The Bad Magician hates doing lunch with a corporate beast, but there he is. The waiter goes backwards and becomes a market share. The Corporate Face devolves constantly, and will not become real. Today's Special is "Demo Graphic Soup": We are given towels and visine, and told to swim.
The cement pond is tepid pasta, then warm entrails from cold recruits, then blackness. We die in the end that cashes checks, but demand showers. Soap is alive. Numbers clack on the floor, on the ceiling. We run to escape and are given questionaires, and pencils made of dust. "How do you rate the End of Times" and "Would you recommend decay?" Hordes of shareholders assemble on the infield lawn, arthritic dances performed by managers as flood waters sink the stage in browns and greens and shimmering steam.
A shaking arm extended from a letter insists upon protocol: A policy wonk greets the blackened sun with a mission statement, a furious unveiling. The World gets up, disappointed with the collective dream. Everyone drinks coffee with an eye to the horizon, suspecting that death is late.