The performer places a simple but tasteful silver box on the table.  He looks about the room with slightly jerky movements of his head, as if searching for something,  saying softly, "Somewhere.  They wanted to believe it was mere horror story, or myth...more respectable that.  Myth.  But they knew It wasn't.  And It stalked.... knowing they knew. No pleasure for It if they did not.  Stalked."
   
He opens the box, withdraws a band of lovely cloth, swirls of pastel colors. Studying it for a moment, he then nods affirmatively. "Each beautiul...the two. "  He tears the band of cloth into two separate loops, displays them.  "Truly so...the both in highly individual ways. But, oh, of such splendor."  Looks about the room again as if searching, "Why else would It stalk them?"

The performer puts one of the cloth loops aside, begins tearing the other lengthwise in half, "So odd they should unite, should fear what they hoped was myth.  And It knew they feared, their fear the essence of Its joy." 

The two loops are linked.  "Who would have thought these two of such difference would be as conjoined twins in terror.  It knew and slowed Its stalking pace to prolong their misery.  Smiling hunter anticipating Its delicious kill."

The performer begins folding the linked bands into a small bundle,  "To each other ever closer they clung as would children from the Bogeyman.  No bogey being the stalker creeping ever closer, smiling ever broader, rejoicing in the triumphant moment about to come.  The two far beyond a cry of horror as It finally struck and gripped their essence."

The folded bands are tightly gripped out of sight in the performer's hand. He squeezes ever tighter while saying, "It squeezed...and squeezed...and crushed...and crushed...and finally destroyed all that they were...except oblivion."  He opens his hand.  The cloth bands have disappeared.

The performer stares at the empty hand for a few moments, hushed, "God and The Devil were no more."

A long silence, then the performer picks up the remaining band, begins to tear it.  "It creeps about the stalking thing in It's creation -- a universe expanding."  He displays the loop that has been apparently torn in half is now one huge loop.

"Growing ever larger, increasing dimensions for It's playground of savage hunt.  Its ruthless stalking of gods and demons who presume to be so grand...until they feel it drawing near.  And It smiles."

The performer places the loop over a participant's head unto the shoulders. "What hope for cosmic dust mites such as we?"

Once again he looks with subtle anxiety about the room, almost inaudible, "It stalks."

METHOD

Afghan Bands, but no torn up bedsheet, please.  Go to a department store fabric department.  Find clean tearing cloth that is a swirl of pastel colors suggesting interstellar gasses in the process of forming stars.  Plenty of astronomical photos available in books to use as color reference.

The thinness of the cloth will determine the size of your bands; you have to be able to jam the two interlocked ones into a Handkerchief Pull.  Needless to say to most, but to the few who might be novices -- continue the squeezing and crushing for a few moments after the pull has gone under your jacket.

That's it.  Oh, by the way -- It does stalk.  Sweet dreams.

Eugene Poinc.

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