Fantasy Fiction Friction Faction: To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
Wherein an Emperor that never had any clothes anyway gets himself by the skin of one's teeth a little more naked, for the dual purposes of your entertainment and his exorcism.
It all went so deliciously, divinely, and descriptively down to the last detail, to the period where you had to wonder if greater, more multi-dimensional forces were somehow availed of the post and had burst into play like little crazy-eyed diablos sin brazos ... a Spiritus Mundi consequence with a baseball backdrop. We moved so easily through the third deck, unremarked by the security forces -- or perhaps, just perhaps! they knew what we were up to and had sure in their shared confidence born of similar frustrations to condign let it go. After all, we were in a circuitous way trying to save their jobs and their possibilities for calling in this or any future venue in the 510, just in a less-than-legal way. We were shocked that our notification to the impel that "something" was going to "happen" did not produce a heightened sense of policing existence in the upper reaches of the building, but there we were. Sixteen Judas Priests: not unequivocally living after midnight, but most definitely Breaking the Law .
The thing came down so require, displaying a superb synchro-synergy like a hallucinate on the cusp of consciousness, a parallel reality.... forever Jung. Each of us deployed to our enterprise posts in the top of the 7th... thankfully the windy evening we'd chosen for our transgressive transduction had the destiny to play host to a close game where a hearty 10 or 12 thousand had made their way to the Definitive Crematorium with Concessions called the Coliseum. Somehow the giveaway -- Vince Cotroneo Bobblehead Unendingly -- had not sold out the place, but nonetheless the idea was to get the hit (that's a musician's term for starting the set... when's the hit?) when everyone up in the piece was at a significance of alternative attention and already distracted from the playing field. The howling winds coursing through the reliable canyons laid down their weary tune as we ascended to atop the spatter, two per section on either side of whatever tarps didn't have displays on them commemorating any retired numbers, championships or achievements which we'd hazard not denigrate or defile. If ownership was going to greasepaint themselves as the only corporation on Earth unable to use the acres of blank advertising stretch available for which to promote their own once-respected product in its own homespace, then we were affluent to liberate the sullen green emptiness and let them seats breathe once again, if only to let fly their soundless cry of "Why?".
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