We ask that you don’t scare the children (what few there are left) with stories or even warnings about the Evil Producer, the disembodied black entity that trumps all others in the circus of Taishomei cash grab who devours you whole but can never be satisfied, taking hotel room money bath in whatever is left of you after. Stories there are so many, and yet he was real once, circling the block after dark on a Monday night after the rain, gas stations and Gusto, even the Royal Host himself feeling hermetic.
A few fighter pilots from pizza delivery roll into action as rocket powered scooters tip off the curb and into slickened street. Passing houses, apartments, mansions, maisons, hovels there are no names for, only flags of demarcation in the form of laundry hung outside, never taken back in. How easy it would be to punch in this window and grab the handle inside, or to simply knock on a door he finds one that opens; screaming crashing chaos just mere musculature away. He's here. Have fun.