Flurakus
Vier Tage in Kopenhagen – alles wirkte irgendwie leicht. Wir haben auf einem kleinen Hotelboot geschlafen, das sanft auf dem Wasser schaukelte. Nur der Lärm der Sicherheitsfahrzeuge für den gleichzeitig stattfindenden EU-Gipfel riss uns leider immer wieder unsanft aus dem Schlaf.
They told us the park was closing for renovations. “A few weeks, maybe a month,” management said, smiling like always — too wide, too shiny. I was the guy who sold cotton candy near the Ferris wheel. Twelve years, rain or shine, I spun sugar clouds for sticky fingers and screaming kids.
Then one day, everyone just left. No official memo, no goodbye party. Gates locked. Power off. Just… silence.
An essay by Earl Tumbleweather
Well, I’ll tell you plain: I ain’t never seen a pumpkin like that before.
Been farmin’ near all my life. Planted more seeds than I’ve had hot dinners. Pumpkins come up like they always do — quiet, heavy, sittin’ still, waitin’ for harvest like honest produce oughta. But this one? This one’s different.
Long ago, when gods still played chess with planets and mortals believed in omens written in goat intestines, there was Her. The Oracle. A woman of marble skin, eternal youth, and the kind of gaze that made emperors weep into their wine.
She had The Secret. A truth so powerful it could end wars, cure greed, and possibly convince people to stop talking loudly on public transport.
But she never told.
If you’ve never screamed “MOONLIGHT MAMBO” into a hairbrush while riding a zebra statue in your pajamas, are you even alive?
Lola Lamé isn’t just a rockstar — she’s a full-blown inter-species phenomenon. And no, I haven’t been sniffing glitter glue. I’ve seen it with my own heavily eyelinered eyes.
This woman — no, this glitter-encrusted hurricane of talent — went from singing to her toaster in a forgotten corner of suburbia (Blundertown, pop. 63 bored people and one cactus named Barry) to selling out amphitheaters packed with literal wild animals. Think Coachella meets Noah’s Ark with better lighting.
Let’s rewind.