Charcoal Racer

The stage lights rise in muted greyscale, casting the cars in shadows. Only the racer stands illuminated, clad in a tattered jumpsuit of black and white stripes. A dark helmet drapes across his face, obscuring one eye lined thickly in charcoal. As the flagman counts down, a driving bassline throbs through the stands. The racer sways, clutching the wheel like a lover. The roar of his engine filters out as sinister poetry set to the dissonant melodies. Behind him, crude animations flicker across the screen in stuttering black and white - images of distended faces, empty cityscapes, circling vultures. The audience leans in, hypnotized by the dystopian visions swimming before them. The racer reaches his final laps, releasing a soul-shattering scream. Feedback screeches as the lights cut out. A pause, then deafening applause. The house lights rise on a sea of pale faces and black leather, already longing for more.