Since we've already seen all of the other main characters of the blog facing peril or simply be menacing for totally cryptic reasons, let's see what the final member of MFUJ has been doing during this epic epilogue series called May Day.
Slate was never what we would call a good guy. Or a smart guy. Or a likable guy. He was essentially a tattooed man with a big bushy beard and spiky hair that made viewers feel uncomfortable. He was the edgy band member who was responsible for all the unnecessary swearing, controversy and partial nudity (and not the good kind). Yes, he has really been a burden. He went after the Lunch Lady Mafia (and lost in a devastating food fight), he took pictures of his Amazon package and got in trouble (shameful display of cardboard) and he acted like a pretentious douche in webisode 1, an attention-starved idiot in webisode 2, a bluesy vagabond in webisode 3 and an idiot savant battleship player in webisode 4. Talk about inconsistant.
So what has happened to the least popular member of MFUJ, the world's most self-imploding, semi-fictional rock band?
Picture a light drizzle of late spring urban rain falling on a desolate alleyway. Inside that alleyway is a rusty old dumpster. Inside that dumspter is...the rest of this blog. Oh, I sure walked right into that one. Slate was now destitute, penniless and alone. And wet. The rain, remember? After being G Mod's obedient lackey within the band for years, Slate was cast out of the megalomaniacal (yes, we use that adjective a lot, so sue us. On second thought, don't. We have no money and all of our stuff is worth less than nothing; it'll actually cause you to lose money just by owning it) producer's good graces. Without any warning or even two weeks' notice (same thing?), Slate was thrown in the back of a van and dropped off at a random street corner.
Without a name to call his own (and his tattoos washing away), Slate stumbled past the streetwalkers and dealers (mostly black jack and occasionally Texas hold-em). There were bright lights and dark hearts everywhere. Yes, you guessed it. Slate was exiled to the late 70's / early 80's. Is a time travel concept the sign of a writer reaching the limits of his creativity? I won't argue with that. But c'mon. Slate stuck in an era of decadence and lawlessness? That's gold, Jerry. Gold.
But what's so great about being in this time? Well, it just so happens that a young band that is only a few years away from renaming itself to Super Mario and the Koopa Troopas was about to get on stage at CBGB's. We'll let you ponder the possible plotholes that might entail as we leave you for now.
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