Bobby Worst had no ticket, no plan, and definitely no pants. But he did have a trench coat full of glow sticks and a prescription for a “medication” that was suspiciously just something illegal in a pill bottle. So naturally, he was ready for Coachella.

“Security is just a suggestion,” Bobby whispered to himself as he leapt over the turnstile, knocking over a mime and shouting “IT’S ME, THE DJ!” before disappearing into the crowd like a cracked-out raccoon in a rave tunnel.

Somewhere between a vegan burrito truck and a group of influencers filming a thirst trap, Bobby popped three mystery pills he found in a port-a-potty. Thirty minutes later, he was passionately arguing with a palm tree about the metaphysics of kale.

Meanwhile, Bryce was looking for Bobby. Big mistake. He was tipped off by a guy in a banana costume who claimed Bobby was trying to “mate” with a hologram of Tupac.

By sunset, Bobby had somehow started his own EDM set using only a Taco Bell wrapper, a stolen USB stick, and the Bluetooth in someone’s Tesla. The crowd was loving it, mostly because they thought it was an avant-garde art piece.

Cut to: Nightfall.

Sirens blaring. Lights flashing. Bobby, stark naked except for a bucket hat and an ironic pair of Crocs, was now dancing on the roof of the Coachella security tower, screaming,

Bobby: “I AM THE SPIRIT OF WOODSTOCK, YOU CORPORATE WHORES!”

Bryce finally found him after a lengthy chase involving a golf cart, a churro vendor, and an angry llama named Daryl.

“Bobby, GET DOWN FROM THERE!” Bryce yelled.

“I CAN SEE GOD, AND HE’S TWERKING!” Bobby howled.

The night ended with Bobby being gently tackled by a team of very confused EMTs and mumbling something about how the moon owed him money. Bobby tries to break free from the security guards Until the cops walks over.