“Deploy snowboards!” shouts the Justin, and he and Ptah slam sliding into the side of the black glass pyramid. They cut their chutes away; they slalom down with pink neon in their wake. But the charcoalsuits can afford to land harder, and they’re close behind.
There’s a rosewood Martin at the bottom, plugged right into the building.
“The Justin can’t play guitar!” says the Justin, panicked. “He took pop-and-lock lessons instead!”
“Let go of pop, the Justin,” says Ptah. “Play your soul.”
The Justin closes his eyes and hits high B. The suits scream. The pyramid sings the blues.