[A figure in the shape of Bradley Potato is waiting. Has been waiting- minutes or weeks or centuries; muttering heartbeat, invisible breath, radiant awareness. A striped full-body bathing suit clings to the flesh, and a knit octopus mask hides the face. Sitting at the back of a raised obsidian altar, engulfed in a metallic throne of gleaming blades, half hidden in menacing chiaroscuro.]
[The kneeling throng of billionaires are careful to keep their eyes lowered to the imposing figure, their oozing sweat saturating the air as pulsating blue-flamed braziers, more organ than stone, cast nightmarish suggestions of forgotten trauma among the reverent faithful.]
[In a back corner, an odd man-shape in a rubber rooster mask and a sloppy 'Occupy Mars' t-shit fiddles with a tangle of sparking wires and fleshy circuitry labeled 'Trump Resurrection Crucible' in gold-embossed comic sans against a glowing plate of lapis lazuli. Startled, as if suddenly noticing the crowd, it makes a final adjustment and scurries to a podium and microphone at the front of the altar.]
ROOSTER: We accumulate in this darkness, the wretched honored, sycophant scum bums & trash juicers all, to celebrate in the orgasmic pain of our filth. Bless this mess, my Lord Pope CEO...
[Trembling in ecstatic fear, Rooster looks to the octopus-masked figure, who raises a skeletal hand in casual benediction.]
ROOSTER: Amen.
SHAREHOLDERS: AMEN.
[The sound echoes as if clinging to the walls, a liquid thing that lingers and recedes, finally, despite itself.]
ROOSTER: I will endeavor to be as brief as I am unworthy. The money is bangarang and the sacrament of shame is palpable. A shame not easily buried, though our shovels be the finest, black soil most desperate for airways, a dirt passionate to suffocate in slime and worm and sand. But in the glow of Potato we are baptised forever.
OCTOPUS: [stands]
SHAREHOLERS: [stand]
OCTOPUS: [sits]
SHAREHOLDERS: [kneel]
ROOSTER: Forever & ever, Amen.
[The blue flames extinguish themselves and darkness hangs for a terrible moment, pregnant with a mischievous sickness, before the fluorescent lights click on, and the high school gymnasium is bathed in embarrassing clarity. The gathered faithful scatter in silent panic, acolyte cockroaches awoken from fever dream, crevices of deep gloom wailing their siren call.]
[Rooster returns to its corner, finding a mop and a bucket, and begins to clean up, as per the agreement with the high school janitor, as octopus mask, Lord Pope CEO, old timey swimmer in the shape of Bradley Potato, watches in ticking silence.]
