'Everything seems to be in order,'
says Thomas Kinkade, The Painter
of Light, his walrus-like moustache
billowing in the air-conditioned
breeze. 'But you need to do a better
job of selling my new countryside
paintings. We've only sold $100
million worth of them so far this year,
and I, Thomas Kinkade, The Painter
of Light, deserve so much more
money than that. OOF!!!!!!!'

The 'OOF!!!' comes courtesy of
Vincent Picasso, who had picked up
a Kinkade desk calendar and flung it
at the back of Kinkade's head. The
painter stumbles forward, and turns
around just in time to get a flying
coffee cup right between the eyes.

'This is what artistry is all about, huh,
Tom?' snarls Picasso, walking
toward the fallen Painter of Light.
'Mugs, calendars, jigsaw puzzles. In
an art gallery in the center of a giant
mall. Where's the passion, where's
the fucking emotion?'

'Help!' Kinkade responds. 'Help!
Security! The Painter of Light is being
assaulted.' Picasso shuts him up
with a boot to the stomach, doubling
Kinkade over. Picasso snags him in
a standing leg scissors and lifts him
up into a piledriver.

'Damn, I should've done that at
Impulse,' Picasso says to himself as
he stands over Kinkade's body.
'Nothing but superkicks. What the
fuck was I thiking? I do have a
moveset, after all.'

By this time, the mall's rent-a-cops
have arrived, and Kinkade crawls
toward them on his hands and
knees. 'Arrest him!' he cries. 'I'm
The Painter of Light! I'm far too
artistic to be treated like this!' But the
guards do nothing.

'News flash, Tom,' Picasso says as
he starts tearing Kinkade prints off
the wall. 'You're a hack. A
well-promoted hack, but a hack
nontheless. Your paintings are
nothing but assembly line creations.
House painters have more artistic
abilities than you do. And the vapid
consumers of America don't need to
buy your crap anymore. And those
guards won't help you, either.' The
guards part ways, and Dirge walks
into the store, standing in front of
Kinkade. He's dressed as a guard,
but he has a riot baton in his hand.

'Is this the trash you wanted
removed, Vince? Mr. Kinkade, you're
under arrest for contributing to the
cultural destruction of this nation.
There's no jail time involved, but you
will be forced to spend 1000 hours at
art museums, relearning how to
paint. Understand?'

Picasso grabs Kinkade
unceremoniously by the moustache
and pulls him to his feet. 'EEI bought
this mall yeaterday, and we're
cancelling your lease. This space
will become a gallery for local artists,
all of whom deserve the recognition
that you have.'

'But, but, I am the Painter of Light!'
Kinkade whimpers. 'If you display my
prints with the right lighting, it looks
like the light's coming from the
buildings in the painting. That's my
concept. People love my OOF!'

That 'OOF' comes courtesy of Dirge,
who brings down the baton on
Kinkade's head. H collapses in a
heap again.

'That's some nice work, Dirge,'
Picasso says, smiling. 'We need to
burn all this stuff as soon as
possible so we can clear up the
space.'

Dirge nods. 'The guards can take
care of that. I'm going to Starbucks to
tell the customers that coffee causes
sterility. Wanna come?'

'Thanks, but no thanks. I'd better get
ready to take care of Subdued. Oh, I
need to cut a promo, too. Is there an
electronics store somewhere here?'

'There's a Sharper Image on the first
floor, right between the other
Starbucks and the Gap for
Adolescents.'

'I thought that was a Baja Fresh.'

'No the Baja Fresh is between
another Starbucks and a Gap for
Teens. The Sharper Image is on the
other side of the mall.'

'Got it. Thanks for everything Dirge.
And take care of that arm.'

The two friends part in opposite
directions, and the mall guards start
ripping up the interior of the gallery.
Thomas Kinkade, meanwhile, is
sitting on a bench, mumbling to
himself. '....of Light. I am artistic. This
can't happen to me.....'

(fade out)