My remix of Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus (cinematic, though staging it for Broadway would not be out of the question) begins with a high school stoner named Foster leaving his house for a party. His totalitarian parents remind him that they will be drug testing him within the week. Foster jealously observes party-goers smoking marijuana. The next day Foster drives to a local smoke shop to buy artificial cannabis— “Mojo,” as it is called in this suburban town. Before entering the store he has a moment of overt moral deliberation. Standing on the sidewalk, Foster’s facial expressions correspond to a voice-over of him arguing with himself. Essentially, this is the good angel, evil angel scenario, except Foster is playing both roles himself, so none of the motives can be considered objectively good or evil. On one hand, he knows Mojo is unhealthy, he’s paying with grandma’s birthday card money, and being high will potentially strain his relationship with his parents. On the other hand, the stuff was crazy awesome last time, mind-expansive, and Foster can’t smoke real cannabis because of the drug testing.
Ultimately, Foster enters the shop. He converses with the guy behind the counter, who seems concerned about Foster’s age. After showing ID to prove he is 18, Foster inquires as to which brand of “Mojo” is the best for inducing dreams. The guy behind the counter says “I don’t know about all that… We’ve got this stuff called Black Magic that fucked me up real good the other night.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, kid, swear to God a demon appeared on the middle of my girlfriend’s shag rug, and he’s all like: Join me and I will give you infinite power! I threw the bong at him and he disappeared.”
“You’re kidding. Have you really tried it?”
“Sure. I’m kidding. I’ve got my girlfriend whining all day bout how I owe her a new bong, but yeah, I’m kidding. So do you want to sack up, or are you gonna try something else?”
“I’ll do the Black Magic.”
“Excellent choice. A gram is twenty-five dollars.”
“Yeesh. Alright.”
Foster produces a ten and a twenty. He says, “Oh, and I’ll also take a lighter.”
“What color?”
“Any color but white.”
“Why’s that.”
“It’s bad luck, supposedly.”
“You’re one superstitious kid, you know that? Sack up or back up, my friend.”
“Alright, I’ll take the white lighter.”
Foster pays, thanks the man, and leaves. He walks half a block before realizing he never took the lighter. He turns around and walks back. He makes direct eye-contact with a friend of his parents as he walk into the store.
Foster talks to a friend on the phone, assuring the ambiguous companion that everything will be alright. Around him are various stoner-bedroom essentials like a Dark Side of the Moon poster and the iconic portrait of Che Guevara. Around him on the bean bag are books suggesting a resentment of totalitarianism: Brave New World, Animal Farm, and The Communist Manifesto. Also: The Cat in the Hat. “It will be totally cool,” Foster says to the friend. You’ll be jealous you don’t have some yourself.”
That night, Foster packs a bowl of twiggy, dark purple “Black Magic.” Once again his internal monologue holds a debate. The good side says white lighters and “Black Magic” are both bad, bad, bad, and that Foster needs to sleep so he can wake up in time for school. The evil side triumphs again, however, noting that “everything is better when you’re high, even sleep,” “you’ll imagine some crazy shit,” before adding “sack up or back up.” Foster roasts the bowl using the white lighter. Suddenly everything seems to be on fire. Mephistopheles appears with a lightning flash, a hyena-like cackle, and a puff of black smoke.
“Dope,” Foster says.
HISSSSS…. He sticks out a forked tongue. “YOU THERE ON THAT OBSCENE BEAN BAG SACK! HOW DARE THEE TEMPT THE LORD SATAN BY SMOKING THE HERB OF HIS SACRED SEED! NOW BOW BEFORE ME OR SUFFER THE ETERNAL SCORCH OF HELLFIRE YOU MISERABLE, GROVELING MOOCH!”
“Good, God.” Foster says. “This stuff is incredible.” And he takes another hit.
The fire gets brighter, there’s a lighting bolt, and a puff of black smoke at the feet of Mephistopheles, a decidedly Snake-like human. Voldermort-ish with a touch of Gollum. Andy Serkis, in fact, would be ideal for the part. He looks impatiently at the dissipating smoke, and back to Foster. He says, “I HAVE NO TIME FOR YOUR TOMFOOLERY! WILL YOU OR WILL YOU NOT PLEDGE YOUR SOUL TO THE ONE TRUE GOD LUCIFER?”
“What’s in it for me?” Foster asks incredulously. “You can’t just show up here in my home and try to strong-arm me for my soul. My parents are sleeping right now. Although you’ve probably woken them up with your bellowing, so thanks.”
“I CAN GIVE YOU ANYTHING YOUR HEART DESIRES, YOUNG FOSTER! But at the end of one year’s time you must relinquish your soul to Lucifer.”
Foster rubs his chin and the camera zooms into his head. There is a montage of Foster’s vision of the future, set to the tune of “He’s Got the Whole World (In His Hands)”: Foster as president, Foster giving food and ice cream to everyone on Earth, Foster in a monage-a-cinquante on a massive bed, drowning in women; a money storm drenching the orgy; Marvin Gaye serenading the orgy with “Let’s Get it On” as the money continues to fall.
“ENOUGH!” Mephistopheles cries, interrupting the daydream. “WHAT IS YOUR DECISION?”
“Is there any limit on what I can ask for?”
“YOU ARE ONLY LIMITED BY THE BREADTH OF YOUR PASSION, YOUNG FOSTER. ALSO YOU CANNOT ASK FOR MORE TIME, YOU CANNOT ASK TO SLOW DOWN TIME, YOU CANNOT— IN FACT, TIME IS OFF THE TABLE ENTIRELY. NO TIME STUFF. OTHERWISE GO CRAZY.”
“And how does this work? Is there a specific date and time where I lose my soul, or is it just like a year of time measured by stop-watch?”
“I HARDLY SEE WHY THIS IS RELEVANT, BUT TO ANSWER YOUR QUESTION I USE A REALLY BIG HOUR GLASS-SSS. NOW WHAT IS YOUR DECISION?”
“I’ll do it. On one condition.”
“NAME YOUR CONDITION, OH MIGHTY FOSTER.”
“I want you to answer every question I have for you truthfully. Without exception. Can you do that?”
“OF COURSE, I MEAN, WHAT KIND OF GUY DO YOU TAKE ME FOR, FOSTER? HISSSSSS….”
Foster and Mephistopheles shake hands, as the latter continues to hiss. Foster’s hand is scorched, and he withdraws it with a yelp.
“THE DEED IS DONE, YOUR HIGHNESS-SSS…. ALREADY THE SAND OF YOUR SOUL IS SLIPPING INTO THE BOWELS OF HELL. NOW WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO?”
“First, there are some Capri-Suns in the fridge. Go grab two of those and some Oreos. Also some Cheetos if we have any. And some milk for the Oreos…” Foster continues talking, as the camera observes Mephistopheles’ confused and irritated facial expressions. “Oh, and some whipped cream for the cake. And some whippets— nitrous oxide, I mean. Oh and make me President of the United States. And give everyone in America free Ben and Larry’s Ice Cream.”
Mephistopheles snaps his fingers irritably, and now we are in the oval office. Foster is seated behind the desk in a business suit. The desk before him is covered in Oreos, Cheetos, Caprisuns, metal whippet canisters, whip cream bottles, milk jugs, and ice cream. The phone is ringing off the hook. Foster’s cellphone rings alongside it. “MOM” calling.
Foster answers.
“Hello? Foster? This is your mother. Just because your President now doesn’t mean you can skip your drug test. It’s tomorrow at two. Your father and I also smell something in your room. You haven’t been smoking in there, have you?”
“No, mom! I just lit a candle.”
“Okay. Be home by eight o’clock. Love you.”
“Love you too,” Foster says, and he hangs up the phone.
“This is confusing!” Foster exclaims, slapping his hands down upon bags of Cheetos.
“HELL CONFOUNDS ALL,” Mephistopheles observes. “Ah, where is hell by the way?”
“Under the heavensss.”
“I know, but, like, where specifically?”
“HELL HATH NO LIMITS, NOR IS CIRCUMSCRIBED, FOR WHERE WE ARE IS HELL AND WHERE HELL IS MUST WE EVER BE.”
“That’s pretty morbid, dude.”
All the while, the phone has been ringing incessantly. Foster finally answers. “Hello? Yes? Yes. I did order Ben and Larry’s for everyone. You’re welcome. What? I’ve bankrupted the government? We’ve been bankrupt since before I was born, how is that even possible? Well, go ahead then! FINE!” And he slams down the phone and stands up from his chair.
“Mephistopheles!”
“What?”
Foster begins circling the desk toward the demon, who retreats, using the desk as a buffer.
“That was a call from the treasury department saying those Ice Cream cones cost the government four dollars a cone! We’re bankrupt thanks to you! I thought you said you could give me anything I asked for!”
They’re on opposite sides of the desk now and still circling.
“Well, yesss… But so long as I fulfill your requestsss, the means are at my own discretion. How could I know the recipe for every Ben and Larry’s flavor? That’s preposssteroussss. Perhapsss If you had made the requessst on Free Cone Day, then you wouldn’t have collapsed the global economy.”
“What?!”
The phone rings again. Foster picks it up immediately. “HELLO? OH! Mom! Hey! What’s up? Oh? Oh… No mom, I swear, she must’ve seen someone that looks like me, I’ve never been in that store in my life. Oh, she took a picture of me? Well I was just getting a lighter for a friend. He asked me and I— Oh, I dropped my receipt and she picked it up? And it says I bought Mojo? Mom, I’ve got to go the Prime Minister of Kazakstan is here.” He hangs up the phone, glares at Mephistopheles, who shrugs and smiles coyly in response.
The stage is now set for the Comical History of President Foster. Foster, absurdly, must fulfill his role as President whilst adhering to his parents strict rules. He must try to salvage the global economy, defeat totalitarianism, and make it home nightly by eight o’clock. All the while, Mephistopheles does everything to ensure that every wish Foster makes backfires. Foster orders more Black Magic and smokes it with weed after passing his drug test, and his mother immediately calls and says dinner starts in twenty minutes. After dinner, which goes poorly, Foster ends the wars in the middle east. All of the news agencies start going under like the newspapers, citizens nationwide complaining that there’s nothing good on TV any more and America has lost its balls, so to speak. People are more and more fed up with Comcast, which has formed a nationwide monopoly but has terrible service, hidden fees, and never shows any war or terrorism on TV. Foster decides to mess with Comcast. Comcast goes bankrupt, and cable is temporarily cut off nationwide. Riots ensue, regular citizens versus police. Anti-police sentiment skyrockets, and Fosters decides to do away with the police entirely. The country is in an uproar, and Foster’s time is dwindling. Meanwhile, he has been smoking more and more Black Magic. Ultimately, Foster is overthrown, and a military dictatorship assumes power. Simultaneously, his parents discover his pipe and white lighter, “So THAT’S why you’ve been acting like this!” and Mephistopheles, pissed off because black smoke appears at his feet every time Black Magic is smoked, informs Foster that he has five minutes before he will be dragged to hell and burn for eternity. Foster attempts to smoke enough weed and Black Magic to still the “ever-moving spheres of heaven,” but his tolerance prevents this possibility. The mouth of hell opens up on the Presidential Seal in the Oval Office, and Mephistopheles looks on smiling as his fellow demons drag Foster into hell, where Stalin, Reagan, Nixon, Hitler, Gerald Ford, Lyndon B Johnson and Mother Theresa beckon him excitedly.
Foster wakes up on his bean bag. He looks around. “Holy shit,” he says. Pats himself down to ensure that he is real. He picks up his phone, dials.
“Yo,” he says. “Dude.” Excitement is growing on his face.
“You have got to try this Black Magic stuff! I swear to God, man, I just…”
The camera zooms out as Foster raves about his experience, passing through the window and quieting Foster’s voice.
The camera zooms away from the house, showing how tiny it is in this suburban neighborhood as the credits begin to roll.
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