Stevie Wonder slides onstage, croaking his hellos across Hitler’s own distorted soundsystem. He bellows Cthulu’s fury to the legion of acolytes braying below his foetid gutline, and smiles like a landlocked shark. He drags a girl onstage beside him, locking her to his waist with a fearsome grip and slobbers into her ear, his lascivious demands picked up by the mic with grotesque clarity.


Aanand, fearing for our sanity, took us up a nearby tower to stay clear of the street-level orgy of violence. To get even this far we’d had to pick our way through mobs of wall-eyed Montreal natives, shambling towards the plaza like cattle. Radio had broadcast information about this demented emissary’s proclamation, but we hadn’t expected a whole city to turn up and willingly court this psychic death. Leeches crawl over my body, falling from the skies with raindrops, fat with blood and spraying alcohol, further dulling our senses. I retreat inside, climbing down the roof hatch the wipe ichor from my limbs. While I’m down there Wonder unleashes a new assault, holding a CD player to the microphone and playing tracks from Jackson’s Number Ones on shuffle, the wail and screech of the dead King a final call from The Times Before The End. Quinns’ ears bleed.

A moment of calm: I appear to see an owl. Perched on this rooftop, staring calmly while buildings warp around it, it seems to suggest there is hope in this carnage, an escape, if only we could take flight. I approach, with due caution, eager to placate this muse, only to discover that it too has been petrified by the maelstrom below. It is an ex-owl, it is no more.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here”

We run uptown towards the mountaintop, hearing the voice of Wonder leak from bars and clubs all around us. We pause for refuge in a late night pizzeria, only for the cashier to ask if I’d been in before that evening. Were we that twisted? Had the fallout from the plaza taken us already? Were we one of them?

“Nah, s’alright man, musta been your doppleganger”

“I uh, I maybe ought to meet that guy, you know. Hah, catch him one on one, mano y mano, face myself.”

“No way man, that shit’s messed up, all quantum. Cause a singularity. That’s just fucked bro.”

“True words my friend, how right you are. Here, keep the change, just don’t follow me. You’ve seen my evil twin, God knows what comes next.”

All uses of Stevie Wonder should be considered parody.
Everything else is true.

3 thoughts on “Jazz

  1. There is an evil in that square. We know this.

    Pretty sure we need to dress up like Ghostbusters, but instead of proton packs we wear backpack-sized speakers connected to battery packs on our belts and sprint through the festival blasting out Talk Talk.

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