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Dec. 21, 2020 - QAA

02:01:27

Episode 122: A Very Flynn Christmas Anthology

The entire chronological 6-story Michael Flynn saga by Jake Rockatansky. With commentary. To get your mind in a holiday mindset. ↓↓↓↓ SUBSCRIBE FOR $5 A MONTH SO YOU DON'T MISS THE SECOND WEEKLY EPISODE ↓↓↓↓ https://www.patreon.com/QAnonAnonymous QAA Merch / Join the Discord Community / Find the Lost Episodes / Etc: https://qanonanonymous.com Episode music by Nick Sena (http://nicksenamusic.com)

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	What's up, QAA listeners?
	The fun games have begun.
	I found a way to connect to the internet.
	I'm sorry, boy.
	Welcome, listener, to Chapter 122 of the QAnon Anonymous podcast, the Very Flynn Christmas episode.
	As always, we are your hosts, Jake Rokitansky, Julian Field, and Travis View.
	Throughout the last two years, Jake has written a series of stories about Michael Flynn, the three-star general, and his son.
	Now, certain particularities exist in this world.
	For example, the father speaks like Sean Connery for some reason that we'll find out more about.
	But the bottom line is this has been the kind of most exciting storyline, I think, that has emerged so far on this podcast.
	And so this week for Christmas, we thought we would gather together all of the Flynn stories from different premium and main episodes, and really lay out a saga and try to understand the unique mind that gave birth to this cinematic universe of sorts.
	Well, I don't know if you'll be satisfied with the answer.
	No, the answer will not—well...
	So I'm going to give the reins over to Jake, who's going to take us through, uh, what would you even call it?
	A triptych is when there's three pieces.
	What's a six?
	Six-tip.
	So without further ado, Jake, the storyteller of our podcast, is going to present an anthology of six Flynn stories.
	So this was the very first Flynn story.
	It feels like these characters have been with me my entire life, and in a way, they have.
	But the first time the mythical pair was woven into the QAnon Anonymous podcast was only in late July of 2019, which feels like an absolute lifetime ago.
	This was right around the time that Flynn was becoming a central character in the QAnon universe, and had himself started to lean into the conspiracy.
	Remember, there were the changing tides and his Twitter banner that Anons baked the shit out of, or signing where we go one we go all in people's books at signings.
	I mean, we knew we had to work him into a story.
	But again, I face the age-old question, How do I make a sociopath and his right-wing adult son heroes?
	It's a unique challenge I face often when writing for the show.
	How do you take essentially bad people and make them the protagonists and then on top of that make it funny?
	The answer?
	The stupider, the better.
	I mean, what iconic father-son duo could we parody that would take the edge off the character's real-world personas?
	Of course, being an 80s kid and growing up with a father who loved Spielberg so much, he would give that as our family's last name in restaurants out in public sometimes.
	Whoa!
	Just to see people's reactions when the name was called.
	Incredible.
	So it could only be Dr. Henry Jones Sr.
	and his son, Indiana.
	One of my favorite things about that relationship is that Sean Connery's character is able to turn the stoic title character, Indiana Jones, into a mopey, often dumbfounded kid.
	Now this worked perfectly to my advantage, since I find Michael Jr.
	completely uninteresting, and knew his dialogue would be nearly impossible to write, and unfunny, and would make him a horrible lead character.
	But you renamed him Florida instead of Indiana.
	Yeah, of course.
	Which, that's a very deep, you know, semiotic move.
	So some have asked me if I fell in love with the Connery accent after all of the great SNL Jeopardy skits starring Daryl Hammond, and that's a fair guess.
	But in truth, it was actually the trailer for a British fantasy film released in 1996 titled Dragonheart,
	where I became obsessed with imitating Connery's famous line,
	I am the last one!
	Don't be pale, baby, tail.
	Sacrament to the nail, dear.
	One thousand years ago, there lived a man of honor and a creature of legend.
	He's the greatest dragon slayer there is!
	I personally have seen him slay almost two dragons.
	I haven't had this sort of challenge in some time.
	Not likely to again.
	They were two sworn enemies.
	How do you like the ride so far?
	I will rid the world of every last one of you.
	I am the last one.
	If you win, you'll be out of work.
	Wait, so he is a dragon in the movie?
	Yes.
	Now, of course.
	Dragonheart is a film about a man and his dragon pal, an entirely CGI creature voiced by Connery, and the, I am the last one, was quoted incessantly by my peers.
	A very Flynn adventure.
	Mike Flynn Jr.
	pulled a whittledown piece of chalk across an old green chalkboard.
	And who among you can tell me the three trials of Moloch according to the ancient Sumerians?
	Blank stares from the class.
	A young woman in the front row blinked her eyes slowly, seductively.
	Across her eyelids were the words, I hate you, written in mascara.
	Flynn Jr.
	sighed.
	That answer is the call of Moloch, the seed of Moloch, and the fires of Moloch.
	A loud bell rang.
	Instantly, the students began packing up their books and scuttling out of the large lecture room.
	Flynn called out after him.
	Chapters 11 and 12 tonight in the text, and I'd suggest actually reading them because there's going to be a quiz.
	Nobody seemed to care.
	The last of the students filed out of the room, leaving Flynn Jr.
	standing behind his oak desk, gazing up at his chicken scrawl covering the blackboard.
	A familiar voice with a sharp British accent piped up from the classroom.
	A quiz?
	I thought you didn't believe in quizzes, Dr. Flynn.
	Well, haven't you heard, Marcus?
	It's all the rage.
	Flynn tossed a stack of papers across the surface of his desk.
	Doesn't matter anyway.
	I think the only person excited about learning about the ancient god of Moloch is me.
	As it should be, Dr. Flynn," Marcus said, putting a hand on Flynn Jr.'s shoulder.
	Flynn began to pack up his things.
	"'To what do I owe this visit?' he said, before leaning in and whispering excitedly.
	"'Did they find the da Vinci painting?' "'No, Dr. Flynn, there's a man here to see you.'"
	He's adamant that information he's obtained would be of great interest to you.
	I'll bet.
	Flynn said with a scowl.
	He's waiting for you in your office.
	Marcus said.
	I expect you'll find your way there?
	Flynn flashed a gruff smile.
	I always do.
	As Flynn Jr.
	entered his office. He always makes it to his office.
	As Flynn Junior entered his office, he noticed a short, bald man hunched over, waiting patiently in his office.
	Upon entering, Flynn saw the man was supporting himself with a bejeweled cane.
	He lit up as Flynn walked into the room, gently placing his leather satchel on top of his desk.
	Dr. Flynn.
	How do you do?
	Flynn reached out and shook the old man's hand.
	It was weak and pale, covered in open sores.
	My name is George Soros.
	Please forgive me for arriving unannounced like some sort of street thug come to collect a debt.
	Flynn was a little taken aback.
	Whatever the man wanted, Flynn could be certain it wasn't good.
	The man had a peculiar smell about him, and as he hobbled around the room, Flynn could have sworn he heard what sounded like gold coins clinking together in the man's pockets.
	I can assure you it's quite the opposite, for I am willing to pay a great sum in exchange for, well, assistance in a pressing matter.
	The man rested his hands on his cane.
	Not interested, Flynn said, picking up his things and taking a weathered old brown fedora from a nearby rack and placing it on his head.
	Sorry to have wasted your time.
	He quickly headed out the office door when the old man called out after him.
	I have found the Temple of Moloch.
	Flynn stopped dead in his tracks.
	There was a long pause.
	That's impossible, Flynn spun around.
	It doesn't exist.
	No, but it does, Dr. Flynn.
	The man hobbled closer to Flynn.
	About a year and a half ago, I got a call from a man who came across a dead sea fisherman who claimed he had found a lost scroll written by Jesus Christ.
	Of course, we were wary.
	I'm listening.
	To our surprise, the scroll checked out.
	Crafted in 29 AD, purported to be written by none other than Jesus himself.
	Flynn could barely contain his excitement.
	There is a story.
	Before Jesus was killed, one of his followers was said to have constructed a menorah that would reveal the location of the lair of the damned, from which all evil that- Flynn cut him off, finishing the old man's sentence.
	From which all evil that infects the hearts of men resides.
	My dad studied the temple.
	Looked for it his entire life.
	We thought he was crazy.
	Flynn glanced down at the old linoleum floor.
	He hadn't talked to his father in months.
	Just weeks after joining the Trump transition team, he had mysteriously taken off on vacation.
	To where?
	Flynn Jr.
	wasn't sure.
	Just then the old man produced what looked like a small menorah.
	It was centuries old.
	Flynn's eyes twinkled.
	You found it, Flynn gasped.
	The old man continued.
	Hidden in the sacred text is a series of musical notes corresponding to specific characters in the Hebrew alphabet.
	He raised the menorah to his lips and began to play a haunting melody.
	But what does it have to do with a temple?
	Flynn asked.
	At first we weren't sure.
	And then some music professor in Berkeley figured it out.
	When played in session, the notes contain a series of numbers.
	Coordinates.
	Coordinates to where?
	Turkey.
	Flynn almost jumped with excitement.
	Wait a minute.
	That now makes perfect sense.
	After the fall of the Byzantine Empire, it was said that a sect of powerful rabbis took refuge in a cave where they made a pact with... Flynn trailed off.
	The man leaned in and whispered something softly.
	Moloch.
	Why me?
	Flin eyed the man incredulously.
	Our most important researcher has gone missing.
	We thought maybe a man of your expertise could help us find him and destroy the temple for good.
	You got the wrong guy.
	You want a real expert to help you find the temple?
	You'll have to talk to my father.
	The old man picked up a long wool overcoat draped across one of the chairs in the small office.
	He hung it over his shoulders and shakily made his way towards the office door.
	I'm afraid we have Dr. Flynn.
	He's the researcher who's gone missing.
	Flynn Jr.
	peeked out from under his hat.
	His boat was arriving at a small grouping of wooden docks.
	Local fishermen yelled at each other from their respective boats, bragging about the day's haul.
	Flynn removed his leather jacket, revealing a worn linen shirt.
	Attached to his waist, a holstered pistol and a long leather bullwhip.
	It was hot.
	The strong Turkish sun was reflecting off the worn wooden deck planks.
	Flynn could just make out a young woman with long brunette hair waiting patiently at the edge of the docks.
	As the crew cut the motor and pulled alongside the dock, she called out to him.
	Dr. Flynn!
	Flynn stepped off the boat and onto the dock.
	The woman reached out her hand.
	Pleasure to finally meet you.
	I'm Huma Abedin.
	I was working alongside your father when he disappeared.
	Is that so?
	Flynn asked.
	He quickly looked her over.
	She was attractive, he thought.
	But he trusted her about as far as he could throw her.
	Because this matter is time-sensitive, Mr. Soros suggests we start right away.
	Would you like to see the place where your father was abducted, Dr. Flynn?
	Flynn Jr.
	removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
	Call me Florida.
	A rusty Jeep pulled up outside a sprawling apartment complex on the outskirts of Antalya.
	Women and children scurried into their homes as Florida Flynn and Huma Abedin exited the vehicle and made their way up the stairs into the building.
	After ascending a few flights of stairs and walking down a long hallway, the pair stopped at a doorway.
	The hinges on the door had been smashed in, and the door itself hung open, revealing a small apartment in complete disarray.
	Bookcases turned over, papers and broken glass strewn everywhere.
	Florida took the scene in.
	Your father was working here, tracking the coordinates to the location of the temple.
	When he didn't check in a few days ago, we came over and found it, like this.
	Flynn clocked the damage in the room.
	Whoever kidnapped him, they were looking for something.
	And I bet I know what.
	Huma seemed interested.
	Tell me.
	Any information at all could lead us to your father, and the men who did this.
	Flynn rummaged through a couple of loose stacks of paper.
	My dad kept a diary.
	In it, he claimed to have solved the riddles of the temple.
	Information necessary to find.
	Flynn trailed off.
	Huma spoke up.
	The Owl of Moloch.
	How do you know about it?
	How could I not, Dr. Flynn?
	The cup is said to grant eternal life to those willing to drink from its beak.
	That's what Dad thought, too.
	He noticed a small white cord, tracing from one of the power outlets and into a dresser drawer.
	He carefully opened the drawer and produced a small, silver laptop.
	Something the kidnappers must have missed.
	Upon opening it, the screen flashed on, displaying an archaic-looking website with ugly-looking, flesh-colored boxes filled with text.
	Before Chan, Florida smirked.
	Dad would use it every now and again as a fishing haul.
	Nowadays, when someone's got intel, you don't have to meet him in some alley at midnight.
	Huma chuckled.
	It was hard to resist his charm.
	Tall, with slick back hair and a five o'clock shadow, she watched as Flynn made strokes on the keyboard.
	Look at this.
	This was the last post he made before they took him.
	He must have known they were coming.
	It's in code.
	Who knows where the bodies are buried?
	Flynn is safe.
	We protect our patriots.
	Who's Q?
	Aberdeen asked.
	It's an old nickname he used to use when he was teaching me signals back when I was a kid.
	But what does it mean?
	It means he's safe.
	Somehow.
	Flynn racked his brain.
	Who knows where the bodies are buried?
	It's a code.
	A code for what?
	I don't know.
	Flynn put his hat back on and walked over to the windows of the apartment.
	They opened out onto a small balcony.
	Florida Flynn stepped out, breathing in the hot, dusty air.
	Junior?
	A voice called out.
	What are you doing here?
	Flynn spun around upon hearing the familiar voice.
	Standing there on a neighboring balcony was his father, General Michael Flynn Sr.
	He was sipping a cup of coffee.
	Dad?
	gasped Florida.
	You're here!
	It appears I am.
	These lovely people agreed to take me in when they discovered I was to be kidnapped.
	He motioned to a small family just inside the neighboring apartment.
	They waved politely in Florida's direction.
	But Junior, what are you doing in Turkey?
	My name's not Junior, Dad.
	It's Florida.
	The dog's name was Florida.
	Your name's Junior.
	Ugh, Dad, would you... Are you alright?
	Perfectly so.
	Might I add, the coffee here is exquisite.
	The two men continued to yell at each other across the balconies.
	Did they find the diary?
	Flynn Sr.
	looked down at his shoes, lost in thought.
	They did.
	Florida placed his hands on his hips and let out a deep sigh.
	How are we supposed to find the temple?
	Well, you didn't think there was only one copy, did you?
	Florida perked up.
	Okay, so why the long face?
	Because if they have the diary, it won't be long until they reach the temple.
	We're running out of time.
	Huma, Florida, and Flynn Sr.
	huddled around the small laptop in the still-trashed apartment.
	Flynn Sr.
	revisited his last Q-post.
	He clicked a couple times in the center of the post.
	Nothing happened.
	No, I could have sworn it was right- Ah, right.
	The screen flashed and took him to a new webpage.
	How'd you do that?
	Florida eyed his old man.
	Invisible link!
	Flynn Sr.
	equipped, amused with his own cleverness.
	A small white box appeared, prompting Flynn Sr.
	to enter a password he carefully began to type.
	Who knows where the bodies are buried?
	He clicked enter, and glanced over his shoulder at his large son, whose beady eyes were fixed on a computer screen.
	I knew it was a code, Florida exclaimed.
	Precisely why I had to enter it, Flynn Sr.
	snapped judgmentally.
	Scrolling through what now looked like pages and pages of a scanned diary, complete with hand-drawn pictures of ancient relics, artifacts, and maps.
	I say, Junior, were you able to retain anything I taught you?
	Flynn Sr.
	asked incredulously.
	Yeah, never trust a book by its spine.
	Flynn Sr.
	allowed his head to collapse gently into his hands.
	He let out a deep, long, frustrated sigh.
	Even with my notes, I've narrowed the temple's location to two possible coordinates.
	He grabbed a torn map nearby and spread it out over a wooden table.
	The notes on the menorah point to either Antalya or Anamor.
	The translations leave room for interpretation.
	No doubt they'll send two teams, Florida side.
	He glanced out the window, clutching the handle of his pistol, attached to his waist.
	He was eager to get out there.
	We'll only have one chance to decide.
	A faraway explosion echoed through the town.
	Through the open window, Florida could see a small wisp of black smoke rising from the desert ridge just outside the city.
	I'd say that's as good a bet as any.
	He straightened his hat and stood up, dragging his father with him.
	He turned to Huma Abedin.
	Can you get us there?
	I think so, she said.
	Then we're wasting time.
	Dad, let's go!
	The three bolted up and made their way to the street.
	A handful of locals had approached their parked Jeep, smelling it, rubbing the dust from the windshield on their fingertips.
	One of the local men grabbed his hand and yelped in pain as he looked over just in time to see Florida Flynn place his long bullwhip back securely on his hip.
	Hands off.
	It's a rental.
	The men scurried away and the three hopped in the dusty Jeep and took off down the winding Turkish side streets.
	No sooner had they taken their first turn, Florida glanced at something peculiar in his rearview mirror.
	A large military truck had pulled out from a nearby alley and was slowly gaining on them.
	Anyone expecting company?
	Florida yelled over the roar of the Jeep's engine.
	As the truck grew closer, Florida recognized the driver's uniform right away.
	Gray, with a tiny red and white armband.
	Nazis.
	I hate Nazis.
	The truck slammed into the back of their Jeep.
	Huma gripped the wheel hard in an effort to keep the Jeep from careening into one of the many market stands littered
	along the narrow street.
	Keep her steady, Florida yelled, leaning out the window and firing a couple shots from his pistol back towards the
	truck behind them.
	He watched as the bullets careened off the truck's metal hood.
	Damn.
	Flynn Sr.
	clutching his briefcase piped up from the back seat.
	It appears as if they're boarding our ship.
	What?
	Florida yelled.
	Our ship!
	yelled Flynn Sr.
	pointing to a large turban-wearing man brandishing a large sword leaping from the hood of the truck onto the jeep.
	Slice!
	A blade came ripping through the top of the jeep and boonk!
	Wedged itself directly in the center of Flynn Sr.' 's briefcase.
	Let go of the case, Dad!
	Like hell I will!
	This case was a gift from the Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salam!
	Flynn Sr.
	wrestled with the case, still skewered on the tip of the blade.
	Without warning, Florida popped open the passenger side door, swung outside of the Jeep, and landed a well-placed hand on their attacker's baggy pant leg.
	Give my regards to Hitler!
	And with that, he pulled hard, throwing the man from the top of their vehicle.
	As he hit the dirt behind them, the truck swerved to avoid running the man over, and instead crashed straight into a stack of barrels, exploding in a supernova of burning fuel and flames.
	Florida watched through the rear windshield as the smoldering heap of metal flames disappeared quickly below the horizon.
	Faster!
	Drive!
	We gotta get to that temple!
	Puma pressed the gas pedal to the floor and the Jeep took off through the bustling city towards the Tower of Smoke looming in the distant desert.
	The Jeep made its way across the vast sand dunes and into the desert.
	Before long, the three found themselves pulling up to a large crater.
	In the center, a giant hole surrounded by ash and debris.
	Whoever had been there had long since gone.
	Florida wasted no time.
	He grabbed a rope from the back of the jeep and, securing it around its bumper, tossed the other end into the pit of blackness.
	No telling how deep it went.
	Dad, you stay here and keep watch.
	If anybody shows up, shoot them.
	Oh nonsense, I'll go down there with you.
	Both Hooman and Flynn Jr.
	raised their eyebrows.
	I've searched my whole life for this godforsaken place.
	If it's down there, I want to see it.
	Florida shrugged.
	He gestured to the long piece of rope draping down at the ominous cavern, and the three of them began to slowly rappel down.
	After what felt like an hour, Florida's feet finally hit solid rock.
	They had reached the bottom.
	It was the unmistakable sound of a revolver being cocked behind them.
	A familiar old voice spoke.
	It's a good thing you escaped.
	Florida whipped around.
	George Soros was standing there.
	The light from the mouth of the cavern illuminated a small section of his face.
	Our men had orders to kill both you and your father.
	It was deemed you were disposable once we uncovered the temple.
	Behind Soros, a large stone temple was carved into the mantle rock.
	Intricate statues of demons and owls lined its massive pillars.
	Flynn Sr.
	looked up at the temple's entrance with a strange look of both horror and joy.
	We found it, boy!
	After all these years, we found it!
	Technically, we found it, quipped Soros.
	However, without your research, I'm afraid we'd still be in the dark.
	Men!
	Suddenly, dozens of soldiers surrounded the trio, all wearing the same gray uniforms, holding automatic rifles.
	Flynn Sr.
	locked eyes with Soros.
	I'm curious to know, what's a prominent Jewish philanthropist doing palling around with the bloody Nazis?
	An evil grin crept across Soros' face.
	You don't get it, do you?
	The Jews are the Nazis!
	Is this the one where you were like, you're gonna have to edit it out?
	Well, it's staying in.
	You better fucking believe it is.
	What better way to protect our race than by killing so many of our own, no one would dare repeat it.
	Oh my god.
	I'm so sorry.
	I'm so sorry.
	Did you just apologize to your mom?
	Yes.
	And like dead grandparent, like everybody.
	Oh yeah, this is satire.
	The red pill was so potent you could see it making its way down Florida's throat and into his belly.
	You son of a bitch, he yelled.
	He took a couple aggressive steps towards Soros.
	Wait a minute.
	Why are we still alive?
	Huma Abedin dropped her hands to her sides and strutted over next to Soros, placing a hand gently on his shoulder.
	Because, Florida, we need you to complete the three trials of Moloch.
	This hit Florida with the force of a Class V hurricane.
	Huma?
	You're... you're working for... for them?
	My apologies, Dr. Flynn, but as a connoisseur of ancient Sumerian religions, I'm sure you'll understand my... curiosity.
	And what if I say no?
	Flynn growled through his teeth.
	Unfortunately, you won't have a choice.
	And with that, Huma reached over, grabbed the pistol from George Soros, and fired a single round into Michael Flynn Sr.' 's stomach.
	He collapsed to the ground.
	Florida rushed over.
	Dad!
	Junior!
	You must go!
	Bring the owl!
	It's the only way!
	Florida stood up and faced Soros, Aberdeen, and the rest of them, his eyes brimming with rage.
	Out of my way.
	He approached a long stone tunnel, whispering to himself, first trial is the call of Moloch.
	The call of Moloch.
	A giant checkerboard of letters was splayed out in front of him.
	How do you call him?
	You call him by his name.
	M. Florida skipped to a stone a few feet away.
	O. He danced over to another stone.
	L. Another one.
	one a as he hit the a the ground crumbled and gave way beneath him
	A cavern of fire and brimstone opened up beneath him, and Florida could hear the terrible wails of the damned.
	Charred, bony hands reached up from the fires below him, desperately trying to grab at Florida's boots.
	After struggling for a beat, he was finally able to pull himself up.
	Oh, he yelled.
	C-H.
	Flynn Jr.
	landed safely on the other side.
	He looked back over his shoulder towards the entrance.
	I'm through!
	He yelled, before continuing down the long stone tunnel.
	Soon he reached a small chamber.
	A cylindrical altar about waist high stood at the center of the room.
	Florida whispered to himself, the seed of Moloch.
	What's a seed?
	He glanced around the chamber.
	Drawn on the walls were crude pornographic images.
	The people in the images were smaller, almost as if they were...
	Children.
	Flynn glanced back at the altar in the center.
	The seed of Moloch.
	You must... sacrifice... your seed.
	No, Florida gasped.
	I won't do it.
	Tears began to stream down his face.
	You must, boy!
	There's... This is... I don't... You must, boy!
	This is sorry, I don't I don't I You must boy. There's no other way
	Here it is father call out from beyond the cavern I can't.
	They're children!
	Florida sobbed.
	There's no other way!
	His father's voice echoed in his head.
	Florida looked down at his waist and slowly began to unbuckle his belt.
	Jesus fucking Christ, man.
	The other stuff is what I'm supposed to edit out?
	Three hours later, Florida Flynn made his way to the third and final trial.
	A lane of fire blazed in front of him.
	On either side were rows and rows of young children clad in a little more than loincloths.
	They stood motionless on either side, the light from the flames reflecting in their hollow stares.
	Okay.
	Third trial.
	Fire's a Moloch.
	I can do this.
	I can do this.
	May the Holy Trinity protect me.
	He flung himself through the flames.
	They lapped at his skin, burning him horribly as he made his way through the center of a flaming corridor.
	Just when the pain had become too much to bear, Flynn collapsed inside a small chamber.
	You were supposed to push the child through the flames, a creaky old voice remarked.
	But no matter, you're here, and that is the important thing.
	Everybody's shaking their heads at me.
	This is from where...
	Everybody is so mad at me for writing this story, which I stayed up all night working on.
	It can't possibly be worse than what you just had to skip through in your own story because you knew there was no good next physical scene for Michael Flynn Jr.
	I guess jacking off into a chalice, essentially.
	It's the second trial.
	But no matter, you're here, and that is the most important thing.
	Flynn looked up.
	Standing before him, barely lit by the torches in the chamber, was President Ronald Reagan.
	He continued to speak.
	You see, I've been guarding the Owl of Moloch for thirty years, hoping that the God of Evil would someday find me a replacement.
	Drink from the cup so that you may follow in my footsteps, a worthy guardian to the owl, and may its powers grant you eternal life so that you too may protect the great secrets of Moloch.
	I'll take that.
	Soros, along with his men, entered the chamber, pushing the frail Ronald Reagan aside and setting sights on the ornate owl chalice.
	At long last, I drink from the cup so that our new world order shall have an everlasting king!
	He raised the cup to his lips.
	He drank.
	All of a sudden, thousands of spiders poured through the cracks in the ancient chamber.
	Soros began to twitch as the insects made their way into his shoes, his pants, under his shirt.
	He began to howl as the spiders enveloped him, tearing at his flesh, sinking their sharp fangs into every inch of his body.
	He collapsed to the floor, convulsing as his flesh turned green with poison, and his skin began to bubble and pop as it melted into the stone brick beneath him.
	Regan looked up, amused.
	A grave mistake.
	The chalice will only bring everlasting life if in it is placed the blood of a virgin.
	Florida looked off into the distance, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone in the chamber.
	A couple feet away, one of the Nazi soldiers had propped up his father, the gunshot wound in his stomach now soaked with blood.
	Flynn Jr.
	looked embarrassed.
	He glanced over in Huma's direction.
	She was watching him very intently.
	He reached into his pocket and produced a small knife After a long beat, he took the knife and plunged it into the tip of his finger, letting the blood drip out into the ornate chalice sitting next to the pile of flesh where Soros had once been.
	He gingerly grabbed the cup and brought it over to Michael Flynn Sr.
	Flynn Sr.
	looked at the cup in awe for a beat before drawing the warm liquid to his lips.
	The ground began to shake.
	A giant crack shot across the floor.
	A deep red glow from within the rocks began to get hotter and hotter as the ground opened up and began sucking the soldiers down into its depths.
	Florida grabbed Mike Sr., and with one arm around him, made a break out of the chamber and towards the exit.
	He glanced over his shoulder.
	As he did, he watched as Huma Abedin drank from the Owl of Moloch.
	Florida could just barely make out her body as it began to glow a brilliant blue.
	And then, she was sucked into the darkness.
	Rocks fell around them.
	Pieces of the temple were falling from the ceiling into the abyss that was slowly gaining on them.
	Come on, Dad!
	Florida yelled.
	It took all of his might to carry his father through the crumbling temple, finally throwing themselves through a small opening where the sunlight just barely peeked through.
	When he came to, both he and his father were laying in the hot sand.
	Behind them, the ground had caved in, completely sealing in the temple forever.
	I'm sorry about the girl, Florida."
	Flynn Sr.
	said.
	The blood on his shirt was now gone, and his face seemed to look ten years younger.
	Florida looked out over the vast desert.
	He wiped some debris from his face.
	I have a feeling we haven't seen the last of her.
	Or that prick Reagan, he scoffed.
	The sounds of a helicopter quickly approached and startled them.
	Both men shielded their eyes from the dust as a large chopper appeared over the dunes and landed about a hundred feet away from where they lay.
	Men in dark black suits and sunglasses exited the chopper and bounded towards them.
	General Flynn!
	Yes?
	We've been looking all over for you.
	Boss needs you to come in and answer some questions.
	We've been ordered to bring you in, sir.
	Questions about what?
	About Russia, sir.
	Russia?
	Flynn Sr.
	looked confused.
	He barely had time to say goodbye to his son before he was rushed to the waiting chopper.
	Florida watched as he took off and disappeared over the endless sea of dunes.
	He took his hat off and knocked the dust from it.
	He gazed at the peaks of the city buildings a couple miles off in the distance.
	Florida took one last look at the large, sunken-in sand pit behind him before climbing to his feet and taking off through the desert.
	I like this because three things that did not carry through at all.
	Huma Abedin, gone forever.
	Ronald Reagan, gone.
	And the idea that Flynn is actually just Q. That is also kind of gone.
	Well, others now in the real world have just picked that up.
	Also, my sound work is nowhere near as good as it got later.
	Yeah, although I will say that my writing and acting has degraded over time.
	Absolutely not.
	I believe in you, man.
	So the next entry in the Florida Flynn saga, titled Florida Flynn and the Last Crusade, actually also rips off Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.
	Uh-huh.
	But much more specifically, it borrows from a scene at the very beginning when Indiana Jones, now grown-up, boards a ship amidst a heavy storm to retrieve a relic he lost when he was a teenager.
	I usually, with these, try to pick an iconic scene to open on.
	You know, one that's immediately recognizable to fans of the stuff that I'm ripping off, just so that everybody's in on the joke from the beginning.
	You know what I'm stealing from.
	You're not going to call me a plagiarist or anything.
	Do not treat our audience as if they're intelligent.
	You're not going to call me a hack.
	Also, I should add that my brother and I have a real funny bone for stories and sketches where the internet or download speeds account for a major part of the narrative or conflict.
	And I can say with 100% certainty that this comes from watching Tim and Eric's Pierre sketches when we were in our most informative years.
	The stunning epilogue to A Very Flynn Adventure.
	Somewhere, out in the middle of the Baltic Sea, a storm raged.
	The freezing winds clashed with the roaring ocean, creating towering walls of icy water upwards of a hundred feet or more.
	A large freighter, rocking violently, on top of the massive waves tumbled through the sea, yellow lights from the decks below flickering with storm.
	A hand reached out from the depths of the ocean, grasping at the coarse rope ladder dancing along the starboard side of the freighter.
	A man, wearing a soaked leather jacket and a floppy brim fedora, pulled himself up the ladder, making his way towards the deck of the ship.
	Finally, he pulled himself over the metal railing and flung himself into a pool of seawater sloshing to either side of the wooden deck.
	Florida Flynn, staggered to his feet, removed his hat and shook the water from it, before placing it back on his bald head.
	Flint jumped a foot in the air as the bullets from the AK-47 careened off the ground beneath him.
	Bits of wood and drops of water peppered the air as Flint shielded his face from debris.
	With one quick motion, he grabbed a large leather bullwhip from his belt and flung it in the direction of the gunfire.
	A henchman fell to his knees, grasping at his wrists.
	Flint Jr.
	heard the clang of the rifle the man had been holding hit the deck.
	He wasted no time hurling himself towards the fallen henchman, and with a well-placed kick, snapped the man's head backwards.
	It made a hollow thunk as it bounced off the soaked wooden planks, rendering the thug unconscious.
	Flynn Jr.
	snapped to attention.
	He followed the sounds of the baby's cries into a nearby metal stairwell and down into the main cabin.
	He wedged himself against the cold metal wall and crept towards a sealed door at the end of a long hallway.
	It took nearly all his strength to rotate the large metal wheel attached to the door.
	Once inside, in the center of the room, Florida saw it.
	A baby.
	Laying in a makeshift bassinet rocked back and forth as the large ship heaved from side to side
	He carefully walked to the center of the room and gently lifted the baby into his arms
	It had a large red cube stitched onto the back of its pajamas
	Florida held the child close to his chest. Shh. It's okay, baby
	We're gonna get you out of here.
	Click.
	The sounds of ten rifles cocking sent shivers down Florida's spine.
	Flynn spun around.
	Standing in the hallway were a dozen armed henchmen all wearing MS-13 jackets and pointing large automatic rifles directly at his head.
	A valiant effort, Dr. Flynn.
	The henchman stepped aside, clearing a path for a tall, thin man with short, graying hair.
	He smiled at Flynn Jr., revealing a set of crooked, yellow teeth.
	Podesta, Flynn gasped.
	I believe you have something that belongs to me, Podesta sneered.
	It belongs in a museum!" Flynn shouted back, clutching the baby protectively to his chest.
	Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
	Perhaps.
	But what good would it do anyone there?
	Podesta glanced over his shoulder to his men.
	Take the child!
	You son of a bitch, Florida yelled.
	The men rushed him, two of them holding his arms while another forced the child from his grasp.
	You shouldn't blame yourself, Dr. Flynn, Podesta cooed.
	Men far more powerful than myself have sought the child that bears the letter.
	Even if you had succeeded, it would only be a matter of time before someone less merciful came to take it from you.
	Florida struggled with all his might, but it was no use.
	Dispose of him, Podesta said casually, disappearing with the child into the depths of the freighter.
	The men dragged Flordy up the metal stairwell and out onto the deck.
	They shoved him towards the edge of the ship and flung him into raging waters.
	As Florida fought his way to the surface, he could just make out the freighter disappearing into the darkness of the storm.
	A few days later, back in the United States, Florida Flynn hurried up a flight of stone steps in a cramped aging apartment complex.
	He jogged down a hallway and came to a halt in front of one of the apartment doors.
	He raised his fist and banged on the door aggressively.
	Dad!
	No movement inside.
	Florida banged again.
	Dad!
	Open up!
	He lowered his fist for a beat.
	A look of sadness filled his face.
	They got the baby, Dad!
	I screwed it up!
	Still no answer.
	Flynn Jr.
	raised his fist one last time and pounded hard on the old wooden door.
	He heard the sound of wood splintering, and to his surprise, the door swung open.
	Flynn Jr.
	slowly entered into the apartment.
	Nothing seemed out of order.
	Dad?
	Dad?
	Flynn quickly checked the rooms.
	He noticed the bedroom closet door was left ajar, and a large suitcase was missing.
	Shit.
	Florida hissed under his breath.
	He rushed into the kitchen.
	An old Dell computer was sitting at a small desk in the corner of the kitchen.
	He could see a small gray ethernet cord plugged into the back of it.
	Oh, no.
	No, no, no, no, he's not supposed to have internet!
	Flynn hurried over to the computer and made a couple strokes on the dirt-lined keyboard.
	The screen flashed on, revealing about 15 open browser windows.
	No, no, come on, Dad, what were you thinking?
	Flynn scanned the various websites.
	He came across one that looked like an old GeoCities page.
	It seemed to be on the checkout area.
	Dear Michael Flynn Sr., thank you for your investment of $32,000 with safetygnar.com.
	God damn it, Dad!
	Flynn angrily closed the window and saw another behind it.
	In it was a man's hands holding various ordinary-looking rocks.
	The hell is this?
	Flynn shouted aloud to himself.
	What the hell did you do, Dad?
	Just then there was a knock at the door.
	Flynn Jr.
	whipped his head around towards the noise.
	He grabbed his pistol off his waist and cautiously made his way to the front of the small apartment.
	Standing there was a young boy, couldn't have been more than 17 years old.
	He looked nervous.
	Uh, are you Michael Flynn Jr.?
	Who's asking?
	Uh, sorry to bother you sir, but I was asked to deliver this letter.
	Oh.
	letter. Flynn seemed confused. He reached out and grabbed a worn, dusty envelope from
	Yeah.
	the kid's outstretched hands.
	Thanks, kid. He reached to close the door when the kid cleared his throat.
	Flynn looked at the kid.
	Oh, yeah, sure. He dug in his throat.
	Thanks.
	Flynn Jr.
	and produced a couple broken cigarettes and stuffed them into the kid's palm.
	There you go kid, thanks.
	Florida slammed the door shut.
	He walked into the small living room and collapsed on an old leather couch.
	He flicked a sharp knife from his pocket and ripped open the top of the envelope.
	In it was a yellowed piece of paper with cursive writing scribbled on both sides.
	Flynn Jr. began to read.
	Junior, I'm writing you from a small village outside of Morocco.
	I've met a man there.
	A man who goes by the name of Roger Spurr.
	He's discovered something incredible, boy!
	It is said that Hitler and the Nazis have scoured the globe looking for evidence of an ancient race of giants.
	Powerful Aryan gods, whose DNA could provide secrets to everlasting life.
	But what they didn't know was, it's been under our feet all along, boy!
	The rocks!
	The rocks are made of creatures!
	Ha ha ha ha ha ha!
	Ha ha ha ha ha!
	Flim, I've let her drop into his lap.
	He furrowed his brow, rubbed his temples, and let out a long, belabored sigh.
	He continued to read.
	So naturally, I've chartered a boat and joined him down in Morocco.
	It's incredible, boy.
	Each day we're finding something more exquisite than the day before.
	We're currently in the process of unearthing what Spur believes is a male sexual organ that once belonged to a fearsome giant so big it stretches straight across the Atlas Mountains.
	In fact, unbeknownst to us, we've set up camp right between the testes.
	A grand adventure indeed!
	If you're reading this, I'm sure you've by now discovered I found a way to connect to the internet.
	I'm sorry, boy.
	boy.
	I couldn't just sit in a dump waiting for the Reaper to just carry me away like a fart in the wind.
	I've discovered a whole world on there.
	A world filled with amusing images accompanied by strange text.
	It appears as I've amassed quite a following as well.
	I accidentally posted a picture of one of the Moroccan beaches we visited the other day.
	They damn near lost their bloody minds.
	Tomorrow we set out in search of a dragon boy.
	I'm gonna fucking die.
	I'm gonna fucking die.
	I know it sounds crazy, but they're here.
	Just like the pictures on the internet.
	If you search Dragon and click images, you'll see what I mean.
	It appears as if the old man can still teach his boy a thing or two.
	In the event that I should be unable to return, don't worry.
	Junior, you'll be taken care of.
	I've invested my life savings in the Iraqi dinar, a strange and mysterious coin worth untold riches.
	You're going to be a very rich man, Junior.
	My final gift to you.
	I do hope you're well, boy.
	Sunrise is in but a few hours, so I leave to gather what remains of our camp, head towards the coast.
	Don't try to look for me, Junior.
	It's too dangerous to go alone.
	Perhaps one day you'll look up and see an old man flying on the wings of a dragon.
	Flying on the wings of a dragon.
	Until then, respectfully yours, Dr. Michael Flynn Sr.
	Florida exhaled and sunk into the couch.
	He sat for a beat, taking in the empty apartment.
	After a short spell, he reached over and picked up a pale green telephone sitting on a nearby table.
	He dialed a few numbers.
	All your telephones are pale green.
	Yeah, so?
	There's been multiple pale green telephones.
	Somebody tweeted me a picture of it about it once.
	I was like, that's funny.
	I was like, I'm gonna keep making a joke for one guy.
	That's how I roll.
	He reached over and picked up a pale green telephone sitting on a nearby table.
	He dialed a few numbers and clasped the receiver to his ear.
	Hello, Solly.
	It's me.
	Yes, everything's alright.
	Listen, pack your bags.
	We're going to Morocco.
	To be continued.
	One of the few cases maybe where the sequel is better than the original.
	Yeah, it's true, and I firmed up my music skills so I was able to really give rhythm to the story, but the writing on this one makes me laugh to this day.
	Some people have written in to say that my laugh is forced.
	I'm sorry, re-listening, I understand what you mean, but that's just, you know, we all melt down in our specific ways.
	That's how this popsicle melts.
	But yeah, that's a fantastic story.
	And it really basically established that we were going to kind of return, I think.
	Because the first one almost feels like it could be a one-off, right?
	In fact, you do a couple of one-off tricks in it, like saying, oh, he's Q or Q Mabedine.
	You can't help yourself.
	You're still setting up a sequel in the first one.
	It's just not this at all.
	My brain is completely Poisoned by, like everybody else, by 80s and 90s actors.
	Having just recorded the National Treasure movie night episode, I mean, I'm doing the same shit, essentially.
	Maybe a little bit better.
	I don't know.
	But I'm doing the same tricks that they're doing.
	He's as good or better.
	I'm as good!
	As National Treasure, the great movie that I endorse.
	So this brings us to the third installment, which is always, you know, in a movie franchise, this is where things get weird.
	In the third movie, you know, you're kind of maybe out of things.
	This is when they sent the Ninja Turtles to Japan.
	Exactly.
	Big mistake.
	Big mistake.
	Did you fuck up?
	This was also for our live episode.
	This is Florida Flynn and the Midnight Climax.
	Oh, right!
	So, the story can really only be described as pure chaos, which makes sense as it was written in preparation for the first, and hopefully not last, live show.
	Yeah, we'll be back, you know, but if you attended that one, you're obviously much cooler than everybody who jumped on board since.
	I knew I had to go big for this one and reading it back, I'm pretty proud of it.
	It feels like there was more coordinated satire in this particular one and I used some fun tricks to sort of set up the tone.
	You'll notice that I start this story the exact same way that I do the first one.
	But this time, the scenario has completely changed.
	Instead of lecturing a bunch of fawning coeds, Junior is essentially a madman lecturing an empty room.
	And I was trying to sort of flip everything that I established on its head, and it immediately puts the main characters kind of off balance before we thrust them into this crazed dark acid trip.
	A lot of times I get my details for the specifics of the story from what Julian and Travis have written in the main episode.
	And my god, the shit about MKUltra was so disturbing, it seemed only proper that this story would have to pull not from any Indiana Jones movie really, but instead stuff like Fear and Loathing, Requiem for a Dream, and maybe the somewhat lesser known Enter the Void.
	You know, trippy stuff.
	Uh-huh.
	And yeah, you put the Q baby in the last one, so that was another kind of topical piece
	where that woman had held up her baby and Trump had pointed and said a bunch of stuff
	about the baby, and on the back it just had a Q.
	Yeah, because the way that I write, and a lot of people disagree with this,
	is I don't, I mean, sometimes I will have one line, outline, sort of knowing which plot points
	that I kind of have to hit, but most of the shit that I do is completely freeform.
	And I just kind of make it up as I go along, I mean, as you can tell.
	Would that be surprising, I bet, to the listeners?
	Also, in this story, there's a cameo by Bill Mitchell and Ann VanderSteel,
	two previous characters who'd become kind of an audience hit
	and this was when I really started kind of leaning into the crossover shit.
	Yeah, the beginning of the- Also of note, I believe in this episode, this is the only time we see Roger Spurr as a character in the story, and of course I've written him like John Hammond from Jurassic Park, who serves as a very fitting archetype for Spurr.
	He won't be the last, like, ancient, pilled old man in your stories, though.
	Sure won't.
	Because we have so many of them that kind of crop up along the way.
	You have to have an ancient, pilled old man.
	A human cigarette who believes in, like, the Zionist Kabbalah.
	And so, in summary, the Hebrew scripture presents Moloch as a foreign deity who is at times illegitimately given a place in Israel's worship.
	Although some scholars, including myself, think that there's far more to the story.
	A school bell rang.
	No.
	No.
	Give me a second.
	Sorry.
	A school bell rang.
	Florida Flynn, wearing a brown tweed suit and thin-rimmed glasses, glanced at a pocket watch jutting out of his suit coat.
	That's it for me.
	Remember, next week you're going to be quizzed on all things demonic and occult, so I highly recommend going to church over the weekend.
	That's it.
	Florida Flynn stared out into a completely empty lecture hall.
	He startled a bit when a janitor opened the classroom door and peeked his head in.
	What are you doing here?
	Class hasn't been in session for over three weeks!
	Go outside and be with your family for Christ's sake!
	The janitor grinned and shook his head as he disappeared, allowing the creaky classroom door to slowly shut behind
	him.
	Family.
	The word echoed over in Flynn's head.
	It had been months since he'd seen his father.
	Last they talked, Flynn Sr.
	was taking off on the wings of a dragon he had unearthed and resuscitated somewhere in the white-peaked Sierra del Norte mountains outside of Madrid.
	Without the guiding light of his father, Flynn felt lost.
	His small one-bedroom apartment had become a dirty clothes pile.
	He barely ate or slept.
	He had even downgraded to dial-up internet.
	Without his father around, what was the use of having all those extra megabytes per second?
	Unsure of what to do, Flynn had been wandering onto campus, continuing to give lectures on demonic forces, child sacrifice, and the occult.
	He knew a little bit extra fully.
	He knew full well that summer break had started almost a month ago, but with motivation to do little else, he had found comfort in the routine.
	Flynn walked home, a worn leather bag slung over his shoulder down the hot, empty streets of Tampa, Florida.
	He wiped the sweat from his brow, glancing up at a restaurant sign.
	Joe abs craps it said I
	I Fuck off
	Ha ha ha ha ha!
	Flynn felt a tidal wave of emotions.
	He and his father used to eat here once a week.
	He smiled, remembering the time Michael Sr.
	had spilled hot butter down his shirt, and instead of making a scene, had instead just dipped his crab's legs into his belly button for the remainder of the meal.
	Flynn lowered his gaze and stared off into the sweltering city streets.
	Would he ever see his dad again?
	What was so great about the mud fossil guy anyways?
	He quickly found himself angry, jealous.
	What was the point?
	No matter how sad he felt, it wouldn't bring his dad any closer.
	Flynn knew dragons could fly anywhere they desired.
	Florida Flynn jiggled his keys into a rusty old mailbox.
	The flap opened, and he carefully reached inside and grabbed a small pile of letters.
	He began to flip through them.
	Amongst the DMV notices and Bed Bath & Beyond coupons, a small weathered envelope caught his eye.
	He recognized the handwriting immediately.
	Flynn's heart began to race.
	He shoved the DMV notices back into the box, but saved the coupons, slammed the flap shut, and took up off the stairs towards his flat.
	As soon as he was inside, Flynn spun around, latching two separate locks on the door.
	He rushed over to the windows and drew the blinds, shrouding the room in almost total darkness.
	Florida Flynn reached into his front pocket and produced a small book of matches.
	With a flash and a hiss, he struck a match and lowered it onto a nearby candle.
	With the flames flickering off his soft, dumb face, he sat down on a worn leather couch in the center of the living room.
	In his hand was the letter from Michael Flynn, Sr.
	Junior, I hope this message finds you well.
	I'm in grave danger and there's little time to explain.
	Spurr was an outboy.
	He used me to find the dragon, boy.
	And now the CIA is after us and I've lost her.
	The dragon?
	asked Flynn Jr.
	out loud.
	Yes, boy, the dragon.
	I've lost her.
	A shiver went down Flynn Jr.' 's spine.
	Wait a minute.
	Did you just answer my own thought?
	In my head?
	Quite precisely, yes, Flynn Sr.
	replied.
	If you haven't discovered by now, I'm talking to you in real time with the help of voice-to-skull technology.
	One of the perks of being imprisoned in a black site bunker owned by the bloody clowns!
	Hahahahaha!
	Ahhhh...
	Flynn Jr.
	allowed his gaze to fall.
	The envelope was still in his hands, unopened.
	Incredible, Flynn Jr.
	remarked, with the power of both their brains in his head.
	With the power of both their brains in his head.
	Florida Flynn was certain that together he and his father would find the dragon and defeat the clowns in America once and for all.
	But how do I get to you?
	I can't afford to fly to Morocco or Madrid or wherever the hell you are.
	Open the letter.
	What?
	Open the letter.
	Florida Flynn paused.
	He glanced down at the still sealed envelope in his hands.
	Go on.
	He dug his finger under the flap and cleanly opened up the small envelope.
	Inside was a plane ticket.
	The destination?
	San Francisco.
	Flynn Jr.' 's face soured a bit.
	San Francisco?
	What if I don't want to go?
	There was a slight pause.
	It was almost as if Flynn Jr.
	could hear his father sighing, taking off his glasses, and rubbing the bridge of his nose.
	Then I'm afraid we're lost, boy.
	You see, a war is coming.
	A war?
	A war with who?
	A war between the Giants and the Dragons, boy!
	The bloody CIA is funding the damn thing!
	Haven't you been reading my emails?
	Flynn Jr.
	glanced over at his yellow, smoke-stained Dell computer.
	A dial-up modem blipped lazily next to it.
	Dead.
	Forgive me, but Flynn Sr.
	cut him off.
	There's no time.
	You must go to San Francisco.
	You'll be looking for a girl.
	Her name is Ann VanderSteel.
	She's in a flat somewhere on Telegraph Hill.
	Find her.
	You find me.
	Wait.
	They're coming.
	I must leave you.
	Be careful, boy.
	You're our only hope.
	And he was gone.
	Flynn Jr.' 's thoughts were once again his own.
	He collapsed on the couch, exhausted from the mind meld.
	Giants and dragons?
	What did it all mean?
	Had the old man finally lost it?
	Sick with brain worm from decades of deep diving into conspiracy theories on the internet?
	No, Flynn thought.
	His dad was probably right.
	A war between two ancient god-like species would explain the extreme division in the country.
	A division he was certain the Deep State would capitalize on.
	There was only one problem.
	I hate San Francisco.
	The streets were vacant and bare as Florida Flynn set foot into what was once called the
	Golden City.
	The tech companies had ravaged what was once a beautiful and peaceful land and had isolated themselves inside a protective dome, leaving the outer city to rot and deteriorate.
	Hot neon and sewer fog hung thick in the air as Florida made his way through the seedy side streets and alleyways.
	Sleek electronic automobiles floated by vast tent cities filled with those Silicon Valley had tossed aside.
	Before long, Flynn found himself on Telegraph Hill.
	He paced up and down the streets, waiting.
	For what?
	He wasn't sure.
	Looking for someone?
	A woman's voice cut through the fog.
	Flynn spun around.
	A pretty blonde, middle-aged woman was standing delicately in a lit doorway.
	Maybe?
	Florida Flynn flashed a sheepish but charming grin at the woman.
	She smiled back.
	I suppose you're looking for me, then?
	My name is Ann VanderSteel.
	I knew your father.
	Flynn nodded but seemed hesitant.
	Would you like to come up?
	I could tell you everything I know.
	In fact, I was just about to make a drink.
	Reluctantly, Flynn Jr.
	followed her into the dingy flat, closing an iron gate behind them.
	The flat was clean.
	A single studio with a small kitchenette and a large bed shoved into the corner of the room.
	Ann walked over to a small kitchen counter and plunked down two glasses.
	Whiskey okay?
	Fine, said Flynn.
	He reached up and removed his hat before setting it down on the counter.
	Would you mind telling me what the clock says on the far wall?
	The kitchen one is broken.
	As Flynn craned his neck to get a reading off the clock, Anne quickly slipped a small pinch of a dusty golden substance into one of the drinks.
	11.45, Flynn said.
	Thanks.
	She finished making the drinks and handed one to Flynn Jr.
	To finding your father, she raised her glass.
	Flynn Jr.
	gently temped his against hers and took a long thirsty pull.
	The booze flowed through his veins like rays of 1,000 suns.
	Before he knew it, he and Anne were all over one another, engaged in an elaborate tango of body and soul.
	LAUGHTER Flynn could slowly feel his inner lining falling away,
	leaving an empty vessel, ready to receive whatever gift the gods had prepared for him.
	LAUGHTER After they had extracted each other's essence.
	Come on!
	Extracted each other's essence?
	My parents were here.
	I tried to make it, you know... That is way more pornographic than just saying something horrifyingly sexual.
	Well, oh well, Julian.
	Tough tooties.
	I feel like I just came with my pants on.
	Flynn glanced over once again at the small clock on the far side of the room.
	12.02.
	He chuckled to himself.
	He had climaxed almost exactly at midnight.
	And then I wrote, like, pause for applause in the documents.
	right there. Thank you. This is a fucking telethon.
	This is a charity at this point.
	Flynn basked in the afterglow as Anne ran her nails across his chest.
	So what did your father say exactly the last time you talked to him?
	Flynn raised his eyebrows and shrugged.
	He opened his mouth to speak when another voice came slamming into his brain like a goddamn semi.
	It was Michael Sr.
	Keep quiet about the Giants, boy.
	She can't be trusted.
	But it was too late.
	The words were already pouring out of Flynn Jr.' 's mouth.
	Whatever Ann had slipped into his drink was working.
	And Florida was spilling the beans.
	He said there'd be a war.
	Dragons.
	Giants.
	Hundred stories high.
	Dragons the size of mountain ranges.
	CIA pulling the strings.
	Michael Flynn Sr.
	cried out in vain.
	Why don't you give the bloody code to the family safe while you're at it?
	As Florida struggled to maintain a grip on reality, he became increasingly aware of a large glass window on one side of the studio.
	He had seen that kind of glass before.
	Interrogation rooms.
	Someone was watching.
	Without warning, he picked up a nearby chair and flung it into the window, shattering the glass.
	and exposing a man sitting on the other side with his pants around his ankles on a small toilet drinking a martini.
	HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
	HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
	I've been watching Haman and Vanderstil.
	heheh And grabbed a nearby walkie-talkie.
	Mayday!
	Mayday!
	We need backup now!
	All of a sudden, a large figure with graying hair in a suit burst through the door, his face covered in a flaky white powder.
	Bill, over there!
	Ann cried out, pointing to where Flynn was standing.
	Junior, look out!
	Bill Mitchell rushed Florida Flynn, knocking him backwards onto the stove.
	The burner hissed, and gas poured into the apartment.
	Florida got a good angle, and he launched himself off the stove, landing three solid punches to Mitchell's face, sending him tumbling backwards onto the carpet with a loud thud.
	He laid there motionless, and then Florida looked on in horror as Mitchell's skin began to bubble and pop.
	The whole room was flashing from red to white to blue.
	Sweat was pouring down Flynn's face.
	Mitchell gurgled to his feet, taking on the shape of some sort of demonic beast, its eyes the color of black oil.
	Had he finally come face to face with one of the mythical beasts he had so often lectured his students on?
	Or had he been dosed with a particularly potent strain of angel dust?
	Florida froze!
	The drugs were surging through his bloodstream.
	His teeth were so tightly clenched he could taste blood on his tongue.
	The familiar voice shouted again in his head, Junior!
	The matches!
	The matches, boy!
	Flynn's eyes shot wide open as he remembered.
	He placed his hand in his front pocket and produced the small book of matches he used to light the candle only days ago in his apartment.
	The monster looked frightened.
	It put its hands up in surrender.
	Flynn didn't budge.
	He pulled a match from the matchbook and lit it, holding the tiny wooden torch between his fingertips.
	The monster, in a last-ditch effort, reached into its pocket and pulled out a small baggie of cocaine, offering it to Flynn.
	Flynn looked the monster dead in the eyes.
	No deals.
	Flynn flicked the match at Mitchell and watched in slow motion as the apartment disintegrated into a ball of flames.
	Mitchell disappeared behind a wall of fire, his cries of agony echoing between the concrete high-rise buildings.
	Florida, with his forehead black with soot, pulled himself through the broken glass of the two-way mirror.
	Above him, red emergency lights lining the ceiling began to flash red and blue.
	An alarm sounded.
	He pushed his way past the small bathroom area and into a long, sterile hallway.
	At the opposite end, two large elevator doors.
	Flynn pressed the call button, and the doors opened with a loud hiss.
	You there!
	Stop!
	Flynn spun around!
	Running down the hall towards him were about a dozen CIA agents, all with guns raised.
	Flynn quickly ducked into the elevator and closed the door.
	And then... The lift jerked downward at breakneck speed into the depths of the earth.
	When the doors opened, Flynn found himself in a bustling workroom.
	There were large mechanical panels with hundreds of white and red lights blinking on and off.
	A dozen or so personnel wearing large sets of headphones were monitoring video feeds from various rooms in the complex.
	They watched, bored, as girls fed Mark's various cocktails of drugs, trying to extract whatever information they could.
	Something else caught Flynn's eye.
	An older man, in his seventies, tied to a chair in the corner of the room, trying to wave at him with the tip of his bound hands.
	It was Michael Sr.
	Flynn tiptoed over to where his dad was tied up.
	I knew you'd come, boy!
	Flynn shushed him.
	Quiet, dad.
	You're gonna get us killed.
	With a small pocket knife, Flynn got the ropes loose, and his father stood up from the chair, his wrists still bound together.
	Now what?
	The elevator doors opened across the room, and a large group of armed intelligence agents poured out.
	Stop right there!
	Hands up!
	Dah!
	This is a restricted area, I mean.
	Great job.
	you You're supposed to finish with hands up!
	I... I... It's fine.
	We'll continue.
	Flynn's eyes darted back and forth.
	No exit.
	No weapons.
	And the guards were closing in.
	Well, he thought, this is the end of the line.
	He gave his father a slow, sad nod.
	There was a bit of commotion, as a man seemed to work his way through the group of agents.
	He appeared at the front of them, wearing all white, with a wide-brimmed white hat.
	In his left hand, an ornate wooden cane.
	Roger Spurr!
	I wondered if we would meet again.
	Spurr flashed a dry smirk.
	At last, Dr. Flynn!
	I've been anticipating this moment for quite some time.
	You see, after you betrayed me in Morocco and took off with the dragon, I worried I might never see you again, as dragons can fly anywhere they please.
	What I didn't count on was a little help from your old friends at the Central Intelligence Agency.
	It seems we both have a vested interest in the coming war.
	You're insane!
	Florida shouted.
	The dragon!
	Call her to me!
	She belongs with her rightful owner.
	Flynn Sr.
	looked down at his shoes.
	An expression of regret and sadness filled his face.
	Boy.
	My hands.
	Cut me free.
	Michael Sr.
	whispered.
	With the flick of a small pocket knife, Florida Flynn freed his father's hands.
	Michael Sr.
	dug into his front pocket of his blazer and produced a small wooden flute.
	He's got a weapon!
	One of the agents yelled, his finger moving over the trigger of the pistol.
	Hold your fire, Spur remarked.
	Flynn Sr.
	held up the small instrument to show it wasn't a threat.
	Dad?
	Flynn Jr.' 's heart was racing.
	The agent seemed confused at the sight of the tiny flute, unsure of what to make of it.
	Spurr could barely stifle his smile, creeping across his face.
	Go on.
	Everyone in the room had frozen and were staring at them, waiting to see what would happen next.
	Flynn Sr.
	slowly raised the flute to his lips and began to play a haunting melody.
	The magical tune seemed to pull all that heard it into some sort of trance.
	Even the armed CIA agents swayed back and forth, lowering their guns a little.
	As soon as it had begun, it was over.
	Michael Flynn Sr.
	placed the flute back into his pocket.
	The agents seemed to sort of come to, and again train their pistols on Florida and his dad.
	On the ground, now!
	With pleasure!
	Flynn Sr.
	placed his hands over his ears and kneeled onto the ground.
	He motioned for Florida to join him.
	Reluctantly, Florida dropped to his knees, a puzzled expression on his face.
	Spur reached his arms out to both sides, as if awaiting a long embrace.
	At first, silence.
	Then, the ground began to rumble.
	Particles of rock and dust sprinkled from the ceiling.
	And then they heard it.
	A terrifying roar.
	ROAR!
	An entire section of concrete wall melted away as a stream of molten fire leapt into the underground chamber.
	Spurr's gaze nervously raised to see tiny peaks of sunlight peeking around a massive serpentine shape.
	It's a dragon boy!
	Flint Senior remarked, quite pleased with himself.
	Spurr took a cautious step towards the massive beast and calmly raised his arms.
	My child, today you will be reunited with your father who loves you so... Another burst of liquid flame from the dragon's throat instantly vaporized Roger Spurr and the rest of the armed CIA agents.
	Florida looked on in total shock as they quickly turned into small piles of red goo on the floor in front of him.
	Michael Sr.
	looked at his son again, this time with a big smile.
	It's my dragon, boy!
	Right on cue, the fantastic beast bowed its head, reaching out a giant clawed hand and placing it gently on the ground in front of them.
	Flynn Sr.
	looked over his shoulder at the small puddle of goo closest to them.
	So long, Spur.
	Perhaps in a thousand years someone will discover your mud fossil and spray you with a water bottle in hopes that you
	might bleed again He tipped his bucket hat and stepped into the large
	awaiting paw of the dragon He glanced back at Florida.
	Are you coming, boy?
	We've got a war to win!
	Florida Flynn carefully stepped over the razor-sharp claws and into the rough, scaly palm of the behemoth dragon.
	The creature spread its massive wings and took to the sky.
	Past the run-down buildings and the thick gray layer of clouds, Florida and Michael Flynn Sr.
	found themselves soaring at breakneck speeds through the vast blue sky, chasing the sun on the wings of a dragon.
	The End.
	Oh wow.
	That one really jumped the shark.
	Yeah, yesteryear when you could gather in a room to create natural reverb.
	Feels like a lifetime ago.
	A filter you have to apply at home in editing software, you know, if you want to sound like you've been in a room with people.
	I don't know how we could possibly top that, but as it turns out, there are still three more Florida Flynn stories.
	The fourth installment is titled Florida Flynn and the Quest for the Nazi Gold Train.
	It is based on an episode that I did for Premium that was looking into the famous myth and conspiracy around the Nazi Gold Train.
	And of course, I knew it had to inspire a Flynn story in some way.
	I mean, this kind of content is just ripe for a Flynn plucking.
	But it had been months since I had written a Flynn story, and I wasn't really sure how to get him to Poland without using my usual trope of his dad just telling him where he was.
	And so I'm having serious writer's block.
	And when that's the case, and I have a deadline, I basically just start writing autobiography.
	At the time, I was trying to become a competitive player in NBA 2K, and I had a solid crew of friends, including my brother, who were playing, and I wanted to be a valuable teammate.
	And so I just started writing and kind of figured out the rest of the story as I went along.
	The tricky thing about writing satirical QAnon fanfiction is that in order for it to work, it sort of always has to feel very first drafty, you know, exhausted and impulsive.
	So usually whatever sort of tumbles out in the dead of night the day before we record kind of ends up staying.
	Reading it back now, I'm surprised at the somewhat slower, more methodical pace of this story.
	In a way, I think I mirrored my research of the episode at large, starting with intrigue, but then slowly realizing that everybody's Nazis, which tends to become a theme for me.
	Yeah, and on the show in general.
	I can't remember if I made up that Project Risa was actually a portal to another dimension, or if that was suggested by one of the treasure hunters I had stumbled across.
	This might have been a little bit of blending with the Montauk Boys lore, which I'll often do, especially if it gives me an ending.
	As you can imagine, the endings of these things are the hardest to write.
	It's gotta be satisfying, but it also has to leave the door open for more installments.
	As soon as I decided that giant Aryans were going to come rushing out of the portal, the ending sort of wrote itself.
	A ripoff of Avengers Endgame, to be sure, where all of the heroes jump out of portals to join the battle.
	Sure, it was a little cheap, but the whole thing was sort of making fun of Nazi-Volkish occultism, so I didn't feel too bad about it.
	Of course, you never see the battle because giant battle being described to you is just not that funny.
	You could have like, you know, 50 people we don't like getting hurt jokes, but honestly it gets old real quick.
	And we like everybody.
	Florida Flynn and the quest for the Nazi gold train.
	Damn it.
	Florida Flynn let the Xbox controller fall into his lap.
	He squinted at the small television screen.
	He was being absolutely walloped in NBA 2K.
	60-3.
	Embarrassing.
	Despite literal months of practice, he was still getting worked, day in and day out, by young punks with green hair and flashy backpacks.
	If Flynn Jr.
	was being honest with himself, he hated the game.
	But with the ever-present plague lingering just beyond his father's cramped one-bedroom condominium, Flynn knew he was doomed to play the basketball simulator forever.
	He'd moved in a little over five months ago.
	The place was paid for, furnished, and vacant.
	Florida hadn't heard from his father in months.
	When they had last talked, Michael Flynn Sr.
	had been adamant that Florida stay put as preparations were made for the impending war.
	His dad had been cryptic, but spoke about a secret weapon hidden deep in the mountains that would be able to turn the tides against the Giants.
	And then he disappeared.
	Flynn Jr.
	glanced over his shoulder.
	In one corner of the kitchen, a large gray tarp had been thrown over the aging computer.
	A handful of ethernet cables lay unplugged next to it, on the cold kitchen tile.
	Flynn Jr.
	jumped about a foot out of his seat.
	The noise hadn't come from the computer.
	Flynn glanced around.
	He zeroed in on the television screen.
	Someone had sent him a message.
	Delete the game, it said.
	That jump shot is trash.
	The messages were pouring in.
	Angry teammates who felt very strongly that Flynn Jr.
	had let them down.
	He shut off the Xbox and leaned back into the couch, trying to get comfortable.
	He scrolled through his phone, looking at Twitter, chuckling to himself.
	Again, he glanced over at the computer-shaped lump under the tarp.
	Florida bit his lip.
	And then, as if compelled by an unseen force, Florida bounded over to the tarp and yanked it off, revealing an overly complicated terminal with decaying tech.
	There was a laptop fan propping up the keyboard, And post-it notes with various passwords scribbled on them stuck to the edges of the screen.
	Florida licked his lips.
	He glanced down at the thick, round Ethernet cable splayed out on the ground next to the command center.
	Kneeling down, he picked one up and plugged it into the back of the tower with a satisfying click.
	Flynn Jr.
	delicately reached around the back of the desktop and flicked on a heavy switch at the rear of the computer.
	The computer whirred to life, casting a godlike blue glow on Florida Flynn's face as he salivated in anticipation.
	Jesus Christ!
	Flynn shielded his eyes.
	As the desktop screen came into focus, he was assaulted by a barrage of pop-ups.
	He grimaced as he clicked through each of them, closing every window until he was left with a single image encompassing the smudged screen in its entirety.
	A blank DuckDuckGo search page.
	He hesitated a bit, before gently placing his fingertips on the dusty keyboard and typing three words into the blank bar.
	General Michael Flynn.
	Hundreds of articles flooded the screen.
	People were losing their minds over an op-ed piece that his dad had written for the Western Journal, a highly respected newspaper.
	Junior hovered his cursor over one of the links.
	Forces of evil want to steal our freedom in the dark of night, but God stands with us.
	Jesus, Dad, Flynn Junior muttered aloud.
	This was some out there shit even for his father.
	Half of it didn't even make sense.
	Had Dad gone drunk with the power of the dragons?
	How could he cut off contact for six months and then unleash this type of rant publicly for all to see?
	Something wasn't right.
	Couldn't be the wild cries of a raving lunatic.
	No, there had to be something more.
	Flynn poured over the words on the screen again and again.
	He began writing down a string of letters on a nearby post-it.
	The capitalized letters from the headline, when rearranged, seemed to provide a clue.
	Florida Flynn sounded it out.
	West... West of... New... Butterfug.
	Florida never heard of new butterfuck Florida never heard of new butterfuck, but he was sure that's
	where his father would be waiting with the dragon He hopped over to Orbitz.
	Now was the time to fly.
	Flights would be cheap.
	But something was wrong.
	Every time Flynn Jr.
	typed New Butterfug into the destination... So dumb.
	He's written it for himself.
	It's a single man, single man audience.
	That you do when you meltdown like this?
	Yeah.
	They probably do.
	But something was wrong.
	Every time Flynn Jr.
	typed New Butterfug into the destination Right, come on.
	Keep it together.
	Come on, man.
	You can do it.
	Steal yourself!
	Uh, an error would come up. Then, a lightbulb went off.
	Flynn grabbed another post and it began furiously jotting down numbers.
	This time, he used the letters that they correlated to numbers. One for A, two for B. A code so stupid, no one
	would be looking for it.
	Precisely the type of code his father would use.
	Hahaha.
	Yeah.
	When Flynn was finished, he had a set of coordinates laid out in front of him across five yellow post-its.
	post-its. 51°, 6 north, 17°, 17°, 2 east.
	Carefully, Flynn typed the coordinates into a search bar and hit enter.
	Images of rusting underground tunnels, spooky passageways, along with the words, Project Risa.
	My god, the son of a bitch did it, Flynn grinned to himself.
	Ever since he had been a young boy, his father had told a tale of Nazi treasure hidden away on a train and buried inside a mountain.
	It was also said that alongside the train would be a weapon, A weapon so powerful, even the Nazis dared not use it.
	If Florida Flynn had to guess, his father had found the train, and hopefully, the weapon.
	The op-ed was a very clever way of letting him know, secretly, and without alerting the deep state.
	Flynn Jr.
	returned to orbits.com and found the closest airport in Poland.
	Flights to Europe were dirt cheap at the times of Corona, and for less than the amount of money he had pumped into NBA2K, Florida Flynn was on his way east.
	A touchdown 72 hours later in Rocla Nicholas Copernicus Airport.
	His guide, a local treasure hunter named Christopher, was waiting with Dr. Michael Flynn Jr.
	lightly printed on a piece of computer paper he was holding.
	I assume your flight was satisfactory, Florida sighed.
	I'm alive, aren't I?
	The man laughed and began loading Florida's bags into a cart.
	Indeed you are.
	Follow me, follow me.
	I'm just parked in a lot across the street.
	He excitedly rolled the cart out through the terminal's double doors and onto the busy airport roundabout, packed with cars and pedestrians alike.
	The pair waited for a signal informing them that they could cross.
	Next to them, a youth leader with a group of Jewish students in their luggage plopped down and began to buzz excitedly amongst one another.
	Flynn watched as his guides seemed to become visibly sickened by the group.
	It was odd, but then again, Flynn thought, not everyone liked kids.
	They reached the parking structure where Christopher popped the trunk of a Kia Soul and began loading Florida's bags.
	Once finished, the two men climbed in and Christopher started the engine.
	Flint Jr.
	scanned the interior of the car, which was decked out in Nazi flags and engraved knives.
	I see you are admiring my treasures.
	We find them in our backyards.
	Some of them, like that knife right there, are worth more than this automobile!
	Ha!
	He let out a rapturous belly chuckle that Florida Flynn could feel in the pit of his soul.
	The man's breath reeked of diarrhea.
	You do realize Nazis were the bad guys, don't you?
	The man seemed to get a bit defensive.
	Please, I'm merely interested in the historical value.
	I assure you, anyone who supported the Nazis here has long since died or moved away.
	The two careened down a dusty dirt path towards a small row of blue wooden houses.
	Flynn was eager to get his luggage unloaded and then head down into the ruins.
	The small SUV came to a stop in a stone driveway.
	Christopher hopped out.
	He looked different in the sunlight, Flynn thought.
	For the first time, he noticed the man's head was completely shaved, and he was wearing camouflage pants and combat boots.
	They rolled the luggage inside and Flynn Jr.
	was shown to his room.
	It was modest, but functional.
	Nazi helmets and medals peppered the walls and shelves.
	It was slightly unnerving.
	Flynn Jr.
	threw on his worn leather jacket and a dusty fedora, then sprinted back to the front of the house, where Christopher stood, peering out the window at one of his neighbors, an older man sporting a colorful yarmulke on top of his head.
	He waved at Christopher, who politely waved back.
	Friend of yours?
	Flora smirked.
	The Rosens?
	Oh yes, lovely people.
	Moved in about two months ago.
	Beautiful family.
	But I am certain this man has put a curse on my garden.
	My crops have withered and died.
	Come, we are losing light.
	The two men drove deeper and deeper into the Polish wilderness.
	The owl mountain range loomed over them, and the canopy of trees allowed for less and less light, plunging the pair into almost complete darkness.
	When they exited the jeep, they found themselves face to face with the entrance to a large tunnel.
	Flynn glanced down, looking over the coordinates he had scribbled down on the now faded post-its.
	If these coordinates are right, the train, and hopefully my father, should be about half a mile inside this tunnel.
	Well, Dr. Flynn, what are you waiting for?
	The treasure awaits!
	And with that, the two men began to walk into the entrance to the tunnel, until the blackness had swallowed them whole.
	Florida Flynn and his guide Christopher walked cautiously through the tunnels, the lights from their LED torches washing across the crumbling walls.
	Christopher piped up excitedly.
	You know, Dr. Flynn, some say that Project RESA was a cover for a far more... ingenious plan.
	Florida Flynn rolled his eyes.
	Oh yeah?
	And I suppose you're gonna tell it to me.
	Yes, as some say, Hitler found a passageway to Nirvana.
	have found him. A passageway." Florida Flynn cocked his head, intrigued.
	Passageway to where? To Nirvana. Christopher's eyes were the size of
	saucers. Flynn was starting to feel uncomfortable. He glanced down at his GPS
	reader. Wait, we're here.
	We should be right on top of it!
	The two men looked around.
	Nothing.
	Just a small, hollowed-out cavern.
	No trace of a train or even the tracks to run it on.
	Flynn Jr.' 's face fell.
	He was getting pretty sick and tired at dead ends.
	Christopher put a hand on his shoulder.
	Think of it this way, man.
	At least you're standing inside an incredible piece of history.
	He leaned back and sucked in the underground bunker air as if it was the purest oxygen he'd ever inhaled.
	But Florida wasn't ready to give up.
	He began stamping his foot on the ground, listening for a hollow spot.
	It's gotta be somewhere!
	Dad wouldn't have thrown his reputation in the trash with that op-ed for nothing!
	Come on!
	Flinch Jr.
	landed a crushing stomp on a section of the floor.
	Boom!
	It crumbled a bit.
	Then more rock began to crumble.
	The whole earth began to rumble and quake.
	Flint staggered backwards as a large pale arm reached through the ground.
	Both men looked in awe as a giant Aryan man with pale skin and fair golden hair emerged from the rock below, towering over them.
	GIANT!
	Florida yelled.
	He took off running towards the tunnel entrance.
	Christopher stood still.
	At first he seemed frozen in front of the giant, but his shock quickly turned into excitement.
	Yes, my lord.
	I am here to do your bidding, old one.
	My family has been searching for your kind for centuries.
	My name is...
	The giant slammed his large fist into Christopher's skull, causing his brain to pop out through his ears and eye sockets.
	He fell to the ground, obliterated.
	Over his shoulder, Flynn Jr.
	could see the giant rip the man's body in half as he gave chase.
	The entrance to the tunnel was getting closer and closer.
	Florida could nearly feel the light from the forest on his terrified face.
	But it was futile.
	The giant was gaining much too quickly.
	Flynn Jr.' 's mortal legs were no match for the effortless leaps from the giant.
	Flynn felt himself begin to slow.
	His heart was racing.
	He could feel the giant closing in.
	A flurry of feathers rushed over him.
	The giant went tumbling backwards, skidding across the dirt ground.
	A large shadow swooped overhead.
	It looked like...like...a giant eagle!
	And riding on top of it, waving an old bucket hat, was General Michael Flynn, Sr.
	Dad, how did you?
	I was starting to worry you wouldn't get the message, boy.
	father gripped the feathers on its neck, aiming its head in the direction of the giant, who
	was still picking itself up off the ground.
	Dad, how did you...
	I was starting to worry you wouldn't get the message, boy.
	But I see you found a way to connect to the internet.
	Florida smiled.
	I did, Dad.
	I did.
	And with that, General Flynn commanded the majestic eagle to pounce, and it leaped onto the giant, digging its talons into the giant's flesh.
	The two beasts raged, like two ancient gods locked into the battle for humanity's soul.
	As the giant reached back, attempting to land one final haymaker blow, the massive eagle drove its razor-sharp beak into the beast's neck.
	The giant fell.
	Tired from the struggle, General Flynn hopped off the back of the impressive bird and began gently stroking its feathers, whispering into its ear.
	But Dad, the Nazi gold train, I thought it would be here.
	Flynn Sr.
	looked incredulous.
	The train?
	Boy, the train hasn't been here for 50 years.
	A gentleman by the name of George Soroslovsky unearthed it in the 70s and disappeared soon after.
	No, sadly, the train is long gone.
	Florida began to notice a slight rumbling in the ground.
	You see, Junior, Project Risa wasn't a bunker.
	It was a bridge.
	Hitler!
	He made a treaty with the Giants, boy.
	You see, Risa was always thought to refer to the size of the complex, but no, it quite literally meant Giants.
	The ground began to shake far more noticeably.
	Florida had trouble staying on his feet.
	You see, Hitler wanted to start a new world where giants and Germans could live peacefully with one another.
	It was absolutely mad, you see.
	Florida looked weary.
	So you're saying there's more of them?
	Flynn Sr.
	nodded.
	Oh yes, dear boy.
	Don't you see?
	This is where the war begins.
	The op-ed I wrote for the Distinguished Western Journal.
	It wasn't a treasure map, boy.
	It was a call to arms.
	A plea to the remaining Templars to join me in the final war for America's soul.
	Just then, a thin, bright portal opened up next to them, and a futuristic-looking hovercraft slipped through it.
	With a hiss of steam, it landed a couple feet away on the forest floor.
	One of the gull-winged doors flew open, revealing a boyish-looking man wearing a trench coat.
	A handful of talking animals poured out of the vehicle and brandished their weapons.
	Did somebody say war for American souls?
	shouted a smug-looking Gorka bear.
	A large hurricane ripped through the forest sending leaves and branches flying everywhere.
	As the funnel clouds zipped by, it deposited a man with incredibly white teeth, silver hair, and a crisp gray suit.
	I'm here to kick giant ass and snort cocaine, and I'm all out of giant ass.
	Phil Mitchell said as he blew a huge rail off of his index finger.
	They all had received a cryptic-looking text message.
	Keep fighting, Patriots.
	Flynn is safe.
	Red Castle.
	Green Castle.
	Giants feel pain, too.
	Cue.
	Flynn Sr.
	smiled.
	Well, it looks like everyone's here.
	Right then, Florida watched in horror as dozens of giants breached the entrance to the tunnel, bounding towards them, gnashing their teeth.
	Flynn Sr.
	dug his heels into the large eagle, ready to thrust them both into battle.
	In fact, everyone assumed the ready position, weapons raised, as the giants bounded towards them.
	They were severely outnumbered.
	Florida still looked worried.
	But Dad, what about the weapon?
	You said there was a weapon hidden in the mountains, a weapon so powerful it could even destroy an army of giants.
	Flynn Sr.
	tipped his bucket hat and grinned at his son.
	Don't worry, boy.
	I found it.
	And with that, he let out a piercing whistle.
	Down from the sky flew dozens of giant bald eagles, each more majestic-looking than the one before it.
	Fire burned in their eyes.
	Their sharp golden beaks glistened in the sun.
	The birds broke out of formation, diving, talons out, straight towards the army of giants.
	James O'Keefe cocked his blaster.
	Gorka Bear let out a ferocious roar.
	Bill Mitchell was running away into the woods.
	Florida unsheathed his long bullwhip, cracking it a few times in front of them.
	He glanced over at his father and smiled.
	His father smiled back.
	Come on boy, we've got a war to win.
	So the fifth installment came on the heels of Mud Fossil University 2.
	So this was a strange, weird story.
	It picks up right after the battle and has this weird sort of like silent traveling opening where a defeated Lost Flynn stumbles back home from halfway across the country.
	I think this one is the only proper installment that feels like a real sequel because it plays a lot off of what came before it almost exactly.
	I like the idea of making it a little bit of a smaller story.
	Florida returns to an empty, mysterious house.
	Sort of hinted that, that it's their childhood home, with this hulking computer under a tarp.
	Of course, now the bad guys think that the Flins have the Nazi gold, and this leads to a nice little motorcycle chase.
	I actually love the idea of somebody doing trials on a moving car carrier.
	I don't know if I've come up with that, or if I've stolen it from somewhere else.
	Pretty sure I've unconsciously stolen it from one of the Matrix movies, or potentially a Bond film.
	Uh, clearly I thought the story was at risk of being too slow and so I wanted to spice it up a little.
	The ending is this very Lawnmower Man-esque sequence where Flynn Jr.
	chases his father into the void.
	In a weird way, maybe I was subconsciously trying to provide some closure to the saga.
	Him receiving the letter and the line about the internet all cycling back to the quintessential Flynn story from the first Mudfossil ep.
	I had no idea that just a week later, Sean Connery's death would be announced.
	It was absolutely gut-wrenching and I felt like I had cursed him and had banished him to the internet void in my story and somehow it had real-world impact.
	See?
	Jake's a feminist.
	Definitely added to my disassociating, for sure.
	But I think that when I wrote this, I really wasn't sure if there was going to be another Flynn Saga chapter.
	It's interesting because, yeah, this episode feels a bit like a death, right?
	I mean, he gets taken away into the internet.
	And then the next story that you put into the Monoliths episode is, I guess, like afterlife.
	Yeah.
	In a way.
	Last time on The Adventures of Florida Flynn, Florida and his father, Michael Flynn Sr., had traveled to a forest in Poland in search of the Nazi gold train.
	Instead, they found themselves on the verge of a massive battle between ancient giants and large patriotic eagles that swooped down at the very last minute to aid Michael Flynn Sr.
	in his greatest military accomplishment, the Battle of Prague.
	As the dust cleared, Florida stood shakily to his feet.
	Strewn about in the Polish forest around him were mutilated giant carcasses and wounded
	eagles struggling to take off back to their shelter in the mountains.
	Florida cupped his hands over his mouth and called out through the trees,
	Dad!
	But only the mockingbirds reply, Huuuuu!
	Huuuuu!
	Huuuuu!
	Their shrill cries echoing through the blood-soaked trees.
	Only a couple feet in front of him, Florida Flynn saw O'Keefe and his entire animal crew slaughtered.
	Gorka Bear's body had been torn in half and hung naked across two separate trees.
	It was a grisly sight.
	Like Mussolini?
	Again, Florida called out to his father.
	This time, more desperate.
	Dad!
	There was no reply.
	The forest surrounding him seemed massive.
	A lush labyrinth that reached out and scratched at his arms as he stumbled through the brush, looking for any sign of civilization.
	His head reeled from the melee.
	The battle had been spectacular, better than any Marvel movie Flynn Jr.
	had ever seen.
	By the end of it all, Flynn himself had slain four giants.
	But his father, the crazy son of a bitch, his father had killed 17.
	Before long, the forest gave way to dirt paths, the paths gave way to roads, and soon, Flynn Jr.
	was on an airplane heading home to Florida.
	As he looked down over the sheet cake of white clouds below, his mind kept replaying over and over amazing action sequences that had taken place just hours before.
	Memories became dreams.
	You didn't want to write the battle?
	Huh?
	No.
	Memories became dreams, and soon, Flynn Jr.
	was fast asleep, his aching body sitting motionless in the airliner seat.
	His duffel bag felt like it was filled with cinder blocks by the time Florida stepped out of the taxi cab in front of his modest flat.
	Once inside, he collapsed onto the worn couch and instinctively reached for his Xbox controller, even though he knew nothing could compare to the exhilaration of the battle between Giant and Eagle.
	He needed to collect his thoughts before he could even start to think about tracking down his father.
	At this point, he could be anywhere.
	Florida scrolled through his library, completely apathetic about every single game he had.
	Nevertheless, he began researching Skyrim mods, eager to find a superior load order.
	A message notification popped up on the screen.
	It was from a user Flynn Jr.
	didn't recognize.
	He pressed a button on the gamepad and a block of green text appeared on the upper left side of the screen.
	Junior.
	They're watching you now.
	Meet me at the old house.
	5pm.
	Shop."
	Flynn Jr.
	looked down at his watch.
	It was 4.45.
	He exploded off the couch, grabbing his leather coat and hat on his way out the front door.
	On the street, a couple kids were smoking cigarettes, mulling around an old Triumph motorcycle.
	Flynn flew through the lobby doors and quickly hopped on the bike, kick-started the engine, and began to peel out into the street.
	The kids began to chase after him.
	Hey, motherfucker, that's my bike!
	One of them called out, you weren't using it.
	Flynn shouted over his shoulder as the bike breached 60 miles per hour on the dimly lit street.
	Florida merged onto the freeway, weaving in and out of the already speeding traffic.
	The sound of metal on metal jerked his head backwards.
	Behind him, enclosing quickly, was a large militarized APC, driven by a man with thinning hair and a rat-like expression.
	Deep state operatives hung off the side, automatic rifles gripped tightly in their gloved fists.
	Unfortunate motorists caught in the tank's wake were cast to the side like tin cans.
	What was gaining on Flynn?
	He revved the engine.
	Pushing the bike as damn near fast as it could go.
	It wasn't good enough.
	The armored vehicle inched closer to his back tire.
	Out of the corner of his eye, Flynn spotted a moving car carrier.
	He cranked the throttle and kicked up onto the truck's ramp.
	Flynn Jr.
	carefully altered between the gas and his brakes, delicately making his way over the hoods of the cars as the group barreled down the freeway.
	Right as he reached the front most car, he felt a searing hot pain in his left arm.
	A bullet had grazed his flesh, soaking his tan linen shirt with blood.
	He could see the APC, now only a couple meters away.
	An agent, his gun raced right at Florida.
	Where's the gold, Dr. Flynn?
	Flynn scoffed.
	He had no idea what the agent was talking about.
	You got the wrong guy.
	I only invest in boner pills.
	The agent seemed to look disappointed.
	Ashamed, Dr. Flynn.
	We were prepared to make you and your father a very generous offer.
	Flynn Jr.
	was perplexed.
	But before he could respond, the agent loaded a fresh magazine into his weapon and took aim.
	Florida had to think quick.
	He gripped the handlebars, shifted his weight forward, and pumped the throttle.
	He scooted down off the hood of the car on the second level of the massive carrier, the
	steel beams of the truck groaned beneath the weight of the bouncing bike.
	With a final hop, Flinchinger slid his back tire over the chains locking the automobiles
	into place.
	Here goes nothing.
	He gripped the brake hard and cranked the throttle.
	The wheel of the bike screamed to life, instantly snapping the chains holding the cars in place.
	Like dominoes, they tumbled off the truck in a brilliant ballet of twisted metal, pummeling the pursuers.
	Flynn let the bike coast down off the cab of the truck before bouncing with light thud and skid on the cement highway.
	He coasted over to a nearby exit and disappeared into the streets.
	After stashing the bike behind a nearby dumpster, Flynn crossed the street briskly, making his way towards the old family house.
	His father used it on and off as an office when his work had become particularly demanding.
	Florida glanced around, then grabbed a hidden key out from under a rock in the garden.
	He slipped through the old faded red front door and into the house.
	The smell of pipe tobacco hit him instantly.
	His father had been there.
	Dad?
	Florida called out.
	His voice fell flat over the empty rooms and hallways.
	He crossed into the living room and immediately was startled by a large object covered by a tarp.
	Florida's heart sank.
	His eyes scanned the carpet for ethernet cables.
	Nothing.
	Hmm.
	He relaxed a little.
	Perhaps Dad hadn't fallen back into his old habits after all.
	For all he knew, the large object hidden underneath the grey tarp was a chemistry set.
	Something completely harmless.
	As Florida began to cross away, he noticed something.
	A small, raised cord at the base of the doorway molding.
	Impossible, Florida muttered out loud.
	He leaned in a little closer.
	The cable was incredibly thin.
	He traced it along the molding, up the side of the doorway, and over the arch.
	The job was very clean.
	Surely his father couldn't have pulled off such a professional setup.
	Could he?
	Florida's heart began to race as he traced the cable towards the tarp.
	No, no, no, no.
	As he lifted the bottom of the tarp to his horror, he saw the thin ethernet cable plugged into the back of a giant Alienware computer.
	It worked to life, casting a neon blue glow across the entire room.
	No, no, please God, no, not again!
	Florida Flynn ripped the tarp off, revealing two monitors, one flipped vertically.
	He began to panic.
	Come on, Dad, you can't do this to me again.
	Literally your setup that you just put together.
	In the eerie blue light, Flynn Jr.
	spotted an off-brand webcam, mounted ring light, even a VR headset.
	He collapsed to the ground in defeat.
	Bang!
	Florida reached through the cracked door and snatched the envelope.
	Thanks. He closed the door and quickly did both of the locks.
	Flynn Jr. meandered over to the living room couch, examining the package.
	He pried it open and out slid a small, translucent piece of futuristic-looking glass.
	Flynn Jr. stared at it, confused.
	It looked like one of the miniature scales he'd used in college to sell meth.
	But this one was different.
	As he pressed his thumb over it, a neon readout scanned his thumbprint and blipped to life.
	Insanely high-resolution text began to scroll across the screen, a moving waveform danced across the bottom of the tablet, and a familiar voice began to speak.
	Junior?
	Please forgive the cryptic nature of my communications.
	As I'm sure you've already observed, the Deep State is more than willing to sacrifice innocent lives in an effort to get to us.
	If you're listening to this now, I can assume you've outsmarted them.
	Kudos.
	No doubt you've got a hundred questions, and Junior, I can assure you I have one hundred answers that we will discuss one day soon.
	But I don't have much time.
	I found the gold, boy.
	In those tunnels beneath the Polish forest.
	It was never on a train, my dear boy.
	It was in the veins of the rocks.
	Ancient giant's blood, pressed over millions of years and mixed with minerals turned to solid gold.
	Miles of it!
	I've made us a very wealthy man, my boy.
	By now you've no doubt seen the impressive upgrades I've made to the office rig.
	Which brings me to my current predicament.
	You see, approximately three hours ago your time, I connected to the internet at such impressive speeds, I was somehow able to rip through the very fabric of time itself.
	Florida Flint slumped back on the couch, his jaw slack as his father's message continued.
	When I awoke, I found myself in some kind of secret government facility outside of New York.
	The doctors there explained to me that my future self had been reborn into the body of a young man from Arizona by the name of Austin Steinbart.
	And that we would have to work together, past and present, to defeat the satanic cabal once and for all.
	Flynn Jr.' 's brain swelled.
	He could barely comprehend what his father was telling him.
	It seemed so surreal.
	Michael Flynn Sr.' 's voice piped up from the recorder once again.
	Junior, it appears I've harvested the power of the internet to travel through time.
	I'm sorry, boy.
	Alas, we will probably never see each other again.
	But know that out here, 30 years into tomorrow, I'll be helping you fight for a safer today.
	Something about his father's words hit Flynn Jr.
	in a very particular way.
	He could feel himself choking up at the idea that the pair's adventures had come to an end.
	It's beautiful in my time, Junior.
	Families working together.
	Communities of farmers all providing for one another and celebrating Jesus Christ.
	I've made a friend here, boy.
	A man your age goes by the name of Titor.
	Funny enough, Junior, he reminds me of you.
	Take care, boy.
	I hope we meet again.
	The screen went dim and the small tablet died.
	Flynn Jr. laid it on the scratched coffee table in front of him and stared blankly at the wall.
	His gaze shifted to old framed photographs decorating the house.
	Him and Flynn Sr. in Morocco. The pair at a San Francisco brothel, hanging on one another,
	out of their mind on acid. Florida picked up a rather large framed photo of him and his father,
	holding on for their lives as they soared through the sky on a serpentine red dragon.
	Florida placed the photo back gently.
	He paused for a moment, looking at the pure joy in each of their faces as the dragon spewed noxious fumes and gases into the air.
	Goddammit, Dad.
	Florida smiled and ripped the tarp completely off the souped-up computer rig.
	He pressed a couple keystrokes and the beast hummed to life, its innards glowing even more intensely.
	His eyes laser-focused, he clicked on an Ookla speed test.
	His irises saucered as he watched the numbers climb into the hundred thousands.
	He wept.
	After a long, heavy beat, Florida hovered his mouse over the only icon on the computer's desktop.
	A DuckDuckGo icon.
	Here goes nothing.
	As he double-clicked the browser, the white glow from the blacklight surged, bathing the living room in a blinding white and neon blue aura.
	Florida gritted his teeth as he felt his molecules begin to rearrange.
	And then it was over.
	The room returned to the peaceful darkness almost instantly.
	The monitor blipped off, and the rig powered down.
	The empty computer chair spun slowly, with tiny wisps of neon blue smoke drifting up off the seat.
	But as the smoke cleared, and moonlight once again illuminated the room, Michael Flynn Jr.
	was nowhere to be seen.
	So the final story, as it stands currently, maybe not the final forever, I wrote when I was in the throes of a major panic spike.
	It had lasted for about two weeks with seemingly no relief in sight.
	The new lockdown restrictions, a friend's uncle dying from COVID, another friend whose father had gotten very sick with the virus as well.
	Plus, just studying this kind of stuff and the cursed content it inspires was really weighing down on me.
	As you can imagine, when you're constantly monitoring a community disconnecting further and further from reality, it can really fuck up your mental health, and that was certainly me.
	It was nice to cover something a little bit more mysterious and otherworldly, like the monoliths, but it all came crashing down as my research inevitably, uh, led me to neo-Nazis.
	I watched their livestream at a Huntington Beach rally for an hour, screaming at cops to pick a side, Finger pointing and encouraging their gang to harass anyone they deemed Antifa.
	Awful shit.
	So, to jump right into the story after that, I was in a really weird place.
	And you can tell.
	This story is definitely the least funny.
	And I'm okay with that.
	I brainstormed a little with Julie and we knew we wanted to do something kind of ethereal.
	Flynn floating through this void.
	And as soon as we figured out the premise, I knew I was going to bite Interstellar.
	One of my favorite flawed movies of all time.
	Oh, damn.
	That word, flawed, must have really hurt to put in the movie.
	It really did.
	I did it to silence the critics ahead of time.
	I have seen that movie seven times, and I find it more brilliant every time I watch.
	It's actually really perfect that you mention 2001 a lot, a space odyssey, in this episode.
	But then when you got to the story, you were like, which one am I going to?
	And it's like, of course, Ripoff and Teller.
	Because 2001's not a blockbuster.
	It's not a blockbuster.
	It doesn't have the tropes, the 80s, 90s tropes that kind of define your... No, it's much more intellectual.
	And so I was like, what's the closest intellectual property that I could get to?
	Interstellar is definitely the blockbuster-minded version of 2001.
	Right, exactly.
	It also, not to mention, has one of my favorite scores of all time.
	I can neither confirm nor deny if we used it.
	I cackled and texted the group excitedly at two in the morning that I was going to make Travis Tarz, the wisecracking robot from the film.
	I didn't really intend this, but reading it back, the story works really well as satire.
	You've got Flynn focusing on one thing he hasn't really focused on in any of the stories, his son.
	In every other one, he's off on some adventure, or he needs Junior's help to get him out of a bind.
	Even in episode two, he's already like, look up to the sky!
	Like, maybe you'll see me!
	Like, it's almost like he wants to be dead and away from his son.
	It's true.
	It's true.
	But this one is different.
	I also like that the monolith was just a stuck-in-the-ground TARS all along, Flynn's only friend, and that the Neo-Nazis take it and destroy it.
	And that they basically are a version of his son, in a way.
	Right, right.
	Which is interesting, and it takes away his only friend.
	There's something weird and sad here, and it surprised me when I wrote it.
	I love in movies when a plotline finds a way to explain some phenomenon that occurs out here in the real world.
	Yeah.
	You know, The Matrix does this when they're talking about, you know, déjà vu.
	Oh, well, if you see déjà vu, that means they changed.
	I love that kind of shit.
	And, on a more personal note, Flynn's discovery at the end sort of mirrored my own emotion at the time, on the tail end of some really dark days.
	Glad you're feeling better, buddy.
	Yeah.
	Yeah.
	We love you.
	You are our... Our scribe.
	Beautiful boy.
	I have all your stories on the fridge.
	Some of them scored more highly than others.
	Some of them scored less well than others by your trusty assistant, Flynn Tersteller.
	Flynn tumbled, weightless, through the twisting blackness of the infinite internet.
	Bright stars and nebulas, once the size of gods, seemed to shrink and spin past him like intergalactic tops twirling on some unseen axis.
	Flynn had no thoughts, no worries.
	He felt his previous life force separate from his consciousness.
	Even the name, Michael Flynn, began to melt away from his own understanding.
	He was a life force, piloting a stiff, stubborn body through the infinite blackness of inner space.
	All the anger, the sadness, the rage, drifted off into nothingness, becoming mere things that Flynn observed, but did not engage.
	Flynn snapped back into his own mind.
	The voice pumping into his ears was strange, but familiar.
	Flynn, are you there?
	I'm here.
	I'm... where are we?
	Even his voice sounded different here.
	A strange Scottish brogue.
	It almost sounded Catholic.
	Flynn shuddered.
	Out of the blackness, geometrical shapes began to form.
	At first they were foreign to Flynn, but then began to take shape.
	An infinite number of bookcases, looking into an infinite number of bedrooms.
	It appears we are in some kind of tesseract constructed by an advanced civilization from within the internet.
	They built it for us, Tarvis.
	They knew.
	They knew we would find him.
	Michael Jr.
	Flynn's eyes were wet with tears, a manic smile plastered across his face.
	The bookcases began to expand, and a three-dimensional grid of an adult son's bedroom took shape.
	An infinite number of them bleeding into one another, yet maintaining near-perfect order and balance.
	But how will you know which is the right one?
	Flynn smiled, propelling himself through the tesseract, approaching the speed of light.
	The edges of his reality bent and blurred as he hurled through the grid, his eyes scanning through hundreds of thousands of different dimensions.
	We have an army of digital soldiers.
	In one room, a young man was playing Call of Duty, shouting homophobic slurs.
	In another, the same young man was sharpening a butterfly knife, cutting himself, and wincing from the pain.
	The voice in Flynn's head spoke again.
	Flynn?
	How will you know?
	Flynn's features looked godlike as light radiated from his glowing face.
	Love, Tarvis.
	Pure love.
	The only human emotion that can transcend time and space.
	My connection with Michael Jr.
	is quantifiable.
	They knew I would find him.
	It's gotta be here.
	Flynn homed in on one particular bedroom, where the young man was hunched over a computer, trying to enter bank account information into an Iraqi Dinar exchange website.
	That's it!
	He floated delicately, in awe and admiration of his son, watching him struggle to enter text into the field box.
	This is it.
	But how can we translate the message?
	Tarvis, I need you to communicate the proper bank account information or he'll never be able to pay for all the lawyers.
	You understand me?
	Not really.
	Flynn peered through the moving strands of energy racing by just inches from his face and spotted a small plastic red hat sitting on one of the shelves.
	The words Make America Great Again printed across the front.
	The USB key, of course!
	Tarvis, I need you to translate the data so the key can read it.
	Ready?
	How can you be sure he'll see it?
	Because I gave it to him, boy.
	And because there's lots of other good information on there.
	The robotic voice began reading numbers, and as it did, Flynn gently tapped one of the strands directly above the plastic hat USB key.
	When he was finishing entering the numbers, he let his grip loosen on the sides of the bookshelf and drifted backwards.
	TARVIS!
	Did it... did it work?
	I think so.
	How do you know?
	Because the tesseract is closing.
	Flynn's eyes darted around.
	Each dimension began collapsing in on itself, moving closer and closer to Flynn.
	A blinding white light overtook him.
	What happens now?
	He was falling again, this time through a different wormhole.
	An image was floating towards him.
	It was Rudy Giuliani, standing in front of a podium, speaking to some unseen group.
	As Flynn floated past him, he reached his hands out, his fingers grasped at Rudy's face, and then he was gone.
	Flynn was spinning.
	Light strobed around him.
	Dark to light, dark to light.
	He shielded his eyes.
	Flynn inhaled a large cloud of dust.
	It scratched his throat.
	He could feel the soft light from the moon reflecting off his worn, leathery skin.
	He shook some of the dust off and climbed to his knees, taking in the cool desert air.
	About a hundred meters away, he saw his large, rectangular robot friend, Tarvis, stuck upside down, sticking straight out of the ground on top of a large hill.
	And then, there were men there.
	Young men.
	Shouting and yelling.
	They knocked Tarvis over and began kicking him on the ground.
	Christ is King!
	Christ is King!
	Flynn tried to yell, but his voice was cracked and thin.
	Tarvis!
	But it was no use.
	The men had tied ropes around Tarvis and were dragging him down the hill.
	Using all the strength he could muster, Flynn clambered to his feet and gave chase.
	Don't do this to me, Tarvis!
	He picked up a nearby wooden cross and branched it as a weapon, hoping he might be able to save his friend.
	But the three young men disappeared into a group of bushes.
	Flynn was too tired to keep trudging down the steep, rocky slopes.
	He collapsed to the ground and sat, looking up at the stars.
	Contemplating his interstellar journey, That now seemed like a lifetime ago.
	A phone vibrated somewhere on his body.
	He rifled through his clothing and finally produced the small black monolith from a pocket.
	On it was one notification.
	From his son, Michael Flynn Jr.
	It read, Life savings gone.
	Iraqi dinars.
	Not real.
	Wish you were here.
	Flynn smiled.
	The money wasn't important.
	He now realized he had something much more valuable.
	Love.
	As he looked up into the brilliant night sky, he watched in awe as a giant drone zipped through the clouds overhead and disappeared over the horizon.
	The end.
	Well, that was quite a journey.
	I hope that everyone who's written in went, what the fuck?
	How do these stories make any sense?
	I hope you understand now that they don't.
	now that you've heard them in order.
	And you could be even more confused, but at least you could stop badgering us
	about how to listen to them in perfect order or where they're spread out across a couple hundred
	episodes.
	I was so worried that going through these, I would realize that I used the same sort of plot
	over and over, or I had a line that I just repeat through it
	because it's one of my go-tos, but they actually do all kind of have
	a different flavor to them.
	Yeah, you feel too shameful once you do too much fan service.
	Like if you put in a saying, I can always see you kind of almost go like,
	I had to put it in, but I'm not super proud of that.
	Yeah.
	But it's, you know, the audience, they can't tell the difference.
	You know, they're completely tricked.
	They're caught in your song, and they're going to destroy their ships on the rocks.
	Just bash their ships on the empty rocks.
	As the beautiful merman, Jake Rokotansky, you know, kind of pouts and sends them air kisses.
	And sings, yeah, sings The Siren's Call.
	The one that sounds like that flute.
	He didn't even get it right the first time.
	Because I probably made it up in the moment there.
	As you were on stage.
	Oh, thank you for listening.
	You guys are great.
	Very special.
	And I guess, you know, this.
	Yeah.
	Merry Christmas.
	Happy Hanukkah.
	Whatever.
	Whatever you celebrate.
	You know, enjoy yourself.
	We've been honored by all the people who listen and write in and stuff like that.
	Sorry, we have not been good at getting back to you.
	It's just that the volume has kind of increased.
	But we love you and we we read your your your cool emails and the ones that are not nice.
	We delete.
	So pretty simple.
	Yeah, those do not go on Julian's fridge.
	But we love you, we care about you, and we are so grateful for all of you that have listened to the show and joined us on this strange journey into the bizarre.
	And what he means by that is that we have a financial opportunity for you, and it is unique.
	Tell me more.
	Subscribe to our podcast by paying $5 a month on patreon.com slash QAnon Anonymous.
	You can also go to QAnonAnonymous.com for like the lost episodes, that's two to six, and to find some other links basically, that are useful if you want to get merch and stuff like that.
	If you want to catch us live, doing some live baking.
	We kind of do, yeah, we do a lot of rabbit hole stuff, like where we're all at the browser together.
	It's kind of a Michael Flynn experience.
	It is, yeah.
	It's a surprise every time.
	And sometimes we find stuff live on the stream that we didn't even think that we were going, that we didn't even, it was a direction that nobody wanted to go in and we'll, you know, we'll find ourselves, you know, captured with our eyes, you know, our eyes stapled open.
	And if you're wondering, why was there no QAnon news?
	Hey, even Travis's deserve vacations and we're trying to put in a couple couple weeks of vacation.
	And so we're recording all these wonderful episodes for you.
	But he will be back and he will bring you more QAnon news in 2021.
	Yeah.
	Which is a year that I don't think should exist.
	Surely the QAnon news will get better in 2021.
	Under a Biden administration?
	Absolutely not.
	Yeah, I mean, like, right-wing extremists, they usually settle down during a democratic administration, right?
	They usually chill out.
	They're usually not that active.
	They stay very chill and they have no weird theories about, like, you know, birthplaces.
	Listener, until next year, May the Deep Dish bless you and keep you.
	Just one second, Tavis.
	Listen.
	Until next year, may the Deep Dish bless you and keep you.
	It's not a conspiracy.
	It's fact.
	And now, today's Auto-Tune.
	The American people saved me.
	They saved my family and I. And if there's something I'll get emotional about, it's that.
	I mean, I don't know why.
	I mean, you know, prayer, right?
	Faith.
	And, you know, have you ever gone scuba diving?
	I have, I have.
	Have you ever done buddy breathing?
	I have.
	Well, American people have been buddy breathing with me for four years.
	Another way to describe it was the deep state buried me six feet under.
	He wanted me to die.
	Somehow somebody stuck a straw up through that or a straw was allowed to be stuck up to the air and I sat and I laid down there for four years reading through that straw.
	But that straw became wider and wider and wider over the years because the American people came to my family's aid.
	And I'll tell that story someday because that's an amazing story about people that have nothing and they're willing to give me everything that they have because they believed in something that, they believed in me, they believed in my family, they believed in something that was bigger than what it is that we are about.
	And thank God they did.

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