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Cultivated with towels around his face, he wraps towels around his face to soak sweat and relief in, and opens the warmth with a grin to an exacting flunky. This beady, misunderstanding man's eyes are concerned, but champ, you are good, he intones with shaking eyes. “Bunny, thanks.” You give him a weak but carefully-commanding smile. B nods after a moment, to understand that moment: takes his towel, and turns off down the hall to speak into his dangling microphone to another man less than he about the inner-workings of what has been a pleasant production.
YOUR NAME, the crowd intones, letter by letter – Y – O – U, and more, and he lays his eyes back with his head and allows a rare moment of relaxation. Hands flip back through STYLED hair. The moment is his more now than most. He's a man, right now, or the very one. And why not? Others appreciate what he is trying to do; he appreciates their recognition; it is hopeful and happy.
YOUR, NAME; YOUR, NAME. Rapidly increasing. The noise slaps against the walls: black, coated with a sealant to smooth, black walls channeling your sweet name onto their surface and shitting it back at you. He stalks to the bathroom, and persons are parted as he moves. You unzip your tightened slacks, reach through plaited silk boxers and remove your penis, and begin the rewarding process of standing male urination. Both hands grip your supposed manhood, perhaps in keeping with the control of effective confidence, or just a sort of child-like glee; nevertheless the piss spits successfully against the urinal wall, then down into the gutter-hole until it ceases to be a problem. You notice a drop has faithfully returned to four hundred dollar khaki-beige khakis, and smile from indiscriminate hostility to the convention of not wearing your own urine.
You leave – you have washed your hands, yes, yes – and then you are returning. Hard floors are new floors and it feels good to him to slap against them. Imposing footsteps are the beginnings of a nasty, permanent reputation. The stage is open now, though time has not allowed itself the pretty custom of going from left to right properly: so you waited too long, and the tender enthusiasm of a full crowd near climax becomes a stale disappointment, and now disinterested and forgetful – NO, you are sticking your hand through velvet curtains and CHEEEEER these cretins wow out at near full volume: a hand has spoken, whispers dart at each other, and pressure is applied to those with the fortune of good proximity; press, you willing idiot, you philistine, glory-light shadowing dream child, you silhouette of modernity... beg for him to fulfill your prophecy.
'Number one supercop USA,' are your first words, and he is staring dead out and no laughing. You laugh at his first words: what! But this is what you are here for, a sort of cleansing, baptism by ridicule, and now, hands raising it's like a second Jesus just came on to you with his most holy leper's cure; o, prophet of roll, of better words, heal me of this split down my chest and make me new out of little pieces that you can afford to sacrifice out of scraps of unneeded flesh.
He stares out at as many eyes as he wishes to see, lit with hope and wonder and less money than they once had. You stare out at as many eyes as you wish to see. And you proceed
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