"Behold!" A man, stage left, done up like a double-breasted penguin pimple wields a rapier of comedic length and flimsy design. With as much fanfare as he can muster, he brandishes it up to the rafters where The Amazing Avian Alvin is perched, ready to nose-dive into the crowd below.
Only, he will not hit the ground. Instead he will fly. At least, that's what was advertised.
The spotlights burn on him, and casts a triptych of silhouette reliefs on the purple and yellow ceiling. I am almost too scared to watch. The tremolando of snare drum builds to a climactic and tongue-twisting pace – paradiddle-diddle paradiddle-diddle paradiddle-diddle. Just when a crescendo is reached; right when the blasting percussive claps reach a pitch so fevered it's lethal, they stop.
The rest of the world disappears, and all there is is him. He is entirety: Alpha/Omega, Lover/Enemy, Body/Soul, Flyer/Faller. Then, as if it is the most natural thing in the world, he jumps.