There had been too many dry days and the people were going mad.
You see, they expected any day to find themselves damp and grumpy, but instead The Sun! The Sun! The Sun!
The sky was a remarkable blue every morning.
What is this? they asked each other. But when will it rain? Isn't this wierd? When will it rain? 'posed to be nice through the weekend. BUT WHEN WILL IT RAIN?
On the friday following The Death of Our Brother, the citizens finally decided to lose it.
Drunkenness of all kinds prevailed.
Fire gatherings sprung up on every corner, outside
grocery stores and apartment houses.
Girls in ridiculously short skirts hopped from
massive trucks to drink themselves sick.
Everyone hurried eagerly to their next debauchery.
(Others observed with binoculars, exhausted by the unusual dryness and static energy building up in the air.)
The people went to The Hill and They Partied.
Faith and temperance went out the window, but there was a sweetness and chatty spontaneity that lingered in each interaction. Huh.
At least until it turned ugly, as it often did.
As the night cooled into early early morning, the people drifted towards their homes
and waited to see the Sun again.