What is you?

Your smile. Like a dream. A disgusting dream. Of whores and clowns and whiteness together and all the infinite blackness forever at last. The marriage of hallucination and the scream. The scream of mine to which there are only answers and the question is hidden. Guess when this next sketch is set?

The 80s!

A car pulls up outside the building and out pour policemen. They storm into the building shouting, "We must find it". Cut to an empty room.

[Frank enters]

Frank: This room. Ah yes. I remember it from the dreams.

Gordon: Tell us, Frank. What else can you see?

Frank: [closing his eyes] I see the wall. It...it's a fake. Push into it.

Gordon moves over to the wall. He pushes it and it is squashy like jelly. He is repulsed.

Gordon: You bastard Frank.

Frank: [shoots Gordon] You k-k-killed her, Gordon!

Gordon: Out of love Frank. Out of love.

Frank: Noooooooooooooooooooooo

AND NOW IN FRENCH

[Frank entrée]
Frank: cette salle. Ah oui. Je me souviens du rêve.

Gordon: Dites-nous, Frank. Que pouvez-vous voir?

Frank: [fermer les yeux] Je vois le mur. Il ... c'est un fake. Poussez en elle.

Gordon se dirige vers le mur. Il pousse et il est moelleux comme de la gelée. Il est repoussé.

Gordon: Salaud Frank.

Frank: [pousses Gordon] Vous kk-tuée, Gordon!

Gordon: Par amour Frank. Par amour.

Frank: Noooooooooooooooooooooon

You just got culture'd.