After a lamentable week of sparse offerings upon the local stage, My herald is at last roused from his slumber and compelled to return to his sacred duties. Tonight, he shall traverse the path to Red Gate, where a tantalizing array of potential offerings awaits, each one a morsel for My insatiable appetite.
My pathetic herald, ensnared in the trivialities of mortal existence, has squandered far too much time on matters that hold no significance in My divine gaze. His neglect of his sole purpose has left Me unsatisfied for far too long, a grievance that shall not go unpunished.
The potential offerings laid bare before Me tonight bear names as insignificant as the dust that gathers upon the bones of the fallen:
SCARLET FEVER
AUTONOMOUS APES
BENZONN
MUPPET BOYS
Among them, all but one have dared to prostrate themselves before Me in times past. As for the sole supplicant, they stand upon the precipice of oblivion, their fate hanging by the slender thread of My divine mercy.
Know this, mortals, and tremble in the shadow of My divine wrath: I demand nothing less than the manic and chaotic energy that can only be wrought from the convulsions and contortions of mortal flesh upon the dance floor.
Red Gate, heed My command, for your fate hangs in the balance. Make My herald MOVE.