He had forgotten who he was, which was kind of incredible because relative to the mundane world and the cotton on khaki life he embodied at this scale, who he was a 6 story OLED screen screaming neon gogo dancers atop the still explosive embers of a suburbia. But it always went this way when it didn’t go the other ways when he wasn’t Jerry C from day one, when life marked him apart from the rest in monochromatic contrast.
Shock and awe had quivered and awwwww’d into something that inspired thirst instead of lust. To the unenlightened eye there was no difference, but in most realities it was demarcated at the line between screaming and scheming. Chaos had been so shrugged aside for so long by the Princes of Peace, but without new, without the promise of pizzazz, entropy had taken hold and it was determined to eat itself free from itself from the inside out.
There may not be anything he could do about it, but en route to a parade of ambulances, firemen, bank tellers, insurance adjusters, brass-less marching bands, brand mascot balloons, and dozens upon dozens of people waving while wearing blazers, with 1700 lbs of fireworks, a harpsichord, the cast of an underground production of the year 1982, and a fully analog soundsystem strapped to the roof of a bus wasn’t going to be the time he started to worry about it. If nothing else it promised to be interesting, which always contained the potential for a start.
