INT. BIGLAW OFFICE – 3:00 AM (IN THE ZONE)

Fluorescent lights flicker, casting a sickly pallor on Mainlining's face. He's a gaunt specter haunting his own corner office, surrounded by towering stacks of legal briefs and the ghosts of billable hours past.

Mainlining, a remarkably still lean figure at 40-something, hunched over his keyboard, stares at the screen with bloodshot eyes, scanning the endless pile of electronic documents. He's been at this for hours, days, maybe even weeks—knowing only he is “in the zone.” The lines between time and reality have blurred, replaced by a relentless stream of billable hours and the gnawing emptiness in his gut.

He opens his desk drawer, downs 30 MG of Ambien, and takes a swig from a flask, the cheap whiskey burning a trail down his throat. Within minutes, his nightly office rituals usher minor relief, and he again begins reviewing the 36,000 pages of e-discovery tied to drafting his confidentiality log.

MAINLINING (V.O., echoing Rust Cohle's gravelly voice):

"I used to think about it more, but you reach a certain age, you know who you are. Now I live in a shoebox, downtown Seattle, surrounded by tents and 'homeless freaks,' work eighty hours a week, and in between, I drink. And there ain't nobody there to stop me."

FLASHBACK - MONTAGE: THE EARLY STAGES OF A JOURNEY INTO DARKNESS

Mainlining’s story didn’t begin in the marble hallways of a high-ranking law firm. It began somewhere far less prestigious—a middling background, the kind where ambition had to be fueled by something more potent than just a desire to succeed.

A kaleidoscope of images flashes across his broken mind: Mainlining, fresh-faced and eager, clutching his law school diploma; Mainlining, wide-eyed and terrified, on his first day at the firm; Mainlining, hunched over his desk, fueled by Adderall and desperation.

Indeed, through grueling yet tolerable 24/7 work, fueled by Adderall binges and online "advice" from a questionable law board called "TLS," Mainlining graduated top of his 1L class, snatching a job via OCI at a high-ranking firm, the golden ticket to a life of prestige and financial security.

And, by a miracle, at the same time, he fortuitously stumbled upon what then could only be described as Shangri-La—"AutoAdmit," renowned as "The Most Prestigious Law School Discussion Board in the World."

Oh, his 'biglaw' journey was beginning!

MAINLINING (V.O.):

"I thought I was mainlining the secret truth of the universe. Turns out, it was just a toxic cocktail of ambition and self-delusion."

FIRST DAY IN BIGLAW: READY TO BE ABUSED

Mainlining eagerly locates the office's top dog (in reality, setting in motion a tormented master-slave relationship with a vicious Of Counsel, ready to abuse Mainlining's naiveté).

The pot-bellied, bald Of Counsel, enjoying rare admiration, matches Mainlining's firm handshake grip, and Mainlining's eyes gleam with ambition.

MONTAGE - THE EARLY-ISH BIGLAW YEARS

Back then, life was—in a twisted way—simple.

Mainlining focused solely on pleasing his firm superiors (a/k/a everyone but the lowest-ranking staff) and feigning admiration for “Judges,” which he privately refers to as "Thugs in Fine Clothes," a term picked up on shitbort AutoAdmit while routinely dismissing the “frauds” around him.

To Mainlining, these "frauds" included his colleagues at the firm—mid-level associates who acted like experts while secretly scrambling to survive, senior partners whose wisdom was just a mask for greed and politicking, and corporate clients who hid behind a veneer of integrity while mired in ethically dubious practices. He even saw the judges, those supposed paragons of justice, as mere players in the same game, abusing their authority with the same vanity and egotism he saw everywhere else. On AutoAdmit, he labeled poasters like RSF, with their posturing and self-promotion, as the same kind of frauds—people pretending to be what they were not, trying to find meaning in the absurd. But in his darkest, most honest moments, Mainlining knew the biggest fraud was himself, pretending to love a game he despised, playing a part in a world he found hollow.

Regardless, the routine was set: wake up groggy to an alarm blaring at max volume to jolt him from his drug-induced coma, pop an ever-increasing dose of "Addy" to jumpstart the day, guzzle coffee nonstop, and then return to his "luxury" apartment—surrounded by homeless tents—to fuck the latest app-chick raw, capping the night with multiple Ambien and an assortment of booze. The pills, once a nightly ritual, had become a daily necessity, mixed with stronger substances on weekends, to feel something different.

Mainlining, however, was still "Young & Fresh.” In rare pleasurable moments, he witnessed his fellow classmates drop like flies. His daily relief stemmed from a constant rotation of appsluts, nightly rewatches of XO Patron Saint Wesley R. Johnson Jr. examining Clause 9.2 and 7.6, his emerging love of LARP’ing ("XO biglaw horror threading”), and his long-standing substance cocktail.

Coming from little, he was too captivated by the salary and his shaky belief in the "prestige" of his legal work to notice the cracks forming. A ‘yes-man’ to everyone in the firm—from the corner-office partners to the pot-bellied Of Counsel (always out of breath from walking the hallways) to the on-the-cusp-of-partner Senior Associate who loved trolling him—his life was a blur of deadlines, discovery battles, endless billable hours, and sleepless nights.

FLASHBACK – ORIGINS OF THE HOLY TRINITY

Early in his "biglaw" years, Mainlining mused on the shitbort: “Do you ever feel like your life’s slipping out of your hands?” An enigmatic poaster named “Boom” replied, “Age is flame, friend.” Moments later, another poaster, Evan39, chimed in: “How dare you ask such things! My life’s still ahead of me!”

At first, their replies seemed like typical AutoAdmit banter—just more noise in the sea of anonymous voices. But something about their raw honesty struck a chord. Boom's blunt philosophy and Evan39's mix of denial and bravado felt like an unfiltered glimpse into the fears everyone harbored: aging, relevance, and life's absurdity.

In those chaotic exchanges, Mainlining sensed a strange kinship. For the first time, he felt like he was "mainlining truth"—uncovering the harsh realities everyone else ignored.

Over the years, the lines blur—three poasters or one fragmented soul? Different voices or the same voice splintered by too many nights on the edge?

Mainlining could never forget Boom’s haunting 2014 poast directed toward him with the header “mainlining I'm writiing here and tell me what you think...,” in which Boom shared: "I had a good loving family... moved all over the world until age 5, treated awful, living in hospitals while my grandma was always sick... company tossed me out at 26. I’m 30 now, totally lost."

Boom, Mainlining, Evan39—three names, one endless cycle of despair and reinvention.

MONTAGE – “THE LAW IS SACRED… BUT SO IS THE JOKE”

Years had passed since then, or maybe just a few weeks—he couldn’t quite remember. Time had become a blur. Despite still having perfect, well-tanned skin and, remarkably, no facial wrinkles, his eyes told a different story. They were the eyes of a man who had seen too much, who had seen through too much—the eyes of a man who had realized the fraudulent nature of it all. "Biglaw," once a badge of honor, now felt like a tragic punchline to a joke he’d heard one too many times.

He remembered the early days when he still believed in the sanctity of it all. How he had swallowed whole the idea that the law was something greater—something “SACRED.” He’d been a disciple in that church, believing, as his fictional hero Chuck McGill had preached in the courtroom drama, that the law was not just a set of rules but a higher calling.

MAINLINING (V.O., echoing Charles Lindbergh "Chuck" McGill Jr. words): "I committed my life to this. You don’t slide into it like a cheap pair of slippers and reap the rewards. The law is sacred. If you abuse that power, people get hurt. This is not a game!"

But the years had taught him otherwise. For all the reverence he once held, the truth became unavoidable: the law wasn’t sacred—it was a tragic farce wrapped in fine suits and mahogany decor. He'd tried finding meaning in the rituals, hoping the right brief or argument might elevate him above the muck. But in the end, it was just another way to waste time before the grave.

Every hour billed, every motion filed felt like a joke he was only now getting—the mocking laughter of those who'd seen through it long before. The “fraud environment” only worsened each year; the system was “rigged,” and he was just another pawn, shuffled around by invisible hands he could neither see nor understand.

“Slippin’ Jimmy with a law degree is like a chimp with a machine gun,” he remembered his hero Chuck saying. And maybe that was it—the whole joke. Because if you took it too seriously, if you believed the law was “sacred,” then you were just another sucker in a system designed to chew you up and spit you out.

MAINLINING (V.O.): "And I? I’m not the chimp. I’m just the guy who watched it all burn and finally learned to laugh."

PEAK-BAGGING: A QUANTUM OF SOLACE

INT. MOUNTAIN SUMMIT - DAY

Mainlining stands triumphant atop a snow-capped peak, the wind whipping at his Patagonia jacket and luscious hair. He's conquered another 14er, his “twink-like” body lean and strong, starkly contrasting to the withered soul trapped in his office.

He pulls out his phone, snapping a selfie with the breathtaking vista behind him. He takes a deep breath, the crisp mountain air filling his lungs.

A fleeting moment of satisfaction before the emptiness returns.

MAINLINING (V.O.): "I tell myself I bear witness to the majestic snow-capped peak. But the real answer is that it's obviously my programming."

THE "PRESENT"

By now, for more years than he could count—thanks to his beloved "biglaw cocktail" catching up with his mental faculties—he was left mentally only skilled at law and AutoAdmit poasting, both of which, for better or worse, were now rote to him. One shimmer of light remained — years ago, he adopted one meaningful hobby: summitting the tallest peaks. Beyond that, he was capable of little, thanks to continued nightly fire drills combined with the wrath of his mental faculties, thanks to long-term substance abuse.

His love of the law had morphed into a life of "bigLOL," summiTTTs, booze & pill$."

MAINLINING'S AUTOADMIT "FRIENDS"

RSF, whose father was a long-standing equity partner at the firm, would show up to his appointed corner office about once every two months and would sometimes poke his head into Mainlining's office to brag about some trip or another, a recent escapade in Thailand or some far-flung locale. Mainlining watched this with detached curiosity, wondering if RSF ever felt the crushing weight of meaninglessness or if he drowned it in the pursuit of constant travel.

RSF: “You’re still Of Counsel, dude? Must suck, friend! I was just in Patagonia; saw a bear, thought of you!”

Disco Fries, an online "friend," would occasionally poast calling his attention, joking about climbing Teewinot Mountain, only for Mainlining to reply with morose thoughts on humanity's tragic self-awareness. "Maybe the honorable thing for our species to do is to deny our programming," he typed once. "Stop reproducing, walk hand in hand into extinction, one last midnight."

Disco Fries had replied, “Ljl, climb a real mountain, friend”—bringing forth a rare smile to Mainlining's face, recalling his own previous climb of that child's play "mountain" years ago, and knowing that Disco Fries' admitted obesity and lack of alpine training would result in his inevitable death. Mainlining chuckled. "Kid’s play," he muttered under his breath. "That fool wouldn’t make it past base camp without an airlift."

Even EPAH would sometimes drop by, mocking the entire facade of law and life with crude humor and cold observations. Mainlining found a strange comfort in that; it reminded him that everyone was suffering and somehow lost, even if they pretended otherwise. "It's all just a giant gutter in outer space," he'd think.

The poaster “zurich is stained” would also often poast out to Mainlining, asking Mainlining if he "liked" him—a silly question, as Mainlining is a friend to all on the shitbort.

BACK TO THE PRESENT – MAINLINING MEETS “THE MACHINE,” AND ITS REVENGE TIME

Mainlining's obsession with ADM, the shadowy corporation that had destroyed Boom, him, and/or Evan39 (impossible to decipher given his scrambled mind), had only grown more relentless. He knew peace was a luxury he’d never afford, but he could at least ensure ADM never got a taste of it either.

He stared at his screen, eyes narrowing as the files loaded. "These fraudfuckers won’t know what hit them," he muttered under his breath.

The AI flickered to life, a twisted ally in his vendetta—strange bedfellows now united in a single, obsessive purpose: revenge. But as he watched, the AI's text prompt suddenly changed, the screen flickering faster, almost as if it were laughing. Mainlining leaned in, uncertain if he was losing control of the machine—or himself.

AI (ON SCREEN): Analyzing... Analyzing... New Objective Detected: Initiate Chaos Protocol.

Mainlining smirked, a manic gleam in his eyes. "Oh, so you’re in on the joke too?" he whispered, fingers dancing over the keyboard, fueling the digital firestorm.

INT. DIVE BAR - NIGHT

Mainlining sits slumped at the bar, gripping a half-empty tumbler of bottom-shelf scotch. The bartender, a jaded woman with a face like she's seen every regret in the world, wordlessly refills his glass.

He takes a swig, letting the cheap booze burn its way down, then casually pops an Ambien like it’s an after-dinner mint. The warmth spreads through his veins, mingling with the familiar numbness that’s become his closest friend.

MAINLINING (to himself, muttering): “Here's to another night on the shitbort...”

MAINLINING (V.O.): "I know who I am. And after all these years, there's a victory in that."

INT. MAINLINING'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

The room spins, a kaleidoscope of empty pizza boxes, half-finished briefs, and the relentless glow of three monitors. Mainlining, eyes glazed and fingers twitching, slumps in his chair, a symphony of voices echoing in his head.

He reaches for another Ambien, then pauses, the pill bottle hovering in mid-air. A wave of nausea washes over him, a physical manifestation of the existential dread gnawing at his soul.

BOOM'S VOICE (in his head, slurred and manic):

"Fraudlies! They're everywhere! The whole system's rigged! We gotta expose 'em, Mainlining!"

EVAN39'S VOICE (nasally, indignant):

"How dare you, Boom! You're just a paranoid old coot in a wheelchair. Mainlining, don't listen to him. Focus on your career, climb those corporate ladders!"

MAINLINING'S VOICE (weary, resigned):

"Shut up, both of you. I'm trying to think... Wonder if ‘Thugs in Fine Clothes’ know they’re part of the joke... Or am I just laughing alone?"

He slams the pill bottle back on the desk, the sound echoing in the empty apartment. He takes a swig of vodka, the burn momentarily clearing his thoughts.

MAINLINING (to himself, muttering):

"Christ, I'm losing it. I'm talking to myself... or am I talking to them? Are they even real? Or am I just three different flavors of crazy, all wrapped up in one sad, middle-aged twink?"

He stares at the monitors, the AutoAdmit threads a chaotic blur of accusations, confessions, and nonsensical ramblings. He's lost count of how many times he's switched between personas, each one a mask for his own fragmented identity.

Suddenly, a mischievous grin spreads across his face. He cracks his knuckles, the sound echoing in the silence.

MAINLINING:

"Time to give these fuckers a show they won't forget."

With a renewed sense of purpose, he begins typing, his fingers dancing across the keyboard. The screen fills with a flurry of posts, each one a masterpiece of AutoAdmit absurdity.

BOOM (ON SCREEN, CONFUSED ABOUT MAINLINING’S “MACHINE”):

"Mainlining, you're a fraud! A corporate shill! You were never 'young and fresh'!"

EVAN39 (ON SCREEN):

"How dare you! Accusing him of such things!”

DISCO FRIES (ON SCREEN):

"Can we please focus on the REAL question? Has anyone tried that deep-dish place on 14th Street? Serious inquiry."

CHINGADA MADRE (ON SCREEN):

"Mainlining couldn't even summit a pile of pepperoni. Talk about a fraud. Die."

RSF (ON SCREEN):

"Let's maintain some decorum, gentlemen. We’re supposed to be discussing my next luxury vacation, not indulging in this playground for insults."

EPAH (ON SCREEN):

"Mainlining, I'm starting to think you're just a figment of our collective imagination. Or maybe a glitch in the shitbort matrix. Some of your posts read like bad AI poetry."

Mainlining chuckles, a rare flicker of amusement dancing in his otherwise haunted eyes. He mutters under his breath:

MAINLINING (ON SCREEN):

"It's all one ghetto, man. A giant gutter in outer space. But it’s our gutter, and I’m not letting these ‘fraudfuckers’ have it.”

INT. MAINLINING'S APARTMENT – NIGHT - CONTINUED

He pops his eighth Ambien of the night, washing it down with a swig of the cheapest vodka he could find at the 7-Eleven. The room begins to spin, the walls melting into the monitors, the avatars blurring, and the lines between his personas—Mainlining, Boom, Evan39—dissolve into a comforting digital fog.

MAINLINING (V.O.):

"I think human consciousness was a tragic misstep in evolution... Maybe the honorable thing for our species to do is deny our programming. Stop reproducing, walk hand in hand into extinction… one last midnight."

He reaches for another pill, but this time his hand hesitates. A rare, unsettling clarity pierces the haze—a sliver of doubt, maybe hope, maybe nothing at all.

MAINLINING (V.O.):

"But I lack the constitution for suicide… and for turning off the shitbort.”

He exhales deeply, fingers hovering over the keyboard, contemplating his next poast—a single, profound line or maybe just a ‘Cr’? The void waits for him to fill it with one more digital whisper.

MAINLINING (ON SCREEN): "Guys, chill. Let's just order some pep and watch our third Dance Party of the day. It's the only thing that makes sense anymore."

He leans back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his face. The lines between reality and the digital world blur once more, but this time, there's a hint of control, a sense of agency in the madness.

MAINLINING (V.O.): (smirks)

“Time to flame on… again."

He drops the pill back into the bottle, slumps back in his chair, and types feverishly, eyes glazed but determined.

[FADE OUT]

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5593797&forum_id=2...id#48082415)