Current mood: For Sabra. Dear Sabra
A red light shines from nowhere onto stuffed, dead animals, forever stuck in a righteous pose. A bear, mouth so wide that you can imagine saliva that isn’t there, stands on his hind legs, eight feet tall, claws raised above his head about to smash down upon you. But, instead of crying out in fear, maybe raising your own hands to your face, you grab a fish, stuffed to the gills, and place it beneath the bear. What once frightened, now humours.
And your friends come to join the party. Gays, feminists, handicapped, black, white, maimed, republicans, single mothers, abusive fathers, only children, musicians, comedians. For one night, all of them can participate in the royal society of the Planet Rulers. To control the actions of all species, like dolls to children. Quick, put that dog beside the cat. Put it on top of the cat. Pour hot sauce on them. Rip those feathers from that peacock. Throw it at the camel. Pick it up and throw it harder. Make it stick. For one night only, they know what it is to be at the top of the food chain, instead of at the bottom of the human chain.