Perry shifted quietly, when beckoned by the receptionist to follow her perfume to the conference room. It was only 8:40 am on the 8th of November, 2022. His appointment was not for another 10 minutes, which had left him with the feeling of being unprepared, and his stomach bloated and queasy. Perry was 6’4 and weighed well over 300 lbs, and when he was nervous, he had a tendency to waddle, to slink even, which often resulted in floors being nicked and walls being scuffed. Sam Prankman-Freed awaited around the corner. He had been up for days and his sunken eyes and unkempt hair reflected a man who was lagging behind the most updated version of reality. FTWrex had been a beam of light returning to the stars and now it was a superhero falling, without the aid of wings or a cape. In the conference room was a microphone and a top hat. Perry entered alone and instinctively nudged the door shut. He was not used to an audience, and the closed confines gave him just enough courage to clear his throat and begin to wail-high pitched and shrill. Sam edged towards the microphone, but both knew it was not needed. Lowering his voice until the sounds were pained and guttural, Sam grabbed Perry and they wrapped their bodies together, their blending serenade propelling their collective feet and arms like a bright-eyed child emptying water from their small, plastic pale. They quickstepped, then they tapped and finally foxtrotted from the windows, around the table, gliding above the leather tops of the chairs. And then the door crashed open, swinging so hard, the hinges pulled halfway from the frame. A voice bellowed, “you had your five minutes.” Sam stood still and held out his wrists until the man entered, picked up his hat, and inside the fading crescendo, Sam was cuffed. The ingenuity of his scheme had not lent itself to the freedoms of what maturity had sought. Money, no matter how it was earned, did not equate to the favored stage of one’s being. For Sam, the best of him would forever remain in the past, and on the rare occasion that its shine was passing close, the source’s burst was always fleeting. Sam walked quietly with the stuffed green shell under his right arm and hoped that arguments for incarcerating his childhood would be proven baseless, and that in 25 years, Perry would be waiting, ready to teach him to waltz.