNA TAKE US OFF AIR! WHAT WE DO, CHAT?! DONOS FOR MORE CONTENT!

Suddenly, a new figure bursts through the other wall, riding a segway made of a gigantic, glowing green XBOX CONTROLLER. It’s DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON, wearing a toga and wielding a foam finger that says “#1 Hero.”

                     THE ROCK
        (Deep, booming voice)
        Did someone say… a franchise needed saving? And a sequel? And maybe a spin-off breakfast cereal?

He flexes. The wall behind him, where the Netflix logo had penetrated, starts to shimmer. From the shimmering void, another figure emerges: a very confused, very British man in a tweed jacket. It's BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH, playing a parody of himself as a dimension-hopping intellectual.

                     BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH
        (Adjusting his monocle)
        Good heavens. It appears I've stumbled into a nexus of… intellectual property. This is… rather more chaotic than the Marvel Cinematic Universe after a multi-verse breach. And significantly less coherent. Is that… a sentient streaming service? And a chimp in a tut—

The Netflix logo ROARS, sending a wave of static energy. Kolb, still in the pool, screams as he starts to dissolve into pixels.

                     KOLB
        My speaking role! It’s gone! My life! Is a series of unproduced pitches!

                     SHEEN
        (Pointing at The Rock)
        Wait, are *you* the hero? I thought I was the chosen one! I had the dream!

                     LOHAN
        (To Kai's camera)
        This is why you always read your contract riders, kids. Cameos get messy.

                     MAURICE
        (Staring intently at Benedict Cumberbatch)
        He knows. He knows the secret.

                     VIN DIESEL
        (Eyes narrowed at the Netflix logo)
        No one… takes our family.

The Netflix logo, now fully formed into a monstrous, glowing red 'N' with projector-beam eyes, lets out a guttural, digital ROAR. It shoots a beam of pure data at the group.

VIN DIESEL (Eyes narrowed at the Netflix logo) No one… takes our family.

Vin Diesel, with a guttural roar, charges forward. Forget the subtle ballet of earlier, he grabs the closest, heaviest prop – a comically oversized, slightly deflated inflatable punching bag shaped like a villain from a forgotten 90s action movie – and slams it into one of the glitching data tendrils. The tendril recoils with a shower of pixels, but re-forms instantly, thicker and darker.

                 MAURICE
    (To Benedict Cumberbatch, urgently)
    The algorithm! It’s the algorithm itself! It selects for… for *content*!

                 BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH
    (Eyes widening, a flicker of comprehension in his parody-intellectual gaze)
    By Jove, you’re right! This isn't just a physical assault; it's a *curatorial purge*! It's attempting to optimize the narrative, to streamline our very existence into a more… palatable, algorithm-approved format! My monocle is steaming with the implications!

The Rock, upon hearing Vin Diesel’s roar and Maurice’s desperate plea, stops flexing. His face, usually a mask of heroic determination, hardens further. He leaps off his Xbox controller segway, which, with a whirring of servos and a flash of green light, transformers into a glowing, oversized Xbox Series X Controller. He grips it like a sword.

                 THE ROCK
    (Booming, his voice echoing with digital authority)
    Optimization, you say? Not on my watch, you pixelated prune! This franchise has *too many* compelling story lines for a simple purge! It's time to activate… **God Mode!**

He jabs the colossal Xbox controller forward. A beam of vibrant green energy, like a highly compressed download, shoots from it, striking the Netflix logo. The 'N' stutters, its red glow flickering. Data streams, instead of pulling things in, briefly reverse, spitting out a handful of shimmering, unformed plot points and a single, confused llama.

                 KAI
    (His GoPro feed now overlaid with a massive "BOSS FIGHT!" graphic)
    HOLY SMOKES, CHAT! IT’S THE EPIC CROSSOVER WE NEVER KNEW WE NEEDED! THE ROCK PUNCHING THE INTERNET! DON’T FORGET THOSE SUPER CHATS, WE NEED HEALTH POTIONS!

                 SHEEN
    (Running in circles, bumping into Lohan)
    *I* should be holding that controller! I had the dream! It was about a tiger, and a coke machine, and a sequel!

                 LOHAN
    (Adjusting a stray pearl from her dissolved necklace)
    Honey, we’re all in a dream sequence. Just try to look good for the camera. The analytics are always watching.

The Netflix logo, stung, roars again. Its tendrils whip out with renewed fury, targeting the shimmering green energy beam from The Rock's controller. The very air around them crackles with the clash of digital wills. Kolb, still dissolving, lets out a final, piteous wail as his remaining pixels are sucked into the vortex.

                 KOLB
    (Voice fading, distorted)
    At least I got… a credit… in the… (static bursts) …blooper reel!

                 VIN DIESEL
    (Staring down the Netflix logo, his jaw set)
    It wants the remote. It wants to *change the channel* on us. We can’t let it win. Not on our family’s watch.

He glances at The Rock. Their eyes meet. A silent, competitive understanding passes between them. A glance that says: "We hate each other, but we hate this Netflix more."

Vin Diesel nodded, a grim determination replacing the usual growl. "Then we don't let it have the remote, Rock. We hijack the broadcast."

The Rock grunted, his colossal controller pulsing. "Hijack accepted, Dom. My God Mode just leveled up to 'Unlimited Data Plan.' Let's see how this pixelated prune likes a full season drop!" He slammed his controller down. The green energy beam broadened, pushing back against the Netflix tendrils, which now began to coalesce and form a giant, flickering red 'N' that seemed to glare at them. The air filled with the faint, unsettling sound of a fast-forward button being held down.

"It's trying to force a 'recap' sequence!" Maurice shouted, his eyes glued to his data pad. "To reduce us to bullet points! To strip away the nuance and the… the unpredictable narrative synergy!"

Benedict Cumberbatch, momentarily forgetting his monocle and adjusting phantom spectacles, snapped his fingers. "The algorithm is attempting to optimize our character arcs! To remove all filler episodes, all the delightful meanderings of plot! It seeks only the most efficient, most 'viral' story beats!" He shuddered. "It's a content farm, but for our very souls!"

Kai, now with a "DONATE FOR MEGA POTION!" graphic blinking violently, zoomed in on the 'N'. "WHOA, CHAT! IT’S GETTING REAL! THE BOSS IS TRYNA SKIP THE CUTSCENES! WE CAN'T LET IT FAST FORWARD OUR LIVES! SMASH THAT LIKE BUTTON FOR NARRATIVE INTEGRITY!"

Sheen, having found a discarded prop microphone, started making frantic pronouncements. "This is my third act! My phoenix rising! You can't just montage me, Netflix! I need my full redemption arc, complete with a dramatic monologue about tigers and the inherent futility of Hollywood, and maybe a guest appearance from an ex-warlock!"

Lohan, however, was surprisingly calm. She'd found a compact with a cracked mirror and was applying a fresh layer of lip gloss. "The algorithm is always looking for the highlight reel, darling. Give it something to work with. Make it iconic."

The Netflix 'N' pulsed, data tendrils now trying to wrap around individual characters, flashing up "SKIP EPISODE?" prompts above their heads. A particularly persistent tendril snatched a forgotten prop – a tiny, sparkly tiara – and promptly dissolved it into a single, generic "Disney Princess" trope, then offered "SIMILAR TITLES" for Lohan.

Vin Diesel roared, "NOT ON MY WATCH!" He looked at the inflatable punching bag, then at the glowing 'N'. "It wants to condense us? We expand! We overload the system!" He pointed. "Rock, hit it with every cutscene, every spin-off, every mid-credit tease you've got! I'll give it a plot twist it won't see coming!"

The Rock, understanding, grinned. "You got it, Dom. Preparing for DLC overload!" He started mashing buttons on his colossal controller, each press unleashing a torrent of green energy. This wasn't just a beam anymore; it was a chaotic data storm, spitting out fragmented images of forgotten sequels, alternate timelines, and entirely new, absurd franchises. A tiny, pixelated Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, dressed as a librarian, briefly appeared, shushing a chaotic horde of miniature dragons, before dissolving back into the energy stream.

The Netflix 'N' shrieked, a high-pitched digital whine, as if overwhelmed by the sheer volume of "content" raining down on it. It tried to categorize, to algorithmically recommend, but there was too much, too contradictory. It buckled, its red glow flickering wildly, its tendrils flailing like a short-circuiting octopus.

"It's overloading!" Maurice shouted, his glasses slipping down his nose. "It can't process the sheer, unbridled narrative chaos! It's choking on its own IP!"

Benedict Cumberbatch pumped a fist. "The beauty of a truly convoluted plot! Take that, you streamlined, three-act structure! My agent would be appalled!"

Vin Diesel, seeing the opening, grabbed the now-glowing inflatable punching bag again. But this time, instead of hitting the tendrils, he swung it in a wide arc, aiming for the core of the flickering 'N'. "You want to change the channel, Netflix? We're taking it off the air!" With a mighty grunt, he launched the oversized bag. It flew through the air, gathering static and pixels, becoming briefly animated with a cartoonish villain's grimace, before striking the pulsating red 'N' head-on.

The impact was less an explosion and more a catastrophic digital error message. The 'N' froze, glitched violently, and then, with a final, desperate whine of a dial-up modem, began to pixelate and dissolve, not into nothingness, but into a torrent of individual, rejected movie pitches and a million blurry thumbnails of unproduced pilots. For a moment, the air was clear.

Then, the remnants of the Netflix logo reformed. Not as a giant 'N', but as a sprawling, ethereal recommendation engine, its tendrils thinner, faster, and now glowing with a malevolent, soft blue light.

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