The Vibe After The Movie
what happens after the credits
The bartender is Matthew McConaughey.
Not a bartender. The bartender. Shirt unbuttoned to the exact depth where mystery meets enlightenment. A belt buckle so heavy with symbolism it bends light. He doesn’t work here, the bar exists because he decided to stand behind it. When he leaves, it collapses back into the dream of a jukebox that wanted more.
He’s polishing a glass that can’t be cleaned, because it isn’t dirty, it’s haunted. Inside it, you see your childhood, your future, and an ex you never technically dated but still think about during thunderstorms. McConaughey has been polishing it since the Bush administration. He’ll stop when he damn well pleases.
The door opens.
Pedro Pascal walks in like a Mediterranean breeze with a vendetta. His scarf has been on four diplomatic missions. His boots leave no prints, only suggestions.
Two seconds later, Charlize Theron arrives without ever visibly entering. The floor doesn't dare touch her boots. Every plant in the bar turns to face her. The jukebox, unbidden, plays a melody that makes a man in the back realize he’s been emotionally constipated since 1998.
Pedro nods. Just once.
Charlize smirks. The air changes temperature.
They don’t order drinks. They radiate them.
A bottle of mezcal spontaneously liquifies into six perfect glasses across the bar. A glass of wine quietly evaporates out of sheer reverence. Somewhere, a beer taps itself and cries softly.
Chairs move toward them. Not as furniture, more like disciples.
Matthew doesn’t speak. He nods, once, as if to say: “I’ve seen this dream before. It had better lighting.”
They sit. Seventeen minutes pass.
No one touches anyone. No clothes are removed. But when they stand to leave, Everyone is pregnant.
Even the men. Even the jukebox. Even Kevin’s beard.
A single infant cries.
Then another.
Then Gary, a 52-year-old HVAC technician, gasps and gives birth to a glowing orb named “Pedrolyn.”
McConaughey lights a cigarette that wasn’t in his hand a second ago. He takes one drag and exhales a perfect spiral. He says nothing. Then, softly:
“Time is a flat womb.”
Silence.
Then—
The door swings open again.
A breeze follows, smelling like citrus and revolution.
Ncuti Gatwa steps in, radiant, glowing like an intergalactic prom king. His jacket has sentient shoulder pads. The floor shifts to accommodate his strut. He scans the room, spots Pedro and Charlize, and beams:
“There you are!”
Pedro leans back, like he’s reclining into the ‘70s.
Charlize doesn’t smile, but the room does it for her.
“The other place had too much of a hipster vibe,” Pedro says.
“Everything had foam,” Charlize sighs.
Ncuti nods gravely. “You did the right thing.”
No order is placed. Drinks appear.
Pedro’s is in a horn carved from time.
Charlize’s shimmers like regret in moonlight.
Ncuti’s floats, a glowing orb of pure potential.
They toast, not with sound, but intention.
The room hears it anyway: a whispered thunderclap, somehow wearing sunglasses.
They sip.
Every molecule in the building becomes fertile. A stool softly whimpers and goes into labor. Someone in the back bursts into tears and sings a lullaby they’ve never heard before.
And then they rise.
All three of them. Moving as one. Like a prophecy sliding off a leather jacket.
They walk out the door. Time pauses to let them pass.
Everyone is pregnant. Again.
Some with babies. Others with books. A few with herpes. One man with a small, perfect waffle.
McConaughey doesn’t look up. He just murmurs:
“Now it’s a party.”
He keeps polishing the glass. The bar hums. The jukebox weeps and plays the national anthem of a country that doesn’t exist yet.
Outside, lightning kisses the earth in the shape of a heart.
Inside, someone whispers, “Amen,” and no one knows why.
A new constellation forms in the sky:
Three stars.
A scarf.
And a glowing drink.
They call it:
The Vibe.
And somewhere in the distant cosmos, the universe crosses its legs and fans itself.