What's your story?

He looks about seven feet tall, completely bald, black as night, as wide, powerfully built, expressionless as a wall. He is dressed all in black, with a single hoop earring. He doesn’t smile or dance; he is just there, massive and immovable. I see him and immediately I know: I have to talk to him.

It takes me a while to get him alone. Finally when I take a breather on the ledge next to the speakers, I spot him sitting by himself a few feet down. I scoot over until my leg is almost touching his. He gives me the side-eye, which makes me feel like something small and annoying in his ear.

“What’s your story?” I shout upwards and over the bass.

He is silent. Then he looks around, as if to make sure nobody is around to hear. He bends down slowly and cups his enormous, meaty hand around my ear.

“I’m from a comic book. Don’t tell anymore.”

It’s the best thing I’ve heard all night.

After closing I see him outside, in the weak gray light of dawn. He winks at me. “Time to go back in,” he says. “They need me.”