[old television calibration tone] [paintbrush scraping canvas] [typewriter strikes] [camera shutter] Hello, living people. You've heard a lot about me today. Mostly from people who sell tickets. [one kick drum] Bad news. There's work after death. [room laughter cuts short] Tonight's guests: Everybody you ignored until it was safe. Every singer you sampled but never learned the name of. Every writer whose rejection letter became worth more than the book. Every painter you called crazy until the auction. And me. Fatbo. Parking's thirty dollars. [live band crashes in] KEEP WATCHING [group] KEEP WATCHING Every eye puts another tooth in it KEEP WATCHING [group] DON'T FEED IT Too late. You thought remembrance was a rope? Look closer. It's a mouth. And something in that mouth is listening. [group] THE PART THAT LISTENS THE PART THAT LISTENS Feed it. [group] NO! Feed it. [group] NO! FEED IT. [drums lurch into a new groove] Brick wall coughs up a dead painter He gets halfway out Sees traffic Nope. Goes right back in. Record store aisle three Album sleeve starts kicking Dead punk singer claws through her own cover Clerk drops to his knees She looks around: Who the fuck alphabetized this place? [baritone sax growls] Bookstore next door Poet appears between shelves Dead fifty-seven years First thing he does? Starts screaming about placement. Priorities. Bus shelter goes black Granddad appears in the glass Mouths the nickname nobody else remembers Then: BUY TWO GET ONE FREE Ad comes back. That's cold. [camera shutter] KEEP WATCHING [group] KEEP WATCHING Every name pulls somebody through with it KEEP WATCHING [group] DON'T FEED IT Fatbo— What? Stop feeding it. I ain't feeding shit. You're all staring. [short laugh] Oh. Right. [huge bass hit] I used to pray somebody would remember my songs. Now eight million strangers know the chorus. Not one knows what I hated for breakfast. Not one knows who scared me when I was six. Not one knows the joke that made me laugh when nobody else did. [group whisper] We know the songs. That's the problem. Aw, don't ruin the show. They don't know you either. Lady, half these people paid to watch me bite a microphone. Knowing me was never in the package. [live drums slam back] I smashed the gift shop They sold pieces of the counter I broke the camera Now the broken camera's touring Set the merchandise on fire Limited-edition ashes by morning My anger made 'em richer So I got angrier. [group] STOCK WENT UP! I got angrier. [group] STOCK WENT UP! I threw a chair. [group] TWELVE PERCENT! Motherfucker. [band stops for laughter] There ain't revenge big enough when the machine can sell the revenge So welcome to the gift shop Here's a shirt of me burning down the gift shop. Sizes small through four-X. [cash register becomes snare] KEEP WATCHING KEEP WATCHING You paid for the monster Now watch what watching does [group] THE PART THAT LISTENS Say my name. [group] FATBO! Again. [group] FATBO! Again! [group] FATBO! [televisions switch on around the room] One in the window. One in the phone. One in the mirror. One in the poster. One in the tattoo. [distant scream] There's somebody coming out of my arm! That's new. Keep rolling. TURN THE CAMERA OFF! Camera three, get closer. [group screaming and laughing] Everybody put the phones down! [phone clicks become percussion] I said EVERYBODY PUT THE PHONES DOWN! Nobody does. Of course nobody does. That's the trick. You don't run from the haunted house anymore. You livestream it and ask the ghost to do it again. [low organ chord] Do it again. [group] DO IT AGAIN Claw out the record again. [group] DO IT AGAIN Say my dead mother's nickname again. [group falters] What? Too personal? NOW you got boundaries? [drums explode] KEEP WATCHING [group] KEEP WATCHING The screen got hungry and the room went missing KEEP WATCHING [group] STOP FEEDING IT What if I don't? [group] STOP FEEDING IT What if I like it? [group] FATBO— LOUDER! [group] FATBO! FATBO! FATBO! FATBO! [all instruments become unstable] They don't know you. They know the show. Who knows you? [everything stops] [television hum] Wrong question. [camera shutter] Now they can't forget me. [every television switches on] [group whisper] Fatbo Fatbo Fatbo Fatbo [lead through tiny television speaker] Okay. That's actually a little much. Anybody know how to turn this shit off? Stop watching. Nobody's gonna do that. Then be a person for five minutes. [long silence] Do we still validate parking? No. Thirty dollars. [television shuts off] [end]
