Is it like this where you're at?

It's dark, like late-night dark. There's only pools of electric light revealing things in muted shades of color. There's a small electric current running through the atmosphere, and somehow it makes everything tinged with more attractiveness, and allure than normal. Your furniture looks more inviting, as if people should be welcomed into it, and your wardrobe is slightly more desirable, as if it would only present the best side of your physicality.

On the streets which most days might be full of darkend malice, that should be scooted through with rapid steps and downturned eyes are now a welcoming curtain of darkness that might be pulled back with a friendly and bejeweled hand, to reveal a wondrous scene in perfect focus, lush with costumes, luxuriously rich trappings, and characters that will suck you into a story that will be equal parts of the most hilarious romantic comedy, the most psychologically thrilling thriller, the most action-packed of action, the most dramatic of drama, (in only the best ways - naturally) the most educational of documentaries, and (hopefully) the most pornographic of pornos.

Yea, my friends of the Fjords...this is how it looks from the other side.

Friday is the Director, sitting in his tall Director's chair with an old-skool (a simple cone) megaphone held in his left hand, with brown calf-high riding boots, and grey houndstooth breeches that puff out around the thighs. A sportscoat of brown-and-black houndstooth checkers (the matching small size on his pants) covers a white silk shirt where the top two buttons are unbuttoned, revealing a dark blue cravat (the same color of the sky when the sun casts it's final rays over the horizon) tied around his throat.

Above his handsome and timeless face is a grey floppy newspaperboy's cap, and around him various people move about to support huge cameras, giant lights, wind machines, and others that make last minute adjustments to costumes and makeup. The actors are busy reading the lines that are about to be said, not because they need too - they've memorized them days or weeks ago - it's just they're nervous for the performance, and need something to distract themselves until they're actually doing something. Thursday appears from the shadows at Friday's elbow in a smokin' gray sharkskin suit. A few stagehands adjust the props, and scuttle off.

"This is going to be uberbueno." Thursday says.

Friday turns his head towards Thursday,

"Yer damn right."

He raises his megaphone to his lips, swiftly rakes his glance across everything, concluding it's as close to perfect as it's going to get. Then, dispensing with the three-word-cliche just speaks one simple word. It's spoken, distorted slightly through the primitive megaphone but it's a word without haste, without anger, without the trace of arrogance. Just a simple word that carries the weight that it should, when one knows everything is as it should be.

"Action."

Happy Friday