The Queen o’ Clubs always felt that vibration in her chest when a big moment—a final moment—was commencing.

This was that moment.

She twirled the red & blue beams shooting out her hands effortlessly while the audience gaped, popcorn spilling on its way to their mouths.

That would pale to how they’d look after they see this—the crowner.

She twirled them round for a few mo’ beats, & then swung her arms in 1 swift motion so that the beams touched.

She was always warned that the beams shouldn’t touch.

She doesn’t listen to warnings well.

The room shakes.

The ceiling crumbles.

A flash o’ white light.

& that was how the goldfish o’ Pechera smashed capitalism.


Beam, crown, show