ANGEL walks out from behind a door, with all the grace and exaggeration of a stubborn, morose teenager. When she approaches the door, she gives Demonica a pleading look. Demonica crosses her arms and points out.

Angel plods out with an exasperated groan.

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Their car, a silver ’77 Chevy Nova, parked in line to the curb. Angel climbs into the passenger’s seat, as Demonica, proceeds to hop in to the driver’s seat. She starts the car and drives off.

CUT TO:

The interior of the car as they drive. Angel slouches in her seat and rest her head on her fist. After an elaborate sigh, she questions her sister, and chauffeur at the present time.

She turns a corner.

Turns the wheel left ways.

She looks off on the road.

She stops the car, puts it in park.

INT. DANTE STUDIOS – DAY

It’s everything a film studio should be. Busy. There are cameras everywhere and sets galore. Hundreds men and women a like, some dressed in costumes and others barely dressed. Extras. Poor director assistants getting barked orders. Our attention is drawn to the sound of a blow horn and to the person who had blown it. A wiry man, wearing black wire rim glasses, with cropped blonde hair framing his face, and a black goatee, dressed in an all black outfit, including a beret. He also wears a whistle and has a bullhorn in his hands. Surrounding him are throngs of people, with various equipment. This is MR. ALEXANDER DeLARGE; you are his bitch.

He speaks with a Mr. Garrison-like effeminate tone, while waving his pen around in an elaborate mannerism. A woman dressed in a business suit, with thick glasses and her hair in a bun, leans over to whisper something in his ear.

He gives Angel a look over. He steps closer to inspect her even more. After eating her up in two swallows, he comes to a conclusion.

This draws out several giggles from his “posse” and causes Angel to look down and about herself self-consciously.

He wraps his arm around Angel’s shoulders, she winces. They walk along.

He leads her to a set that resembles a cemetery on a foggy night. Angel looks puzzled.

He even does air quotes.

He leads her to another set, this one looking to be that of a beach. He looks at the set, then her, the set, then her, the set… then her.

He leads to another.

He leads to another.

Another.“No.” This goes on for what seems forever. Until finally…

CUT TO:
“The set”: a blank platform, harsh white floor and background.

He grabs a hold of her shoulders once more, and practically pushes them over to a big “X” on the floor. His crew has set up and he’s seated in a director’s chair, bullhorn in hand.

He gets out of his chair and walks over to her.

A small crowd of people rush over to Angel and proceed to apply blush, concealer, rouge, eye-liner, mascara, eye-shadow, lip stick and gloss on her face… all at once. It’s an instant ambush of brushes and foam pads.

She says this to the woman about to apply the eye shadow, she nods and steps away.

He sighs and cups his chin.

In an instant, a small mob of people rush over to the director’s chair where he had just sat. While lipstick and rouge are forced onto her face, Angel just stares.

She reaches into her pocket to pull out her glasses and proceeds to put them on.

Mr. Alexander sighs elaborately.

Almost like clockwork, people scurry in carry cut outs of various people and things

The excessive use of “s” sends small droplets of spit flying, but he’s already back in his chair.

He jumps out of his chair and storms over to Angel.

If almost instantly, a huge group of half naked men and women run out of no where, grinding against each other and the cardboard cutouts.

A women walks up, basically Stacy Keibler with bigger boobs in a skimpy barely-there pink lace bikini. This is MIMI.

She runs towards Angel. She steps aside and Mimi trips and lands face first in the mud.

The lights dim and more people run out, there clothes painfully colorful, glowing in the dark with fishnets, body glitter and glow sticks everywhere. More glitter and confetti falls from the sky.

INT. TEAM SCREAM’S APARTMENT – DAY

Angel sits on the couch, flipping channels on the television. One channel catches her attention. The DnDW promo station. She places her glass of orange juice down and scoots closer to the box. This promo is supposed to be one of hers . The woman isn’t her though. It’s some scantily clad bimbo made to look like her, with the spring breakers, ravers, cardboard cutouts in the background and cheesy dialogue spewing from her. Demonica walks in.