(Preview) Lost Cause: Terminally Celibate.

INT. SHADOWED CHAMBER - NIGHT Two blue eyes peek out of the darkness into the pale flicker of candlelight. SETH MEYERSHey. FIGURE (O.S.)Don’t come any closer, Seth Meyers, I’ll shoot you. Suddenly, a silver pistol emerges from the shadows, pointed directly between those two same very blue eyes. SETH MEYERSI don’t doubt that. FIGUREYou shouldn’t. SETH MEYERSAll right, well... FIGUREWell... SETH MEYERSI—brought popped corn, er... all right, my—kernels, rather. FIGURE...For what purpose? SETH MEYERS(shrugging)Don’t know. Kind of expecting... Lorne to show up. Seth steps forward into a pillar of downlight. FIGUREAgain, for what purpose? SETH MEYERSI feel like this is highly conversational for someone pointing a gun at me. FIGUREEveryone’s entitled to have an opinion. SETH MEYERSYou’re wittier when you’re contemplating homicide. FIGUREI’m not contemplating, I’m procrastinating. SETH MEYERSNot contemplating, procrastinating. Ah—so—dual purpose. FIGUREThat’s your wit shining through there. SETH MEYERSI’m sure it’s only reflecting in the mirror image of that pistol. FIGUREThree coats of polish. SETH MEYERSYou must have quite the iron grip. FIGUREHow about it. SETH MEYERSHow about... SETH MEYERS steps forward in tandem with the subtle CLICK of the pistol being gently cocked, barrel leveled at his brow. He slowly raises his hands above his head in surrender, then swiftly uses his right hand to dislodge a yellow number two pencil from behind his ear. He raises the pencil, wielding it like a wand before tapping the clear plastic bag of popped corn kernels in his left hand. Tap. Tap. He swirls the pencil in an arc around the bag. The bag instantly turns from popped corn into clear water containing one solitary, swimming GOLDFISH. Seth gestures outward with an open palm: voilà. FIGURE...Not bad. SETH MEYERS(shrugging)Mm. A sharp GUNSHOT rings out. Seth ducks, desperately gripping the bag as the goldfish swims unbothered. A high-caliber slug ricochets off an overhead crystal chandelier and shatters a wall mirror into thousands of prismatic shards. In reflexive retaliation, a silver bullet discharges from the silver pistol. It narrowly misses Seth, ripping straight through the clear plastic bag. SETH MEYERS (CONT'D)OH, FUCK! The bag ruptures. Water and the GOLDFISH splash onto the parquet floor. The goldfish thrashes next to Seth, who contorts between shielding his skull and reaching out to save the fish. More bullets tear through the air. Seth executes a panicked lateral roll as the fish flails across the wood. FIGUREBastard. TWO SHADOWY NINJAS breach the perimeter through high windows. SETH MEYERSWhy?! FIGUREWhy not? Suddenly, ARMORED SAMURAI kick down the rear doors, drawing katanas! SETH MEYERSWait, ninjas or samurai?! FIGURE¿Por qué no los dos? The architectural dimensions of the room instantly fracture as the space erupts into a multi-epochal, cross-dimensional melee; cybernetic samurai clash swords with ancient shinobi; Victorian-era pirates brandish cutlasses against trench-coat-wearing 1930s mobsters firing tommy guns. Laser beams from futuristic space-cops intersect with mystical fireballs deployed by hovering medieval dragons, as Wild West cowboys on horseback materialize from localized temporal rifts, dual-wielding revolvers beside trident-toting mermaids who surge forward on crests of tidal anomalies. Amidst this cataclysmic tapestry of historical and mythological warfare, Seth Meyers is thrust into absolute, frantic desperation. He flails prone across the architecture, executing erratic lateral rolls and frantic somersaults to evade supersonic projectiles, whistling crossbow bolts, and stray cannonballs that pulverize the surrounding masonry. A sweeping claymore decapitates an adjacent combatant, passing a mere millimeter above Seth’s ducked head; moments later, a rogue shuriken grazes his ankle, leaving a burning laceration. Yet his focus remains tethered to the aquatic captive. He maneuvers across the floorboards like an uncoordinated gymnast, contorting his torso into protective arcs and cupping his palms into a fragile, improvised vessel. The combatants demonstrate a surreal, highly choreographed deference to the central chaos; they execute gravity-defying leaps, stealthy pirouettes, and fluid, rhythmic lunges directly over Seth’s undulating form, weaving their lethal maneuvers through the air with microscopic precision. A stray bowie knife embeds itself deeply into the floorboards, pinning the fabric of Seth's sleeve and narrowly missing his arm, yet through this symphonic display of universal hostility, the goldfish remains miraculously untouched, entirely unstepped upon amidst the stampede of boots, hooves, and flippers. SETH MEYERS (CONT'D)(calling out to nobody)I’m fine! The quick, nimble footwork of the warriors somehow leaves both Seth and the fish alive. However, the goldfish ceases its frantic flailing, opening its mouth in faint, desperate gasps for oxygen. The surviving combatants and bystanders pause, gathering round in a tight circle alongside Seth. The eye of the dying goldfish suddenly sparkles. In a blinding detonation of technicolor and radiant white light, the aquatic creature expands and morphs into— LORNE MICHAELS Lorne casually dusts off the lapels of his tuxedo jacket and adjusts his bow tie. SURROUNDING CROWD(collective gasp)LORNE?! LORNE MICHAELSHm. He stands composed at the room's epicenter, completely unfazed—as if he had not just been missing for weeks, as if he had not spent the last four minutes as a goldfish, and as if he had not originated as a concession bag of gourmet popped corn kernels. The combatants and bystanders stare blankly into the void of astonishment. JIMMY FALLON bursts through the double doors, breathing heavily. JIMMY FALLONOh good. It worked! Silence falls. The entire room turns, staring dumbfounded into various imaginary multidimensional fourth walls. LORNE MICHAELSWell, come on. We have a show to do. Lorne turns on his heel and strides toward the corridor with reserved, unhurried dignity, casually stepping over the carnage of fallen mercenaries. MORGAN FREEMAN (V.O.)...He isn’t wrong. It is, after all, Saturday Night.