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Pedro Pascal

By Elsa Boehm

I woke up and angels descended from the sky, playing trumpets and singing Kill Bill by SZA. Candy showered from the clouds as I lazily opened my eyes, eyelashes fluttering in the breeze. A trickle of sweat dripped down my forehead. Sweat, or rain? I looked up. Pigeon.

Damned birds. I trudged across the muddy ground, cap over brow. I nodded to my high-profile business friends as I passed. They kept walking. I went to work to pose for some TikTok edits. What is life? What is the universe? What is… 

I walked into a studio where I was filming my latest expose on the need to save the snails from the French. I was playing the evil, baguette-toting Francois, who was intent on eating as many snails as he could. I ran around the studio screaming something about raising retirement ages. This made me tired, so I sat down to watch a cinematic masterpiece.

I watched Cocaine Bear, which made me realize that animals can be on drugs too. I found it inspiring and took my first sniff of weed today. Yum.

As I strode down the street, my overly large snout proved extremely effective at shoving the paparazzi out of the way. Suddenly, every fur on my face began to morph into Pedro Pascal. A million Pedros growing out of my head. I swooned. I WAS Pedro Pascal. Pedro Pascal was me. Rearing up abruptly, I began to bellow:




I woke up next to Gladys, my wife of 45 years. She looked at me with mild concern. “Who did you say you were?” I smiled. I stood up, put on my suit, and left for my job in accounting. Nobody could ever know my secret identity. I am Pedro Pascal.


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