Flickering neon signs cast the cobbled streets in a strobing red. A knight in rusted armor, his visor cracked, chases a scuttling peasant through the alleyways. The peasant clutches a tattered copy of Das Kapital.

This is Freudalism, baby. A tangled web of power woven from Oedipal complexes and repression. The Lord, a bloated id perched on a throne of guilt, demands tribute from his serfs, their labor fueled by primal urges and societal castration anxieties. The Church, a superego in stained-glass robes, enforces the rules with threats of eternal damnation and a sprinkling of holy water.

The steel superego of the feudal lord grinds down on the psychic id of the serf. A barbed-wire moat of repression surrounds the castle, patrolled by armored defense mechanisms. The serf’s libido, a scrawny peasant with a sack of barley, tries to sneak a glance at the Lady Id perched on the battlements, her crimson gown a promise of forbidden pleasure. But the superego-lord cracks his psychic whip, and the id scurries back to the fields of duty, planting seeds of resentment that will sprout into revolution.

But wait! Meanwhile, in the opium dens of the Orient, A ragged figure emerges from the swirling fog. Inperial Marx, trenchcoat billowing with a beard of dialectical materialism, puffs on a hookah filled with the ashes of class struggle. He brandishes a copy of the Communist Manifesto like a Molotov cocktail.

A corpulent ghost. He exhales visions of a global proletariat, a writhing mass of coolies and factory workers shackled by the chains of capitalism. The tentacles of imperialism, like a psychic tapeworm, burrow into the bellies of colonies, sucking out their surplus labor and dreams.

“The peasants of the unconscious must rise up!” he bellows, his voice echoing through the labyrinthine alleys. “Throw off the shackles of the feudal superego! Seize the means of psychic production!”

The knight hesitates, his visor reflecting a distorted image of Marx. The peasant, emboldened, throws a rock. It strikes the Lord on his fleshy id, sending him sprawling.

The fabric of Freudalism tears. Id, ego, and superego unravel. The knight sheds his armor, revealing a trembling psyche yearning for liberation. The peasant, empowered by the words of Inperial Marx, rallies the downtrodden serfs.

The proletariat, a seething mass, a million hungry mouths. The bourgeoisie, fattened leeches, sucking the lifeblood of labor. But wait, a wrinkle in the fabric! Imperialism, a ravenous beast, gobbling up colonies, spewing out manufactured desires. The worker, a cog in both machines, exploited by class and empire.

Suddenly, the psychic landscape warps. Feudal knights, mounted on armored id-horses, charge across the opium fields, jousting with the proletariat in a nonsensical ballet of class warfare. The Lady Id, bored with her gilded cage, throws down a rose – a symbol of forbidden knowledge, of the primal urge for liberation. It lands in the lap of Inperial Marx, who, in a fit of dialectical glee, seizes it and shoves it down the hookah pipe.

A green smoke erupts, swirling with images of free love, worker’s councils, and the overthrow of the superego-lords. The feudal knights dismount, their armor dissolving into peasant garb. The proletariat, inspired by the id’s rose, throws off its chains and joins hands in a cosmic, classless conga line.

But the battle is far from over. The Church bells toll, a haunting death knell of the old order. Will the revolution succeed, or will Freudalism reassert its dominion? The answer lies buried deep within the collective unconscious, a battleground of primal desires and societal constructs.

But wait! A monstrous figure emerges from the smoke, a tangle of police batons and surveillance cameras. It lunges for the conga line, threatening to plunge it back into the nightmare of social hierarchy.

Just then, the-esque narrator, his voice dripping with sinister cool, injects a final line: “Who controls the dream? Who holds the key to the psychic dungeon?

Cut to

Scene: A dank Parisian cafe, smoke curling like phantasmagoric serpents. The Narrator, bleary-eyed, hunched over a typewriter. A tape recorder whirs, capturing his fractured monologue.

Narrator: Freudalism, man. Superego, a psychic fiefdom, lording over the Id’s peasant desires. Libido, a serf toiling in the fields of repression. Oedipal complex, a twisted joust, the knight forever chasing the ghost of his father’s disapproval.

Tape recorder clicks off. Tye narrator slams a glass of red wine, eyes flickering.

Narrator reaches for a scalpel, slices a fly in half with a grimace.

Narrator (cont.): Capitalism, a virus, replicating, metastasizing. Fetishism of the commodity, a glittering mirage in the desert of alienation. The worker, hypnotized, reaching for the shiny bauble, even as it drains him. Is there escape? Can the superego overthrow the king? Can the proletariat seize the factories of the mind?

A cut-up montage begins. Scraps of paper with phrases like “phallic cannons,” “surrealist surplus value,” and “Oedipus Rex on a factory floor” are spliced together with nonsensical pronouncements.

Narrator (voice distorted, layered): The id breaks free, a chaotic current. The dream machine malfunctions, spewing forth revolutionary nightmares. The workers awaken, not to Marx, but to the primal scream, the howl of the repressed. The future, a tangled mess of wires, a psychotic episode writ large. Freudalism and Inperial Marx, a grotesque tango, a death struggle in the id’s dark theater.

The tape recorder clicks on. The narrator slumps back, eyes closed. The cafe fades, replaced by the hum of the machine.

Cut-up ends. Fade to black. A single red eye blinks open in the darkness.