White-Boer session

Elon brainstorms!

[Night. The large, vaulted hangar that is X headquarters in San Francisco, as described in previous episodes. ELON MUSK, dressed like Hugo Drax, sits behind his iPad-festooned desk, reclining at a 45 degree angle in his Herman Miller chair, staring into space. A young, bland-looking white man with blonde baby-chick hair in a sleek Brimble & Clark gun check grey pinstripe suit approaches, but MUSK seems not to notice. The young man pauses five feet from the desk.]

YOUNG MAN: Mr. Musk? [Pause] Mr. Musk? My name is Muster. Mr. Barkside can’t make it. [Pause] Sir?

[MUSK shakes his head, startled; sits up (with difficulty getting the seat-back adjusted) and stares at MUSTER.]

MUSK: Poes! Explain yourself!

MUSTER: I’m Ivan Muster from Wheatley & Barkside, sir, Mr. Barkside is ill, and I’m here in his place.

MUSK: Ill! I’m not paying him to be ill! What’s wrong with him?

MUSTER: I think it was the anthrax you sent him as a joke, sir.

[MUSK stands.]

MUSK: Not a joke — a drill! We must be prepared for the Democrats to attack. He was a fool to open his own mail! He’ll know better next time!

MUSTER: Yes, Mr. Musk.

MUSK: My servants handle everything meant for me before I touch it. I also have a food taster. When I appeared onstage with the Leader, under my clothes, my entire body was sheathed in a new kind of Kevlar, Kevlar X. My own design! Save for my midriff, which is why it showed in the photos. Much lighter than any Kevlar seen before, but still burdensome, which is why I could not leap any higher. Normally I can jump five, six feet. I was scouted by the National Basketball Organization!

MUSTER: Yes, sir.

MUSK: Don’t yes me! I hate yes men! Almost as much as I hate “no” men. Ha ha! Take a seat, Muster, we have business.

[MUSK sits; MUSTER sits in a facing chair.]

Now. Our business is urgent, so we will dispense with the initiation.

MUSTER: Initiation?

MUSK: Never mind. Muster, no doubt you have seen the Negress has proposed a long term home health plan — a giveaway for the takers and parasites to ooh and ahh over.

MUSTER: I think I know what you mean, sir.

MUSK: Are you uncomfortable with racial epithets, Muster?

MUSTER: We dispensed with our DEI program, sir, at your insistence and Mrs. Adelson’s. So I don’t really notice racial — turns of phrase.

MUSK: Good man! And good for Miriam, not all the Jews are insane. When we take power we’ll put some blood on her doorpost. Now then: We have to find a way to make people forget this home health giveaway. I want ideas. Ideas to turn the tide!

MUSTER: I’m a financial analyst, sir. We’re a financial services firm.

MUSK: [Shaking a finger at him] You’ll never get anywhere in this business if you’re not flexible, Muster! It’s simple. Look, you can’t do any worse than what Trump’s people did today. Did you see?

[MUSK taps a couple of iPads, searching.]

MUSTER: You mean Karoline Leavitt’s statement, sir.

MUSK: [Reading] “overturning disincentives… supporting unpaid family caregivers through tax credits and reduced red tape.” Pah! This doesn’t even convince me! We have to make free home health care repulsive, disgusting! Think, Muster, think!

[MUSTER sighs.]

MUSTER: Well, sir, this may not be what you’re looking for but sometimes I have to accompany my mother to visit my grandfather in his assisted living and… it’s not a pleasant experience. He’s pretty deaf, he doesn’t know what day it is, he smells terrible —

[MUSK leaps to his feet.]

MUSK: That’s it! Home health care is for old people and old people are disgusting! Ugh!

[MUSK frantically brushes his hands over himself as if trying to get rid of bugs.]

Uck uck uck! Yes! Just show them old people drooling and shitting themselves and gumming their gruel, ja? And then you say, “Do you want your tax dollars paying for this?”

MUSTER: [Nodding] Yes, sir, I see what you mean. But if I may — many Republican voters are elderly themselves, or have elderly relatives, so they might not want —

[MUSK drops into his chair with a disgusted grunt.]

MUSK: Ugh, yes, I keep forgetting how sentimental the verloorders are for their smelly krimples. Very well, we’ll make the care disgusting. Bathing their wrinkly bodies, wiping their withered asses — ugh! Who can possibly stand to do it?

MUSTER: Well, it’s mostly done by black and Latino people, sir, you know, immigrants who are looking for a way —

MUSK: Wait! Did you say immigrants?

MUSTER: Yes, Mr. Musk!

[MUSK spins in his chair.]

MUSK: Brilliant!  That’s it! It’s a make-work program for immigrants! Millions, billions to filthy kaffirs who’ll probably rape and kill the old buggers!

[MUSK stands, regards MUSTER kindly.]

Muster, you’ve shown me something today, and I want to welcome you into our fraternity. Stand up.

[MUSTER does so.]

A little to the right.

[MUSTER sidles right.]

A little more.

[MUSTER does so.]

Good!

[MUSK hits something on his desk that looks like the Staples “That Was Easy” button and, as in “The Genius,” an enormous amount of green slime falls from the ceiling, hitting MUSTER and knocking him to the ground, where he writhes, gasps, and sputters. MUSK laughs heartily and hits another button that amplifies and reverberates his voice.]

DRUGS! BRING ME DRUUUUUGS!

[Lights flash; Three flunkies in white chef’s uniforms sans toque rush to him from the wings, and spray MUSK’s face with giant atomizers; he breathes deeply, and spastically shakes his head; two other flunkies, one carrying a white Gladstone bag with a red cross on it, ride a scooter with a flashing red front light to MUSTER’s prone figure, debark, and start clearing the slime from the writhing MUSTER’s face.]