Scene: A sunlit playground that doesn’t exist in the Greyface curriculum. Swings creak in impossible rhythms. A faint golden apple rolls across the grass.
Luis (sprawled on the monkey bars, kicking his legs like he’s conducting invisible chaos): Miley, you gotta understand — the Greyface teachers at school? They’re the high priests of Order. They’d never let us go outside and play. Recess? Strictly monitored. Balls had to go in straight lines. Laughter had to be filed in triplicate. If you swung too high on the swings, they’d cite you for violating the Laws of Gravity According to Boring People.
Joe Jukic (leaning against the slide, twirling a little paper airplane made from a torn-up math worksheet): Exactly. They worship the Sacred Schedule. The Holy Bell. The One True Way to Sit Quietly With Hands Folded. Discordia was the only thing that kept us sane. We’d sneak copies of the Principia Discordia inside our textbooks like contraband holy writ. “All statements are true in some sense, false in some sense, meaningless in some sense…” That line saved me during algebra.
Miley Cyrus (sitting cross-legged on top of the wrecking ball that’s mysteriously parked in the middle of the playground, barefoot, wearing a crown of dandelions and chaos): Greyfaces, huh? Yeah, I met a whole bunch of ’em growing up in the industry. Suits with clipboards telling me to color inside the lines. Smile this way. Sing that way. Don’t swing too hard or you’ll break something.
She laughs, and the wrecking ball gently sways even though nothing’s pulling it.
Miley: But here’s the secret they don’t want you to know: the ball was always meant to swing. Eris didn’t hand me that thing so I could sit still. I came in like a wrecking ball on purpose. Smashed through the fake walls they built around “appropriate behavior.” You two get it. Luis, Joe — you’re out here living it. The playground doesn’t belong to the Greyfaces. It belongs to the ones who remember how to play.
Luis (grinning wildly): Tell ’em, Miley! The teachers would lose their minds if they saw us right now. No permission slips. No hall passes. Just pure, unfiltered fnord energy.
Joe Jukic (launching the paper airplane; it loops in a perfect chaotic spiral before landing in a bush): Discordia forever. Hail Eris. And if any Greyface tries to call us in for detention…
Miley (jumping down, grabbing both their hands): We wreck the whole damn schoolyard and turn it into a better one. C’mon. Let’s go outside and play.
The three of them run off laughing as the swings start moving on their own and the golden apple rolls after them, leaving a trail of glitter and minor miracles.
All Hail Discordia. 🟡🍎
