Masters of Ephemera Part 1: It's alright ma, I'm only doing promos.

As we rejoin Brick at his place of work, we find him emotionally and mentally exhausted after being forced to relive the collected works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky. A searing white light flashed between Brick's eyes every time his thoughts drifted to his time before joining the workforce. He slowly but surely clicked and drags the video files onto the timeline and began editing.

The boss man, tall as a sequoia (well, maybe not that tall), marched into the video editors' room with urgency in his booming voice.

"We've got a show going on the air tomorrow and we've got no promos for it! you guys need to make one A.S.A.P. or our ****ing viewers won't know what the hell to glue their eyeballs to for that particular half hour."

"What the ****, boss?" asked the pony tail aficionado, John Slate, the head of the promo department.

"I have no idea, but some heads are going to roll. I give you my word about that."

The boss returned back to his chambers and Slate began his rallying cry.

"Men! We have been given a task of great importance. We have an hour to create something that will air once and probably only once. If we fail, the nation's grandmas won't know what the latest gore-filled videogame or ear-drum crushing metal videos are! Can you live with yourself knowing that?"

"No way!" shouted the editors in unison.

"Then I challenge you to get this promo done on time. Even if only one person sees it, that's one more potential viewer that we need."

"Si, " said Señor Tigre, "Even one viewer is worth putting ourselves through hell to make a promo that will only be shown once. I shall write a magnanimous script and record a stupefying voice over for the promo."

"I'm not sure he's using those words correctly," mumbled Jacques Ombre. "I'll get to work on the graphics and text."

"And Brick shall download the footage and edit the video," declared Slate. "Brick?"

"What?" asked the spiritually drained young man.

"Start getting the footage for the promo."

"Ah, what's the use, Slate? It's too little and too late."

"Now what the **** kind of attitude is that?" asked the self-righteous promo maker named John Slate.

"What's the point of doing something so labor intensive that will only be viewed once. What kind of crap is that?"

Slate got down from his soapbox and stood over Brick, who was still seated and moping because we just don't know what else to do with his character.

"Now listen, and listen well, since I don't reckon I wanna repeat myself..."

Jacques Ombre wept over the abuse being inflicted upon the English language.

"... We are the only thing that separate the masses from their own depressing lives. We make the best damn promos we can so that those lost, lonely souls that watch TV will have something to look forward to. We work so that they'll have something to fill the void that their lost youth and non-existent social lives have created within them. Can you put a price tag on a rainbow? Can you hug a bubble? The world we live in is fleeting. So what if our ads are short-lived and quite possibly made in vain? That is our lot in life."

Brick's attention was not lost on this speech.

Señor Tigre chimed in: "We are the Masters of Ephemera. We are not the immovable mountains but rather the constantly flowing river that empties out into the vast ocean of the collective subconscious. Something may be brief and temporary, but that does not mean it is any less significant or meaningful. We are constantly changing and therefore cannot linger."

Jacques wanted to contribute to the conversation but decided to focus his attention on perfecting the font on the newly designed text graphics for the channel's promos.

"Ok," Brick decided. "I'll get to work now." He dragged the video files onto the timeline but the screen turned white and froze.

"Damn. Premiere froze, yet again. "