[Intro | endlessly ascending layered octave arpeggio | continuous rising pitch illusion | hypnotic mechanical repetition | constant escalating tension | no harmonic resolution | robotic backup singers fade in | progressive art-rock | intricate evolving drum fills | funky slap bass | rubbery synth bass | atmospheric analog synthesizers | alien dive-bar ambience] LAST CALL! [Spoken Intro | deadpan robotic voice] Well, here we are. Civilization has ended. Fortunately… the bar is still open. Unfortunately… so is his mouth. [Verse 1 | rising arpeggio loop | octave-layered risers | never-resolving tension] Dead guy! Bar stool! Warm beer! Bad smell! Pull a tooth! Pull a nail! Pour another! Civilization failed! [Spoken Dialogue | alternating two male voices] You thirsty? Is that beer? Technically. Why is it moving? Freshness. [Chorus | robotic backup singers | explosive cymbal accents] LAST CALL! LAST CALL! DING! Something dead! DING! Something drunk! DING! Something smells like it crawled out of a trunk! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO [Verse 2 | syncopated odd-meter groove | slap bass] Dead man! No teeth! One shoe! Bad knees! Broken jukebox! Missing ear! Something floating in my beer! [Spoken Dialogue | alternating two male voices] What planet are you from? Earth. [Silence] Bullshit. [Chorus | rising arpeggio intensifies] LAST CALL! LAST CALL! Neurological bar machine spinning in my head! DING! Warm beer! DING! Dead guy! DING! Why the hell is he wearing a tie?! ACES! [Spoken Breakdown | alternating two male voices | mechanical ticking | bass harmonics | rising Shepard-tone illusion] You actually talk to these things? Every night. Do they answer? More than you do. [dead patron growls] What did he say? He doesn’t like your hair. [Silence] He’s missing his face. Don’t change the subject. [Instrumental Mutation | complex tom patterns | popping bass harmonics | analog synth spirals upward] [Verse 3] Bottle! Eyeball! Bar rag! SNAKE! Broken chair! Ceiling fan! Dead guy thinks he’s Superman! DING! A giraffe driving a Corvette! NOW THAT’S THE SHIT I’M TALKING ABOUT! [Final Chorus | robotic backup singers multiply | maximal progressive drums] LAST CALL! LAST CALL! My frontal lobe has left the building! DING! DONG! DEAD GUY WITH A GARDEN WEASEL! [Silence] [Spoken Outro | alternating two male voices | endlessly rising arpeggio continues underneath] I should probably leave. Probably. One more beer. Thought so. [dead patron growls] What’d he say? He wants your stool. Tell him to kiss my ass. [long growl] He says he can’t. Why? No lips. [Silence] Fair point. [arpeggio continues rising forever]
