You gesture grandly and the officers leap to attention. A crowd of curious bank tellers has gathered, and settles in the grass nearby to watch. You can’t quite remember how West Side Story starts, so you decide to just have the cops prance gracefully about the parking lot performing various tricks while “Maria” blares from unseen speakers. This results in a light smattering of confused applause from the crowd. A Calypso version of “Officer Kropkey” begins to play. The cops sashay towards one another while yowling and pawing the air in front of them like playful cats. When the two lines meet, the officers buckle and form an amazing spiraling shape, raising their arms to the sky as they weave and swoosh in a dizzying kaleidoscope of majesty.
“They are in fact basking in the glorious love of the sun god Ra,” you explain helpfully to the crowd, “which is represented here by the disco ball blazing orange above their bobbing heads.” Upon hearing this, a number of employees nod emphatically.
Then, like a bolt of lightning heaved by the hand of mighty Thor himself, the first electric notes of “When You’re a Jet” crackle through the air. Raucous cheers erupt from all around. One poor woman faints dead away and is dragged out of the crowd by a pair of primordial dwarves you’ve prepared for just such an occasion. “Never fear folks.” You chuckle, “All part of the act.”
And the dancers dance.
Women sprout beauteous blood-soaked wings comprised solely of love and harmony. Hearty strongmen weep tears of purest love and ecstasy, growing into old men in mere moments, and then shrinking quickly into infants, who lay there squirming in the grass; their sagging diapers soiled beyond comprehension.
When the curtain finally falls there isn’t a dry eye in the house. You’ve given the performance of your life, and you die there in the grass surrounded by those you’ve grown to know so very well, and love so very deeply.
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