Elon steels himself. He can hear the cheering crowd from the side stage. They’re ravenous. They need him, their hero, their god. On any other day, he would want nothing more than to burst onto that stage. To speak to their hearts and minds. To sway them. And through their love grow ever more powerful.
But not tonight.
Elon had procrastinated writing this speech until the night before, it was supposed to be something about robots or some other dumb shit like that. Then he blew off writing that night because Stephen Seagal and Logan Paul had asked him to go on their podcast. Then he drank a couple of the new alcohol-infused Prime energy and had woken up in the bathroom of an Arby’s.
After making the rather traumatized Arby’s workers sign NDA’s, Elon trudged to the convention center. The last he remembered, his cybertruck was lying in a ditch by a Wafflehouse. His head was pounding so fervently that he completely gave up on trying to make a speech.
So, there he was. A few feet from the spotlight with nothing but his distended gut and a sweet leather jacket to save him.
Think, Elon, he thought to himself, you have convinced engineers to work 18-hour shifts for minimum wage, you should be able to make a speech to these idiots. The music starts to play, and Elon remembers that was his cue. An announcer calls his name on the microphone.
His first foot hits the stage and the crowd goes berserk. Elon’s mind goes blank.
His body reacts instead.
Elon starts dancing in front of the crowd. They scream harder.
He does the macarena before them. The wooden floor vibrates with the crowd’s vocal glee. They’re glorious king: dancing for their amusement.
The music starts to fade, queuing the start of the panel’s next segment. Elon panics. He makes eye contact with the audio engineer mouthing, “If you cut the music I will murder you.”
The music continues.
Elon jumps onto the floor to do the worm. He has never done the worm, but how hard can it be? He is unsuccessful. The crowd cheers anyway. He climbs back onto his feet and performs a quick Ickey shuffle. The crowd is unfamiliar with the 80’s touchdown celebration. Elon dabs. The place goes fucking nuts.
Some stupid journalist starts dancing with him. Elon remembers he was supposed to be interviewed by this guy. He attempts to dance away from him. The journalist tangos around him, lobbing questions in between ragged breaths. Elon makes a gesture to security.
The journalist is violently danced off the stage.
Elon’s starting to get tired too, and he figures enough time, and entertainment has been given to the crowds. Time to go home. He wonders how he can gracefully end the debate.
I need something big he thinks to himself, that’s what she said, he thinks again. Elon grins at his amazing joke.
An idea comes to him just as he finishes the Dougie. He waits for the song to reach its zenith before he strikes.
The bass drops, and so does Elon: falling to the ground into a victorious split. He grins as he falls, let’s give them something to remember.
Immediately Elon realizes something has gone terribly wrong. Gasps echo through the hall as he crumples to the ground, mewling like a newborn kitten.
“Help me,” he whispers to a man with a chinstrap beard in the front row, “help me.”
The man turns away, tears in his eyes.
Shame washes through Elon.
A security guard grabs Elon’s legs to drag him off the stage.
“NO!” Elon gasps, “I must do this myself.”
Elon begins to army-crawl away. Wincing as he scrapes his torn groin across the wooden stage. He looks over his shoulder at his fans. They stare silently back.
He crawls onward.
Elon assumes the crowd has left him to his misery. They’ve seen through his extremely convincing “cool guy” act. A sound echoes through the hall. Someone was clapping.
Others pick up the gesture; soon the hall is filled with clapping. Sarcastically mocking his pain, Elon is sure.
Elon crawls onward.
Whoops and cheers follow him. The crowd is even louder than during his dance routine. Elon is confused. Could the cheers be genuine?
Elon crawls onward.
The stage shakes violently, slowing Elon’s crawl even more. But now, Elon is strengthened by the cheers. He has gained their respect again, not through his technology, or even his Jacket, but through his determination.
They begin chanting his name, “ELON, ELON, ELON!”
A tear traces down Elon’s face, equal parts pain and joy.
He crawls off stage.
Adam Rimland's Portfolio 