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This is recording 297.

Observations of the Doom
Patrol by Dr. Harrison, day 93.

The Codpiece mission.

I continue to be astounded by the
garden of psychological plights

presented by this group.

It's been three months and my decision
to stay continues to pay dividends.

This bargain basement sideshow has
been working as a superhero team,

aptly named the Doom Patrol.

Rita has carved
out a starring role for herself

as team leader, because
no one wanted the job.

Ready? Positions.

And action!

But this failed starlet,
failed high school drama teacher

and failed community theater extra seems
to have found her niche, by default.

Believe it or not, she's led
this busted Justice League

to seven successful missions.

Dear Rita tackles the job
with endless enthusiasm

despite the lack of cooperation
or respect of her teammates.

Any questions?

Yeah, not
going after Codpiece,

and not doing codenames.

A question beings with "who," "what,"
"where," "when" or "why," Clifford.

Why do you get to
pick the codenames?

Because they suck.

When you spend days researching
and plotting missions

while getting paper
cuts and inky fingers,

you can choose the
codenames, okay?

Until then, you're Robotman.

Dr. Harrison is Crazy Jane.

Larry is Negative Man,

Vic is Cyborg and, Rouge,

you're Dogshit McGivens.

Rita's ire for Madam
Rouge is as hot and fiery as ever.

And Rouge eats healthy
doses of her shit

because she desperately wants to make
amends for Malcolm and the Sisterhood.

Even though it runs
counter to her true nature.

Yeah. Good choice.
Mmm-hmm. Elasta-Woman.

Thank you.

In between hating
Rouge and being disrespected,

Rita had the good idea to attach The
Brain's robot head to the time machine.

Now, we no longer have to hurdle through
space, time, duct taped to Shipley.

She also solved the time
travel memory loss problem.

Ah!

Strangely
enough, with jellyfish.

I couldn't tell
you why it works.

But it does.

Oh, no, thanks.

Codpiece just
robbed the bank.

Can we speed this up, please?

Not everyone can handle
a full-load from this big gun.

- So juvenile.
- Overcompensating much?

- Gross.
- Everyone back to order.

- I've seen bigger.
- That's disgusting.

Robotman,
flank him on the left.

Robotman.

Robotman!

Clifasaurous.

Left flank. Got it.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Dogshit McGivens, draw his fire
while the others get to safety.

Draw his fire? Seriously?

Just do it!

Fuckin' hell.

Not behind the bush.

His ammo will cut right through.

Just like my multi-man batter.

Could you try not to be
disgusting for two seconds?

Rita tries to
control the team's every move

because she can't bear to
lose another loved one.

Diagnosis?

A textbook perfectionist, slash,
narcissist with survivor skill and PTSD.

Vic and his father repaired most
of the Robotman's smooshed body.

However, the testicle creature
incident led to global shipping delays

and they're still waiting
on parts for his other arm.

Okay. I'm gonna go
rip his dick off.

God damn, son of a...

No. No! No. Still grateful
for my crappy petite body.

Everyday outside that
giant robot is a blessing.

I suspect
Cliff has a low IQ

due to poor breeding, a Florida
public school education,

and race car fumes.

Diagnosis,

a grade A simpleton.

The hero
formally known as Useful

has settled into place as
the team's one man IT squad.

Without his tech, Rita prefers
he stay out of harm's way.

But Vic is unsatisfied by his
new role and yearns to do more.

Elasta-Woman, you got
a bogey flyin' in.

Elasta-Woman.

Hey! Yo, that's far enough.

No, no, no, no. No, no, no.
Don't... Don't do anything.

I'm not really part
of Codpiece's crew.

I'm... I'm just the IT guy.

What do you mean,
"Just the IT guy?"

You're an integral
part of his villainy.

You're the foundation he builds
his nefarious successes on.

Oh.

Yeah. Yeah, I... I am vital.

I guess I am important, huh?

Are you good?

Yeah. Yeah, just...
just hang on.

I can't do it if people
are talking.

Shit.

Oh. Oh. Shit.

What was your part of the plan?

Was it to engage with an
ass-bazooka wielding twit?

But he was literal...

I don't want to hear it.

You stick to the plan
or you stay home.

Plain old Vic
takes the red-headed miss'

admonishments as a lack
of faith in his abilities.

He doesn't realize she too was
working through her own issues.

Together they form the perfect
storm of psychological inadequacies.

Though Vic fearlessly jumped
into the fray against a nimrod

with a rump cannon,

he's far less courageous when
it comes to following through

on the promise he made
himself to find his happiness.

Diagnosis, personality
dysmorphia and social cowardice.

Larry and Keeg have been
getting on like a house on fire.

It may be the
first reported case

of a host developing Stockholm
syndrome towards its parasite.

Oh.

Larry's managed
to let go of himself enough

to share his life
and body with Keeg

in a way he never could with the
Negative Spirit or his human family.

And though Larry tells himself
the new life he's forged

with the neon leech
is fulfilling enough,

the truth is, he
yearns for more.

I'm fine, buddy.
Just you and me.

Diagnosis,

good old-fashion self-loathing with
a healthy dash of co-dependency.

Madame Rouge refuses the
jellyfish on every mission

because it gives her
the briefest respite

from remembering her betrayal
of Malcolm and the Sisterhood.

Oh. Excuse me!

What am I meant to
be doing again? I...

What? You don't remember?

Transform into something
to psych him out.

Right.

Holy shit!
Nice one, Rouge.

Are you body shaming me?

That's some next level evil.

I won't even go there.

I'll kill
your face! So hard!

But Rouge's memories
always return with a vengeance.

And she's
created a nasty ritual

that's a form of
psychological self-harm.

The results are always the same

and she's forced to face the
fact that she's relegated

hundreds of people
to obsolescence.

Though all encompassing,
her pain is a quiet one.

The kind that's always there,

just under the
surface, smoldering,

looking for something to catch,
but never finding anything.

Diagnosis,

self-loathing doormat with
sociopathic tendencies.

As for me, I've managed
to find my own place

amongst this bunch
of walking tragedies.

One that makes use of
my specific talents.

Come now, Mr. Codpiece,

who are you really mad at?

Because it can't possibly be me.

You don't even know me.

I know I only get one
phone call, Dr. H,

but I think you're right.

It should be to my mom.

This doomed
patrol is the El Dorado

of psychological dysfunctions.

I could publish volumes
based on my observations.

Oh.

Thank you.

Unfortunately,
my attention has been divided,

between my work
and my obligations.

That's too much.

Abuelita only uses two shakes.

Really?

Why are you here, H?

To ask you the same question.

The others are all
searching for Kay.

Why aren't you?

Because I can think
of better ways

of wasting my time, like
trying to eat my own face.

So you're not concerned
about the girl?

Of course I'm
fucking concerned.

But Kay constructed this place.

And if she doesn't
want to be found,

we're not
going to find her.

So you're here in her memories,
enjoying warm beverages.

I'm doing something
actually useful.

I'm trying to figure
out what the girl needs.

- Wanna know what I think?
- Mmm.

Yeah, more than anything I've ever
wanted in my entire miserable life.

I think you're on vacation here.

Hiding in the girl's memories
to avoid your responsibilities.

How relieved you must feel of not having
the weight of it all on your shoulders.

Or maybe this is
just sour grapes.

After all, the
girl did disappear,

under your watch.

Mmm.

Remind me where you went
to medical school again?

Was it the University of
I-Watched-A-Shit-Ton- Of-Sally-Jesse-Raphael?

Enjoy your stay, Jane.

- Looks good.
- Yep.

So then, boom!

With the press of a
cell phone button,

she teleported the entire bus of
Edgelords into the Phantom Zone,

which they didn't seem to hate.

But we, uh, we busted
them out anyway.

Cell
Phone Silvia, huh?

- Yup!
- And what was your part in this caper?

Me? Yeah, I, um...

I downloaded her phone's
user menu from the internet.

That thing is over
ten years old.

Man! That was hard to find.

Sounds like you're keeping busy.

Yeah.

But, um,

are you leaving any
time to find your bliss?

I didn't ditch my
tech to spite you.

When are you gonna understand
that this choice was about me?

It wasn't an accusation, son.

I'm sorry.

The truth is, this isn't as
easy as I thought it would be.

Scary tryin' to find
yourself, isn't it?

I think I'd rather
take on an Edgelord.

Now, just give yourself time.

You'll get there.

Looks like we're done here.

Thanks for your
help on this, Dad.

He's gonna be psyched.

Of course.

It was fun.

Yeah, it was.

Let's gather the troops.

All right,
all right, all right.

Whose face are we stomping
justice into today?

Is that my fucking arm?

As a matter of fact, it is.

Fuck.
Fucking sweetness!

Why is everyone else here?

Well, we couldn't make your
arm exactly like it was so, um,

we decided to make it better.

Looks like the same
old shitty robot arm

with the same old shitty robot fingers
that I can't type for shit with,

or write, or bowl.

We...

We gave you the
sense of touch...

In one finger.

But over time,

if things work the way
they're supposed to,

the nanites will spread
to your other fingers.

Wh...

I'll be able to feel
with my whole hand?

That's the plan, Robotman.

I don't
know what to say.

Thank you!

Uh, from my bottom of
my non-existent heart.

All right.

- Okay.
- All right.

And this how you say
"Fuck you" in England.

Now we can calibrate
your sense of touch.

Let's start with the cotton.

Uh, would it be
okay if I didn't?

It would be better if you did.

You... you mind telling
us why you don't want to?

I haven't felt
anything for 40 years.

I think the first thing I'd
like to touch is my grandson.

Cliff,

not to be a spoilsport
but technically,

you are touching that oven mitt.

Doesn't count. Doesn't count.

But, goddamn, it's soft.

Come on, fuck nuts!

To the time machine!

We're going to fucking Florida!

Um, Clifford, I know
that you are excited,

but the time machine
is not an Uber.

It is a crime
fighting apparatus.

Oh, come on, Rita.

What is the harm in a wee jaunt
to America's sweaty armpit?

This is a joyous occasion.

Why don't you make
a little exception?

Oh, what's the harm?

- Yeah, come on, Rita.
- Don't be so controlling.

Be cool for once.

All right, all right, all right.

Just this once.

Fuck yeah, let's roll!

I think I'll sit this one out.
I am allergic to jellyfish

and experimental fringe science.

- Take care, son.
- All right, Dad.

I'll talk to you.

Um, Rita, a private word?

What is it?

Uh, well, I, um, thought over time
if I consumed enough of your shit,

I-I'd earn your forgiveness but I'm realizing that's...

Probably never gonna happen. And since my
presence here is a constant trigger for you,

I was thinking, perhaps
maybe, once I...

Well, perhaps maybe, once
we all return from Florida,

it might be best that I
find somewhere else to live.

Unless of course, you can
find it in your heart to...

Forgive me.

I hear there
are a lot of nice efficiencies

in Cloverton, if you don't
mind getting scabies.

I... I don't actually.

And perhaps maybe
you could give me...

Give me the address.

This is the best day of
my entire freaking life!

Can we leave already?

Why have we not left yet?

No, thank you.

No, you listen
here, Madame Rouge.

You will put this jellyfish
on top of your peanut head

because I want you to remember
every word of your promise

to leave my home.

Oh, fucking...

Okay, Florida five minutes
from now. Everybody ready?

Shipley, play some
travel tunes, will ya?

Are you an animal,
vegetable or mineral?

Yes.

Are you Animal
Vegetable Mineral Man?

Damn it! I thought
that'd be harder.

What else could possibly
fit that description?

You guys seein' this?

Oh, it's
probably another time goat.

Let's not get paranoid.

It's a woman.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Help me. Help me please.

Is this bad? 'Cause this
feels pretty fucking bad.

I don't think it's good.

I know her.

She likes to watch
people pee. No judgement.

That's Isabel Feathers.

Who?

The talentless wannabe
who portrayed me

in the Cloverton
Theatre's Our Town, huh.

Help, help me!

- Should we let her in?
- No.

Let me in. Let me in. Let
me in. Let me in.

What's she doing
in the time stream?

Uh, that might be my bad.

When I arrived in Cloverton,

she watched me taking
a massive wazz,

then fell right
into my time hole.

I... I didn't think it
was worth mentioning.

Please! Angry Jesus!

Don't let me die before
I touch my grandbaby!

Arrival
imminent. Arrival imminent.

When are we headed,
Victor? What year?

No idea.

Everybody brace for impact.

This is gonna be
a rough landing.

Is everyone okay?

I think so.

Where on earth are we?

When are we?

Doesn't
matter and don't care.

Let's just hop back into Shipley

and get back on
track to the FLA.

Shipley's overheated.

It's gonna be a while before
we can shove off again.

I think I know where we are.

Um...

I think we went a little further
than five minutes into the future.

Well, what do you suppose
the shotgun is for?

For whatever the fuck that is.

Executive decision.

Yep.

And... and go where exactly?

There's no
place like home.

Wow.

This reminds me of
my mother's house.

She was a hoarder,

and a war profiteer.

The air's really stale.

Maybe no one's
living here anymore.

Well, we'd better have a
look through just in case.

Everyone, I have
found something.

What is it?

Hmm.

Vienna sausages and Skittles.

Ew. On both fronts.

I haven't seen shit like
this since the '70s.

And we were all high
as fuck back then.

No, wait.

- Fucking asshole!
- Why did you do that?

God.

- Oops.
- Idiot!

You had to touch the weiner?

Quiet.
We're not alone.

Welcome to 2042.

Holy shit bears!

Who is it?

It's you.

A rusty, busted version of you.

The hell? Yo, let me through.

Yo, let me through.

If this mitt falls off and I
touch something that isn't...

-Someone is kicking me. Stop kicking me.
- my grandson's

perfect skin...

I will murder every
single one of you.

This is weird.

What's that on your face?

Is that tech?

Who wants tea?

It all
started about 20 years ago,

Cloverton was the epicenter.

Spread slow at first

and after a few weeks
it was everywhere.

Hey, Omega man,

you wanna skip the dramatics

and just tell us what the lemon
drizzled fuck happened?

Papers called it
The Buttpocalypse.

I think he's serious.

No, that's impossible.

We killed those assholes.

Apparently, we missed one.

And infected it with zombiism.

You mean to tell us the
world has been overtaken

by Zombie Butts?

That we created?

I mean, the zombie part anyway.

It's about the size of it, yeah.

Where are the rest of us?

You tend to stick to your
rooms for the most part.

Go say hi if you want.

Rouge.

You won't find
anyone in your room.

Oh.

Did I change rooms?

Did I just pop out
for my laundry?

Well, that can only
mean one thing.

I am at a LARPing retreat.

I am dead then, aren't I?

Actually, I don't know
what happened to you.

You moved out right
before shit kicked off.

We lost track of you soon after.

Well, then I could
still be out there,

thriving under the
New World Order. I...

Look, I go into Cloverton
nearly every day

and I'm yet to see
another survivor.

I'm sorry.

Vic, take a walk with me.

Something I gotta show you.

What the fuck?

Larry? Keeg?

What the hell
is goin' on here?

Hello!

Rita?

I know what this is.
It's a death hoop.

Rita Vivian Farr,

I know what you're doing, and I
want you to stop this instant.

You're not
fooling anyone, you know.

This is the exact same
blocking we did in the picture,

The Return of Ghost Gal,
Ghost Gal's Gal Pal.

Pish.

I was hoping you
would have forgotten.

Well, what do you want?

- For starters...
- They're dead.

Everyone's dead.

I see.

Let me guess.

I had a carefully well laid out
plan and nobody followed it.

Not exactly.

It was Rouge.

Rouge betrayed us like she
did the Sisterhood of Dada.

No.

It turns out we
were about as good

at being a team leader as we were at
being a high school drama teacher.

How can that be?

I... I... We have an
undefeated record.

It's complicated.

There's
a lot to unpack.

Tell me everything.

Well, are you going to talk
or just continue staring

out the window like a
catatonic tuna fish?

Are you really in such denial that
you can't deduce what happened?

Perhaps you're too much of a
coward to own up to your actions.

Cut the shit, H.

Your pathological arrogance
got the girl killed.

No. In my time the
girl is still alive.

I haven't done anything yet.

It was you.

Was that a different clan
of cataclysmic misfits

you darkened my doorstep with?

But that's impossible.

- The girl is...
- Your primary concern.

Guess again, sister.

If you were really
interested in protecting her,

you would have taken
her far from this place

and these people right after
you seized control from Jane.

But no,

you were more interested in emotionally
dissecting your little lab rats,

and now Kay is dead.

Peace...

Continued on A-13.

A-13?

Where is A-13?

Oh.

What the fuck?

So, you can't, uh, fuck
with the sex ghosts at all?

Sure, sure.

I mean, not literally.

I mostly do a lot of
watching and commenting.

But that's not really what
you wanna ask me about, is it?

No.

- Are they...
- Clara and Rory are fine.

They took Mille's dad's boat out on
the Atlantic and are safe and sound.

Really?

No.

Tell me.

Bro, you don't want to know.

Can you at least tell
me what happened to me?

Parkinson's got us.

Really?

Bro, you
do not wanna know.

Listen, bro!

Either you start talking or
I'll make it my life's mission

to figure out how to
rip off your ghost head

and shit down your ghost neck.

Which would entail a side mission
of figuring out how to take a shit,

but so help me, I
will fucking do it!

Okay.

Okay, okay, okay. Jesus.

You want the
truth? Here it is.

Your perfect grandson, Rory,

you never get to touch him.

Because I died before
I could get to Florida?

Bro, you do not want to know.

Oh, there you are.

My God, we're dead.

Hey!

Hello?

Yeah, that tracks.

Future Keeg.

Future Keeg, release.

Hey, whe... where's
Keeg, Larry?

Larry, please.

Where is he?

Keeg doesn't live here anymore.

Wha... what happened to him?

What the hell did you do?

Hey! I'm talking to you.

Larry, I'm talking to you!

Oh, thank God.

Look at you!

You're all grown up.

How you doing, buddy?

And what does he mean, "You
don't live here anymore?"

Huh? You look...
You can talk to me.

What is going on here?

Hey, what's happening?

What are you doing to him?

Whoa!

What the hell did he say to you?

Oh, my fuck sticks.

Shitting hell!

He's gonna steal
the time machine.

Sooner or later, if
they don't get eaten,

they're gonna make
their way here.

If you all keep them occupied,
I'll double back and take Shipley.

I may be in the minority,

but perhaps we should give
our past selves a chance.

Maybe with our guidance, they
can avert this terrible future.

I can't believe you got through
that with a straight face!

You're trusting those morons to
right the future. Could you imagine?

Going somewhere?

I don't want to fight you.

I bet you don't, old man.

Or talking is also good.

This is for the
best. For all of us.

How is stealing the time machine

instead of telling us
how to stop this better?

Look, you're just
gonna fuck it up.

The way I see it, we haven't
fucked up anything yet.

It was you all who caused
this future, not us.

If you know how to avoid this,
then you need to tell me.

There's no point.

Where you're at right now,
you're not gonna hear me.

Where am I at?

You still think you're on-plan?

- You just don't get it...
- Don't get what?

What about us?

Are we in a clear headspace?

You better be. They're here.

Fuck these
fucking Butts.

We kicked their asses
once, we can do it again!

That's exactly what
you said 20 years ago,

When a Butt cracked your
head like an egg and ate you.

Thank you. Finally,
someone tells me how I die.

Careful. Don't
let them bite you.

We can't win this.

We have to go.

No! Not until he talks.

I love a fight as much
as the next robot...

But, this is nuts.

Dr. H is
right. Let's get out of here.

We're bugging out.

Come with us.

Help us fight the future.

Hell, no. I'd rather be
ravaged by Zombie Butts

than revisit that
point of my life.

Then I'm not going, either.

Absolutely not,
Victor. It's suicide.

Maybe your jellyfish
wasn't on tight enough?

But you can't do shit, remember?

You don't have
shit to fight with.

Here!

Booyah!

Boys!

Stop this nonsense!
Immediately!

- Dad?
- Dad?

Call me Pop-Pop, please.

Wait.

No!

No!

Why did you do that?

Okay, we're going, everybody.

The launch sequence has already been initiated.

It won't open.

You can't save him, Vic.

"You can't have it all."

Easy, buddy. Easy.

Please.

Look.

Your other dad would
write me a note sometimes.

Could you try to do that?

Can you please just tell
what future Keeg showed you?

Was it about me?

What did you do to fuck
this one up, Trainor?

Did you see?

Every hairy detail.

I don't know what to say.

Good. Because I do.

You were right.

I was hiding out
in Kay's memories

because being Primary is hard
and it's fucking draining.

And I needed a break.

But after what I
saw in the future,

I am going back up right
now and so help me,

I will chuck you face-first,
into the fucking well if you...

Kay. Where
have you been?

What happened to Dr. H?

Don't follow me.

Listen to me, please...

What the fuck?

Oh.

That's unusual.

'Kay.

Uh, do you think it
was random seeing

Isabel Feathers in
the time stream?

I'm
not sure, do you?

I'm
not sure either.

Might be worth finding out.

You're not leaving
anymore, are you?

Given what we've
seen in the future

it's... probably for the best?

Well, isn't this just
the shitty cherry on top

of a shitty sundae made of shit?

Okay.

Think that went well.

You can't have it all.

Fuck that.

Rory, I am gonna come touch
your perfect, squishy tush.

But, first I gotta
stop the Buttpocalypse.

But I promise you.

I will not touch a single thing with
my new hand before I get to you.

Until then, fuck
you, the future.

This better be good, Bunbury.

I was in the middle
of Graham Norton.

Can't be serious with this shit.

I mean, it's a stupid
hoax, he's not real.

I bought you the wrong
bedding one time.

When you gonna get over it?

Can we, maybe just,
get back to the photo?

A... a thousand
apologies, Bunbury.

Prophecy only
mentioned the Butts.

Now, if this is real,
really, really, real,

it can mean only one thing.

We're well and truly fucked.

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