Der Assistent

The assistant seems to be at the end of his rope. He regains consciousness in a haze in a dubious clinic under palm trees.

As in his debut, the assistant is accompanied by the sounds of the late seventies and early eighties in the second part of his odyssey. A sound like a mixtape that has been lying too long in the South American sun on the rear shelf of a dented Citroën Visa.

𝙃𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙪𝙥 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙤𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙤 𝙤𝙛 𝙡𝙞𝙗𝙧𝙖𝙧𝙮 𝙈𝙪𝙯𝙖𝙠, 𝙙𝙪𝙗 𝙧𝙝𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙢𝙨, 𝙅𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙜𝙜𝙖𝙚, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙮𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙩 𝙧𝙤𝙘𝙠, 𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙇𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙗𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙖 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙖, 𝙤𝙣 𝙙𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡. The assistant returns as a relaxed-desperate Fitzcarraldo, who tries to hoist a vacation steamer full of grooves from the Spree over a magic mountain in the rainforest, disappearing into worlds beyond space and time.