Wide establishing shot looking up a busy city street at golden-hour, warm amber and tangerine light washing the entire scene. In the midground, Estephen sprints forward with one boot on and one boot in hand, scales blazing neon pink and cyan, tail flinging a lampshade through the air behind him. Fillbert runs alongside in the foreground, acorn-cap hat askew, clipboard clutched to his chest, wooden walking stick tucked under one arm, tiny legs a blur. Tall buildings glow copper in the background, a neon concert marquee glittering far down the block spelling out 'THE POGUES — TONIGHT.' One pigeon on a fire escape wears a tiny pair of noise-canceling headphones.
Our Path

Estephen and the Wildest Gig

The tickets are real. You are holding them. The Pogues — TONIGHT. Estephen's scales erupt into full neon blaze: pink, cyan, green, all at once, cycling so fast he looks like a disco ball in cowboy boots. His long tail whips a lampshade clean off the table. Oops. The venue is six blocks away and the doors open in forty-five minutes, and he has not found his other boot yet. "PER MY RESEARCH," Fillbert announces from the doorway, "the average concert-goer arrives twenty-two minutes before showtime." He is holding a clipboard. He is a worm. He has a clipboard. You find the boot under the couch. One heroic hop. Laces flying. You and Fillbert are out the door and moving before the lampshade even hits the floor. The city smells like warm pretzels and possibility. Somewhere ahead, a distant guitar chord floats over the rooftops. Your heart does a drum solo.