Frank Sinatra sniffs a pair of underwear stolen from Marilyn Monroe's dressing room. A shadow passes across his face. He is overcome by an urgent need to sleep, to retreat somewhere dark and quiet where he can rest. He drops to his hands and knees and crawls into the cupboard under the stairs singing 'come fly with me' in a parched, tremulous voice. He thinks he's in Vegas.
A maid is looking for a dust pan. She tries the cupboard under the stairs. A cocoon! It looks like a giant wet coconut. It has adhered itself to the wall with what look like living intestines. 'Virgin Mary,' she says, and crosses herself. Light floods in past the maid; the cocoon quivers. The maid slams the cupboard shut and sits back against the door muttering prayers. Something moves in the space behind her. The maid screams and runs. She is stopped at the front door by a peculiarly tall Native American with a grave, wooden face. She turns and runs for the stairs. Another Native American appears from out of nowhere and blocks her way. The maid sinks down to her knees and sobs.
The Native Americans strip naked and perform ancient rites. They chant, dance a bit, drip with sweat. The maid is hypnotised by all the (two) penises everywhere. Acrid-smelling smoke issues from a little bundle of wood and fills the hallway. The smoke thins and the maid notices strange hieroglyphs painted on the cupboard door in red ochre. The Native Americans are wearing suits.
'What is the meaning of this?' She pleads.
'Frank Sinatra sniffed Marilyn Monroe's panties,' answers the tall native American. Somehow the maid understands.
There is a noise inside the cupboard. It sounds like a giant wet coconut doing something. There is a decisive crash, then some kind of struggle. Jim Morrison bursts out. He is drunk, or pretending to be drunk. It doesn't really matter. He probably is drunk for real. Who knows.
The maid cleans up the cracked wet coconut and living intestines with a mop. The intestines resist and she gets paid double. There are cigarette butts stuck to the inside of the cocoon.
The Native Americans clothe Jim Morrison and select three others to be in a band with him. They hand pick individuals from a nearby North American fighting-nerd ranch. The breeder is sad to see them go, but the Native Americans pay a fair price - not killing him with spears.