open to everyone. assume connections. or don't. saint is too bedevilled by artistic differences and advertisements for $500 xylophone tuners to care.
saint is aware of his assets. his terms, his conditions, how and why they are continuously rented to sheds made of subtextual shreds by his sisters. as evidenced by the dare program’s generational failures set to crimson brush fonts, however, awareness is bootless if not accompanied by action. so he has taken action, taken the financial x-intercept of his undefined wallet and pushed the slope to negative infinity with his first purchased instrument. in the understandable yet disappointing absence of a mission more challenging than not getting in the way of anyone else's missions, he has taken leave on the basis of mental health. during this leave, which has lasted a handful more hours than intended given that the one with hands holding the hours was one of the three hecatoncheires, he has done anything but become more mentally healthy. instead, he has bought a xylophone attached to a fanny pack, a metronome, a little league cap with the lettering of the dare program and a stench that suggests no action was taken there, either, and a tragic sort of rainbow recorder. and then he bumps into someone who makes him spit the recorder into the fanny pack portion of the xylophone. someone fated to be his first fatality, he decides, from the sheer brilliance of his latest branding scheme.
“i need you.” coming on with the strength of a malnourished feather, there, saint. do not merely grab their attention. seize it until cognitive muscles burst, macerate it with a voice modulated for the lecture hall, sip it with a smile worthy of a cerberus spokesperson. he does not make eye contact, of course. the limit does exist to that function.
“this is my theme song. rights will sell for billions of dollars. i will get a voluptuously figured–” he chokes on his own words. mirth or la muerte? audience interpretation is appreciated. “sorry. my sister airdropped me these manifestations on the subway. how did this go again? red, blue, orange, yellow…”
in a key yet to be acknowledged by any voice in the history of music, he taps on the xylophone and belts the following: “agent billiard is your friend. agent billiard will make bad guys meet their end. not to say bad people cannot include women. bad people is who agent billiard will apprehend. agent billiard does not condescend. agent billiard can advise you on stock dividends.”
a moment of silence, the purpose of which is undecided. saint clears his throat. "thoughts?"