It is a beautiful afternoon in New York City. There's pollution in the air, trash on the ground, and bigotry, well, everywhere - but a beautiful afternoon it is. Y/N gets dressed for a shift at Ellen's Stardust Diner.

"I'm going to work," you say to your ratchet husband, Alexander Hamilton. He continues to write without a response. you glance at Alexander's work and gasp. "A 'chicks I'd like to bang' list? Really?!" Alexander shrugs and giggles to himself. He is pleased and confident in his sexuality. You're not even on the list. You are inflamed. This is the last straw. You slam the door and leave, steam actually rising out of your ears. Alexander adds "Edna Turnblad" to his list, erases it, then writes it again. He begins to draw a busty woman on the sheet, wiping crumbs off of his trousers.

Realizing you forgot your apron, you turn back and walk toward the apartment. You open the door and he's standing there. It's Alex.

"Babe," he says.

"I can't call you babe anymore," you tell him.

"But babe. I am the A-L-E-X-"

You cut him off. "But what about me, babe? Who am I in this relationship?"

"Babe, you are the..." Hamilton tries to spell out your name. He can't remember it. You slap him. There is a laugh track. He passes out because he is drunk. The laugh track is now cheering for you. You grab your apron and leave. You walk to work, singing "Take Me Or Leave Me" from the Tony Award Winning Musical Rent, but like, offkey because you are pissed af and can't hold a tune right now.

Y/N begins the shift enraged. Alexander is actual garbage, you think. I deserve better than to sit around, letting him whore it up in our own apartment. It is busy at the diner. Employees are singing to please the customers. Tips are fine. Y/N can't focus.

"You look like hell," a familiar voice says. It's your best friend and regular customer - the legend herself, Persephone. "Rough week?"

"You could say that," you reply as you pour a shot of Jose Cuervo, Persephone's usual.

"Girl, talk to me." She downs the shot, no chaser.

"I just - Alex is, well…"

"Alex is…" Persephone gestures for you to continue, but also she wants another shot.

"I think he-" you go silent, barely holding back tears. The chatter of the bargoers seems to subside as you dramatically admit, "I want to divorce Alexander! I think he's cheating on me!"

A collective gasp runs through the bar. Persephone's eyes widen in shock.

She responds, "I hope that he burns," and downs another shot of tequila.

"I can't do this on my own. I need a lawyer."

Suddenly, a loud crashing sound fills the room. You look around, and a group of figures emerges from a shadowy corner and slowly makes their way towards you, menacingly snapping their fingers in unison.

"A. . .lawyer, you say?" says one of them in a sing-songy voice. He's wearing a suit and a fedora. You distrust him immediately.

"Um. Yes?" you answer.

"All I care about is love," he sings.

"I. Um. I want a divorce though."

"Sounds like you. . .both reached for the gun?"

You ignore him because the group of figures, still snapping their fingers in unison, has begun to circle around you. Sweating nervously, you glance around for Persephone. She looks like she's in a trance. Hypnotized by the perfect synchronization of the groups' snapping. You desperately struggle against the power of their synchronized snapping. You almost give in. Your eyes begin to glaze over. Then, suddenly remembering the way that Hamilton, your husband, forgot your name, your goddamn name, you snap out of it.

"Who are you people?" you finally manage to ask.

"We." Snap. "Are." Snap. "Lawyers." Snap.

"Wait. What?"

"That's right, Y/N. It's time for you to make your jellicle choice."

You stare blankly.

"Pick a divorce lawyer. Duh."

They continue to circle around you relentlessly. How can you even know if any of these people are real lawyers? Why were they waiting in a shadowy corner? You don't want to come across as desperate, but you really want to divorce Hamilton. Like right now. You hate him a lot. He threw away his shot with you as soon as you realized how self-centered and obsessed with his legacy he is. You once again bring your attention to the "lawyers" circling you.

"I-" you begin, but are interrupted by the sound of breaking glass. You turn to look at the bar, more confused than ever. Standing atop the bar in a triumphant pose, arms outstretched, is a man-like creature with moldy? or just green? hair and a black-and-white striped suit. Ropes that hang from the ceiling are tied around his arms. How long has he been up there? His stench hits your nose before you can fully process what is happening. He sloppily unties the ropes from his arms and jumps down from the bar to look at you.

"We're going way down, Hadestown, to find you a lawyer," he says creepily.


"A graveyard. We're going to a graveyard. Let's go."

It's Hamilton.

Ha. Gotcha.

It's actually Beetlejuice.

He stares at you intensely with sunken, yellow eyes (seriously, can we get that guy an orange or something? Do they have scurvy in the Underworld?) and a rotten smile plastered across his face.

"This is the part where you applaud." He says in a scratchy voice. "An entrance like that takes a big Broadway budget."

The voice is a bit much. He's trying too hard.

"Didn't your show get cancelled?" You ask.

"That's why I'm here, bitch." Beetlejuice retorts. "I'm out of a job. But I heard you needed a lawyer."

"Are you a lawyer?"

"Not technically?"

"That's encouraging."

"Well If you want a good lawyer… You're going to have to go to Hell."

Smelling his stench, you respond "I think I'm already there."

"That was just rude," he says, putting his hands on his hips. "But you're right. Follow me to Hell."

*One long, stinky, strobe-light infused, and slightly horny journey to Hell with 8 time Tony-Award Losing Beetlejuice later*

(Comedy ensues.)

The road to Hell follows a long train track, and at the end of it is a large graveyard. Stones used as grave markers,

"Is there a train in Hell?" You ask Beetlejuice.

"Yes there is, it's called Hell on Wheels," he responds.

"Why didn't we use that?"

"Because then we wouldn't have bonded."

You punch him in the nuts and run ahead into the graveyard. "Where are the lawyers?" You yell. Beetlejuice said he was going to take you to the best lawyer in all of Hell. This place was a graveyard!

"These are where your favorite shows rest after they close. For some reason there are a lot of lawyer characters on Broadway, so literally take your pick."

You wander among the gravestones, seeing the names of some of your favorite shows, when a name catches your eye: To Kill a Mockingbird. The show isn't closed yet, but can you say Deus Ex Machina? Let's be honest, the show practically got one foot in the grave.

"Hey I know this one!" you say to Beetlejuice. "Atticus Finch was a lawyer."

In a puff of smoke, a middle-aged man in a vintage suit and briefcase covered in dust appears. It's Atticus.

"A lawyer!" Beetlejuice screeches.

"Shoot all the blue jays you want, if you can hit 'em, but remember it's a sin to kill a mockingbird." Atticus says in a classic transatlantic accent.

"Uhh okay atty boy what does that have to do with anything?" Beetlejuice jabbed.

"There's a lot of ugly things in this world, son. I wish I could keep 'em all away from you. That's never possible," responded Atticus.

"Wait… Dad?" spat Beetlejuice.

"Oh no." You say.

"No matter what anybody says to you, don't you let 'em get your goat." said Atticus while smiling.

Wiping a tear, Beetlejuice says "I won't, dad."

"No, Beetlejuice he's-" You stammer. "I think he's just speaking his lines."

"He's just wise, Y/N!" cried Beetlejuice.

"You're joking." You say.

"You rarely win, but sometimes you do." Atticus said reassuringly.

"Damn right, dad."

"Don't pay any attention to her, just hold your head high and be a gentleman." Atticus declared.

"You know what, I won't!" Beetlejuice sobbed, "Find another lawyer! My dad is not available!"

Y/N sighs.

What the hell? (literally).

"Can you at least tell me how to get out of here?" You ask.

"Go back up the tracks, take a left at the tortured souls, and the door will be on your right."

What could you do now? No lawyer. No divorce.

The concrete of the buildings seems to close in around you. They drip with grime and sadness like tears. Or maybe this is Urinetown. You don't want to consider this possibility, but there were no more lawyers who weren't old, or fake, or synchronized.

Suddenly, a gust of wind blows a bunch of papers and a hint of New Orleans jazz around you. You remember that last time, Hamilton publicly admitted to cheating on his wife. Why couldn't he do that for you? That would make a legal case, like, so much easier.

A dark, mysterious, shadowy, and melodramatic figure rushes past you, bumping your shoulder. They stamp one of the floating papers into the damp pavement. You can't make them out behind the large, billowing, black cloak and the wide-brimmed, black hat, but they're carrying a bag from the Gap. Then you look at the paper on the ground. Is that your name down on the floor? Could you be doing something more? Upon closer inspection, it doesn't spell Y/N, it's a bootprint, 8.5 Doc Martens, and letters which spell "G-R-O-U-P" and "T-H-E-R-A-P-Y." As if on cue, a neon sign lights up in the window of a less grimy-looking building next to you. You look up and see it spells the same thing as the soggy paper.

Has that been there the whole time?

You might have just caught a glimpse of some people in plain black jeans and t-shirts rounding the corner.

The glow invites you and you almost chase toward the door, place a hand on the handle, and turn to look hopefully into the middle distance before opening the door and ducking inside.

"Come on in, the door's open! Though you already figured that out," says a friendly older woman in an unfamiliar accent. "My name's Beulah."

"My name's Y/N," you say.

"Welcome to the Group Therapy! Go ahead and take a seat."

You sit and listen as people discuss their problems—Persephone's husband spends a long time talking about how much he loves her, but she doesn't seem to appreciate all the things he does for her. You don't know how to tell him that she doesn't like shiny things, just flowers and wine.

A large, furry cat with a big collar talks about feeling insecure about loving a small magician, then turns to you. "What about you?"

"Well . . . I'm trying to get a divorce—" you try to say.

"YAS QUEEN! All you wanna do is get DIVORCED," six voices sing in iridescent pop harmony from across the room.

"Wash that man right outa your hair!" yells someone else.

"But I can't find a lawyer. I tried everywhere, including the graveyard, but I still couldn't find anyone." you tell them.

"Who are you divorcing?" asks the cat.

"Alexander Hamilton." your words are accented by a dramatic sting.

"Girl, same." You look over. It's Tony Award Winner Angelica Schuyler.

"Angelica!" you say. "I thought you were in love with Alex."

"I only loved him for his body. I'm way smarter and more accomplished."

You feel seen.

"I'm sure, with all our resources put together, we can get you a lawyer!" a Disney princess says. You wish she wasn't in here, but she's inspiring nonetheless.

"Queens fix each other's crowns," Anna of Cleves tells you.

Someone you can't quite see in the back corner starts humming.

"Even when the dark comes crashing through . . ."

The cat starts to sing along.

Soon the whole room is singing Dear Evan Hansen. You feel uplifted.

On the way out, Beulah tries to give you a fish, but you politely refuse and step out into the city.

The midnight streets of New York are crowded with tourists, smog, and hope. You breathe in the polluted air and buy a slice of $2 from Joe's Pizza. The pizza is good. Vegetarian. But not as good as what is about to take place…

Emerging from the steam of a manhole is a dark figure, oddly shaped, waving through the window. He's tap, tap, tapping on the glass. A long, black rope billows behind the figure from under an oversized blue polo, his arm is broken? It's not even a cast. It's toilet paper. The nearly-finished cardboard tube dangles in the breeze. As he steps closer, his mask glints in the city lights. It's Tony-Award Winner, Ben Platt. You step outside to meet him.

"Your face is more magaziney in person." you say.

"I got plastic surgery," says 'Ben'. "I heard you're looking for a lawyer."

"How did you, Tony-Award Winner 'Ben Platt', know?"

"Even when the dark comes crashing through, when you need a friend to carry you . . . And when you're broken on the ground, you will find a lawyer."

"I can't find a lawyer."

"This is the point of no return."


"I mean . . . Sincerely me?"

"Thank you, 'Ben Platt'."

"Go to the courthouse. He will be waiting. Room 5 is the room where it happens. You can get divorced from Hamilton."

"Thank you... 'Ben Platt.'"

Optimistic and mildly confused, you step into the packed and LED-lined courtroom. You are shocked to find a completely full court trial about to proceed. Everyone from Group Therapy is there. It's a diner. Tony Award Winner Patti LuPone walks in. The population of the courtroom erupts into applause.

"What an icon!" Gavroche yells from the crowd.

"Before we proceed, we would like to thank the cast and company of the recently closed Waitress for letting us use their set as a courtroom," Tony Award Winner Patti LuPone says.

You are glad Waitress closed. You are a much better waitress.

"All rise for The Right Honorable, The Plant," says Tony Award Winner Patti LuPone.

"My name is Audrey," retorts the plant, as it is wheeled into the makeshift courtroom. "You may be seated."

Hamilton bursts through the door. Backlit. It's like Anatole from the Great Comet only louder and more American.

"Your Honorable Plant, I call to the stand... myself!"

No one responds.

Aaron Burr flies in (a/n with wires, like they do on Broadway), and turns to look at you expectantly.

"What is happening—" you start to say.

"Talk less, smile more: I'm your lawyer."

You hate him immediately.

He shoots Hamilton.

You love him immediately. Like, as a friend.

"What can I say except, you're welcome," says Aaron.

"You're all going to jail," the plant whispers.

Patti LuPone wins another Tony Award, just for being there.

*One dance break later*

"I hate being in jail," you say.

"Girl same," says Gavroche. "Think jail is rough? Try having no parents."

The lights dim. A jazzy tune plays. "Pop, six, squish, uh-uh, Cicero, Elle Woods."

The wall explodes in a flash of pink confetti. Glamor and rubble covers the floor.

"Who's your mamma, now? It's me. I've got the adoption papers," says a figure holding adoption papers. A spotlight shines on the figure. It's Elle Woods.

You love her immediately.

Oh shit, YOU THINK YOU'RE GAY (author's note: you are a woman).

"I'm what you want, the lawyer for you. I'll get you out of this prison that is heterosexuality. And also literally," says Elle.

"I am gay and european," you tell her.

You make out. Super gay.

Hamilton's dead body lays on the floor beside you. (Like a Broadway dead. He's not actually dead. He's a Tony-Award Losing actor. But you are divorced now.)

Gavroche climbs the pile of rubble and waves a giant pink Lesbian pride flag. Gay rights.

"Gay rights," says a figure.

"'Tony' 'Award' 'Winner' 'Ben' 'Platt'?" you question.

"Think again," 'Ben' says, taking off his mask. It's another mask. "How could you love Elle after only one interaction, but not me?"

"Erik 'The Phantom of the Opera' Lloyd-Webber!" you exclaim.

"I gave you my music, please respond."

You don't respond.

"I recorded the whole thing," Erik says.

"A Bootleg?" Elle demands, italically.

"How did you do that?" Erik asks.

"I outrank you." Elle tells him.

Elle bends and snaps the bootleg out of his hands.

"This will make a great slime tutorial for our new son, Gavroche." she tells you.

The Phantom's mask falls off from Elle's sheer lesbian power.

It's Tony-Award Winner Patti LuPone.

"Be gay, do CRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMES!" she belts, winning another Tony Award.

"I'm glad my gay and liberating misadventures are available for public consumption, and not reserved for a disaffected and wealthy elite class pushing heteronormativity and building their success off the exploitation of the working class, creating a new status quo baptized in the blood and sweat of the Proletariat," you say triumphantly.