Then came the first day of May and the return of the Occupy Protesters to MFUJ's doors for one final confrontation. There was nowhere left to run for the band that activists can't seem to stand. Maybe it's the unnecessary rhymes...that are right on time. Ok, we'll stop...pop.

In a stroke of true stroke of storytelling genius, we will begin this story close to the end and continue over the course of a few blog posts as a big miniseries/flashback cluster****.

MFUJ HQ Mark II (You know, that place where Websiodes 3 and 4 were filmed) was now surrounded by hundreds of angry scholars,  hipsters, anarchists and other frustrated unemployed individuals. The masses descended upon that isolated lake house like the Dark Side of the Moon on the album charts. And just like that album, they refused to go anywhere for a long, long time. We did mention them not having jobs, right? They carried with them picket signs and fury in their hearts. It was May and the local fauna was scared witless by the mob.

Inside, Brick, our reluctant protagonist who sold his soul for a band that essentially went nowhere except for a few meandering blog adventures, was in hiding on the second floor. The situation was desperate on both sides. Brick, facing the latest in a depressing long series of downward spirals, was unsure if this would his last stand. His band mates were nowhere to be found and it seemed like he would have to face the onslaught from the Occupy protesters all on his own.

That morning had been quiet. The sun had woken him with its golden reflection in the lake that sprawled outside his window. There wasn't even the slightest breeze to disturb the water's surface, leaving it in a rare state of stillness that unsettled Brick greatly. He knew it wouldn't last. Peace never does.

Unshaven, unkempt and drowsy as hell, Brick stumbled about looking for nourishment but the cupboards had become empty during his dazed state. Things had seemed to be getting better in recent weeks. He had gotten a reporting gig a few weeks ago.

The band had stopped functioning for a while but for that little window of time it seemed like Brick could see a life beyond his own self-destructive music. Unfortunately, however, progress seemed to be short-lived. Despite his excellent postproduction skills, the report failed to catch the attention of the Network or audiences. They felt that a reporter should inspire confidence rather than pity or disgust and hired a former model for the job. Brick returned back to HQ crestfallen and alone.

And so it had been for weeks as he slowly let himself go to the point where he knew not where consciousness ended and where delirium began. And suddenly  he found himself alone against the horde for reasons he did not know or wish to comprehend. He could feel the collective breath of the protesters outside. It was heavy and it was out for blood, his specifically. In his mind, there was no retreat this time. He would have to face them...