“This is crazy,” shouted Flately, as he was whirled past Alphonse.
Alphonse shouted back, but it was inaudible in the roar of the crowd, swallowed up by stamping feet, snapping fingers, a wall of trombones. Duck strutted to the microphone, bent it low and sang in a growly, demonic voice.
“Sumerian!” shouted Flately, but Alphonse was lost, like everyone else. Flately tried to force his way to the stage, but the dance pulled him back in, wheeled him here and there. He saw people with the extra-human faces of the possessed, pink-skinned, blue, extra teeth, extra limbs. “Stop!”
Duck kept singing. In the air above him the music took shape, dark yellow like the number three.
They sidled into Lincoln’s mind, bent his head and arms, lifted his knees, danced him. “No,” he gasped, and flipped through silver and red, pale yellow and green. Duck sang to him, and his voice rumbled like snowfall. Alphonse went past, and on his head was a top hat, and his lips were peeled back from teeth large as tombstones. He was laughing.
Flately fought but went under. On the stage Duck finished his song and the music dropped onto the stage, shook itself, and climbed the red curtains.