Author: Falcon

Training, huh? Why don't we leave our weapons behind? Make it really educational.
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Like a Prayer

Dialogue Scene: Valentine’s Chaos

The three of them are gathered in a cozy, dimly lit room. String lights flicker like they might short-circuit any second. Luis is nursing a drink, looking skeptical. Joe lounges with a smug grin, wearing a subtle Eris symbol pin. Miley’s in full playful mode.

Luis: (leaning forward) Alright, Miley, be real with me. Is Joe really your Valentine? Or is this another one of those Discordian mind games where everything’s a joke until someone ends up covered in maple syrup?

Miley: (laughing, eyes sparkling at Joe) Of course he is, Luis. It is rare to find such a handsome Discordian. Most guys run from chaos. Joe? He is the chaos… in the best way.

Joe: (winking) Flattery will get you everywhere, babe. Especially on a day dedicated to love and mild acts of discord.

Luis: (shaking his head) You two are something else. Joe, man, what’s this I hear about your big “Psalm 133 peace plan”? You trying to mix holy scripture with Discordian weirdness now?

Miley: (grinning wide, suddenly standing up with dramatic flair) Oh, it’s brilliant, Luis. Joe’s been cooking up this whole unity thing—Psalm 133 style. “How good and pleasant it is when brothers and sisters dwell together in unity…” But with a proper chaotic twist, of course. No boring harmony. Real, messy, beautiful unity.

She starts swaying, voice kicking in like she’s on stage. Her rendition is soulful, playful, and a little unhinged—pure Miley energy.

Miley: (singing, building up) Life is a mystery… Everyone must stand alone… I hear you call my name And it feels like home…

She grabs Joe’s hand, pulling him up with her, still singing.

Miley: (continuing, louder and more passionate) When you call my name It’s like a little prayer… I’m down on my knees I wanna take you there…

Miley: (breaking briefly, eyes on Joe) I’m really hoping your Psalm 133 peace plan works out, babe. All that talk of unity and blessing… but the Discordian way. No forced peace. The kind where we all argue, laugh, spill hot sauce on everything, and still end up closer.

Joe: (chuckling, squeezing her hand) It’ll work, love. A little Eris energy to keep it spicy. Psalm 133 meets the Principia. Unity through beautiful confusion.

Luis: (half-laughing, half-exasperated) You guys are gonna start a cult. Or a really weird couple’s therapy group. I’m just saying… if the peace plan involves pineal glands or exploding hot dogs, I’m out.

Miley: (still humming the melody, leaning into Joe) Too late, Luis. You’re already part of the unity. In the midnight hour… I can feel your power…

Joe: (to Luis) See? She’s praying and plotting holy discord. Best Valentine ever.

Luis: (raising his glass in mock defeat) Fine. To Psalm 133… and whatever chaos comes with it.

The three clink glasses as Miley launches back into the chorus, voice echoing with hope, mischief, and that signature Madonna cover swagger.

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I Guess the Better Man Won

Luis Morgado leans back and gives Joe that half-smirk he always does when the truth hits harder than a joke.

Luis:
“Bro… Miley’s engagement ring? Really? That’s the universe telling us to log off, close the fan page, and go raise chickens or something.”

Joe just shrugs, eyes drifting somewhere philosophical.

Joe:
“Luis… women are like birds. They’re attracted to shiny objects. Diamonds, gold, status, fame — whatever sparkles. The better man won. Sometimes that’s all it is.”

Luis laughs, but there’s a sting in it.

Luis:
“Man, I spent years running that fan page like it was the Library of Congress. For what? For her to say yes to some guy with a shinier rock?”

Joe pats him on the back.

Joe:
“Retire it with dignity. Give it a Viking funeral. Let the algorithm carry it to Valhalla. We did our part.”

Luis sighs dramatically.

Luis:
“Fine. The better man won. Story of our lives.”

And just like that, they both nod — not in defeat, but in that way men do when they know fate has spoken and the only noble thing left is to walk away with style.

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Discordian Wrecking Ball

Falcon, the renegade theorist of pop-chaos, steps onto his soapbox under a neon streetlamp. His cloak is patch-worked with memes, sigils, and grayscale screenshots of his favorite music videos.

He raises a finger like a professor about to lecture the cosmos:

“Behold the genius of Miley Cyrus’ Wrecking Ball!” he declares.


“To the uninitiated, it’s just a breakup anthem. But to the Discordian mind? It’s a ritual object. A sphere of pure Eris-energy, swinging through the false architecture of consensus reality!”

Nelly Furtado laughs, nudging Joe Jukic, who already knows where Falcon is going with this.

Falcon continues:

“You see, Miley doesn’t just ride a wrecking ball—she defies physics with it. She suspends the laws of motion with the sheer force of emotional entropy. And that right there is the secret of Discordianism:
Eris laughs at Newton.

“And my friends…” He lowers his voice dramatically. “This is why the Bavarian Illuminati fear her.”

Joe raises an eyebrow. “Fear Miley?”

Falcon nods vigorously. “Of course! Miley’s Eris-charged symbolism destabilizes their entire aesthetic. The Illuminati worship order. Geometry. Symmetry. Pyramids and straight lines. Miley is chaos incarnate—she swings in circles and smashes everything they build!”

He flips open a beat-up notebook labeled Principia Mileyica.

“In Discordian lore,” Falcon explains, “the Illuminati constructed the World Tower of Control—totally fictional, mind you—an invisible skyscraper made of rules, lies, and boring meetings. And Miley smashed through it with one swing of pure emotional truth.”

Nelly grins. “So you’re saying Wrecking Ball is basically a magical act?”

“Not just magical,” Falcon says. “Anti-Illuminati artillery. Discordian warfare. Art as the hammer of Eris.”

Joe cracks up. “And what about your ‘suspended physics’ theory?”

“Ah yes!” Falcon shouts. “The wrecking ball hangs in a state of chaotic suspension. It obeys physics, yet also breaks them artistically. It exists in that liminal space where Discordianism thrives—the border between sense and nonsense, order and chaos, Newton and Nietzsch—”

He stops, raises a finger again:

“This is why Miley is our champion. Our chaos bard.
Our holy wrecking priestess.
Arch-enemy of the fictional Bavarian Illuminati.”

Nelly applauds.
Joe bows toward the imaginary wreckage.

Falcon closes his notebook and whispers:

“Eris bless Miley Cyrus…
for she came in like a wrecking ball.”

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