A garish streak of pink in a world washed gray, He grips the wheel like he’s holding a punchline, knuckles white, teeth flashing— the kind of grin you see when the joke turns dark. His suit, loud enough to wake the dead, shouts louder than the silence outside. The windshield smears the view, as if even the night can’t bear to watch. Behind him, neon ghosts hum their tune, burning through the glass, but he’s the one running the show. A sideshow king in a busted car, driving nowhere fast. He gestures mid-sentence, wild, desperate— like he’s trying to sell you salvation on a road with no exit. You don’t trust him, but you can’t look away. The laughter’s stuck in his throat, caught between a snarl and a plea. Is he leading the parade, or the last act of a dying carnival? The spotlight flickers, his voice cracks, and for a second, you think he knows the answer.