the sky opened up, and seven trumpets sounded, blowing a lazy, incomplete jazz tune. from the crevice in the sky walked a man, painted in black and chain smoking infinity. lighting cheap cigarettes with lightning. the crowds milled absently in the pitted earth. waiting for him to speak. or sing. or some other pervasively stupid thing.

the man spoke in a deep nonsense accent.
"the man, has his hold in the office. he has his hold in his pocket. the terror is thick for the low men in the work place. boss man rubbing up against him in the elevator. masturbating furiously in his glass office, hooting and howling as the scared clerks walk by. suspenders were not invented for the reasons you think. neither were neckties or dress socks."

the man walked among the people as he spoke. he spoke in a font that was hard for the people to see. he would poke and prod the folk, pinching at loose skin, he would gesticulate wildly to illustrate his sermon. the people grew weary of the man. the unease of the crowd hung over the deep pits that they inhabited like a fetid cloud. the ghastly thing was under the spell of the man. rising and falling as he created changes in pressure.

"the boss man created all things to hide his reptilian features. to hide his scaly ankles and forearms. he looks like he has human hands, except for when he masturbates, he has hands then with three little claws. or four. he obeys no rules. there is no relish in him. nothing sweet or favorable. there is nothing that he prefers."

the people thought about the things they preferred and the ugliness of the man. how the black paint was cracking, and rubbing away in the folds of his ancient skin. how he looked like some stupid zebra. walking, smoking, and speaking maybe. his theme music was punchy and upbeat. the trumpets had packed away their jazzy ambling. the drums punched and the bass, in some ugly fervor. urgent but pointless all the same. sometimes he appeared to have a walking cane. ugly too, like him, and cracked in the very middle. the thing couldn't even hold his slight frame. and then sometimes the cane didn't appear.

"the workers cower under their desks, if they have them, or behind chairs, under tables. the boss man pretends not to see them as he pants and moans. like a sick dog. restless in all his skin. he drags himself on the neutered carpet. mocking, obscene display. he grabs at his dick, hideous thing, so abnormal it can only be seen in small bursts like some optical trick. pulsing, and angry and alone in likeness. he has introduced terror as his mate."

their hate for the man had matured into a fine wine. the folk splashed their feet in the growing pools of deep red. the acid ate away the black on the man's legs and feet. and his hands as he flicked them around in the puddles like a child. and his face as he pantomimed washing up before bed. he sat down in one of the deep pools and rubbed his chest and the places he could reach on his back. he lit a new cigarette and the cream paper turned red, killing the burning coal at the tip.