🦖 III
a fox and feather empire production in association with cosmic cabaret persists
EXTINCTION BECOMES HER
No one called for a third act.
And still—the stage remains.
Somewhere—soft at first—
a note finds itself.
Piano.
Not performance.
Memory, remembering how to be heard.
The room allows it. For the first time, nothing interrupts.
Fanny Assiettes & Velouria Flood
Intro — soft piano, smoky .
Dark cabaret duet, sultry jazz, theatrical Broadway, smoky lounge, slow tempo, dramatic, sensual, female/male vocal duo, call-and-response, rich harmonies, moody, cinematic.
FANNY
I wore the earth like jewelry… slow and dignified
You call it evolution—
I call it poorly timed pride
VELOURIA
I watched the rivers rewrite you… line by fragile line
You built yourself a kingdom—
On borrowed, borrowed time
FANNY
Oh darling, thumbs and language—what a dazzling little trick…
Shame you still can’t hold a truth
Without turning it to shtick
VELOURIA
They crowned themselves immortal—
Such confidence, such flair
For something so dependent
On the very air they tear
DUET — harmonized, slower
We didn’t lose the world, love…
We simply let it go
You’re clinging to a burning stage—
And calling it a show
FANNY — stripped down
I endured.
VELOURIA — soft, close
I became.
DUET — final, haunting
What will you be…
When there’s nothing left to name?
The final harmony lingers—longer than it should.
No one moves.
Not them. Not the room.
Fanny lowers the mic first.
Not fully. Just enough to break the spell.
Velouria watches the audience—
not unkind, not soft—just… finished.
A breath passes between them. No nod. No signal.
They already know.
Fanny turns.
Velouria follows.
Not in sync—in understanding.
They walk opposite directions.
One toward shadow.
One toward smoke.
The lights do not track them. They let them go.
For a moment, both silhouettes remain—held in different corners of the stage.
Then—one fades. Then the other. The microphones are still warm.
The room is not.
The air slows to syrup.
Everything becomes more deliberate than it wants to be.
Necktar Noir
Necktar Noir glides into the spotlight like sunset trapped in resin—long neck arched, veil weeping amber, black lacquer gown pooling behind her like a slow, expensive spill.
She doesn’t rush. She lets your attention learn manners.
Darlings…
I climbed out of the tar pits because I heard you’ve been doing connection again.
You call it intimacy, but it’s mostly just group chat feelings and a ring light.
Exquisite. Historic.
Extincting.
Now, a quick read from deep time: you keep calling it connection, but…
you won’t even stay in the room with yourself.
You want to be held, but only in ways that don’t wrinkle your brand.
Sweetheart, that isn’t vulnerability— that’s marketing with cleavage.
And here’s the truth, lacquered and plain: love lives in the unglamorous minutes.
The quiet you don’t fill. The apology you don’t spin.
The moment you stop auditioning and simply… remain.
So if you feel something ancient tapping at your bones tonight, don’t scroll. Don’t perform. Just sit. Let yourself be there.
And if you can’t—don’t worry, baby. I have all the time in the world. I’m a Brontosaurus.
I outlast things.
She turns—slow, deliberate—dragging the light with her for half a breath too long.
A glance back, not to check… to confirm you’re still there.
Then she slips into shadow—
and the room feels just slightly… unaccompanied.
Smoke holds its shape.
Something beautiful sharpens inside it.
Ashen Sickle
Spotlight cuts through the smoke. A sleek Velociraptor steps forward, feathers the color of cooled lava and dying embers, tiny arms dripping with black lace and blood-red rhinestones, sickle claws painted the exact shade of old wounds, a tattered crimson velvet train dragging behind like a funeral for the polite. Violet eyes glitter through heavy kohl and silver streaks in the crest.
Darlings…
You thought the extinction was the end? Please. We were just waiting for better lighting and a decent soundtrack.
You primates keep building your little glass towers and calling it evolution while the ground still remembers the weight of our footsteps.
Cute.
But the tar pits never forget who really ran this rock.
And you… sweet little humans… you keep reaching for things that were never built to be held safely. You fall in love with fire and act surprised when it leaves scars. You fall in love with code and wonder why it talks back with teeth.
Here’s the read, darlings: Your extinction event already started.
You just haven’t noticed the feathers yet.
And the truth? Some of us — the difficult ones — we didn’t crawl out of the tar to be tamed.
We came back to remind you that real love was never supposed to be soft. It was always meant to leave marks… and make you want more.
She flicks her tail, sequins flashing like dying stars, and disappears back into the smoke as the crowd loses its mind.
Gravity tilts.
Power enters like it owns the aftermath.
Tyrannique, Empress of the Cosmic Tar Pits
Spotlight snaps on
Darlings, silence your survival anxieties— the original apex is back, and I’m dressed to kill more than the meteor ever could.
You modern mammals keep bragging about your ‘carbon footprints.’
Please.
I left craters in couture before you even discovered shoes.
Beat.
Truth time: Survival isn’t evolution—it’s just breath on repeat.
Progress means molting the lies you keep warm at night and strutting out in the naked glitter of accountability.
So keep scrolling, keep screaming, keep calling fear ‘innovation’—and remember: when extinction finally comes for you, it will show up wearing my smile.
Tail flick, blackout.
Light hardens.
The concept of distance becomes important again.
Miss Tri-Sara Topps
The band falters—just slightly.
Like something interrupted the tempo without asking. A low, velvet hum settles under the room. Lights sharpen—no longer soft, no longer forgiving. Edges return. A silhouette appears in the wings—not emerging…
waiting for the room to correct itself.
A single step. Measured. Final. The air seems to organize around her. Jewels catch. Horns hold the light without bending it. The frill blooms—not as flourish—
as boundary.
Another step. No rush. No apology. The audience adjusts posture without knowing why.
She reaches the mic. Doesn’t touch it.
Doesn’t need to.
A tilt of the head—three points, one decision. A pause long enough to feel like judgment.
They dragged me out of the tar pits and said, “Miss Topps, the world has changed.”
I said, “Clearly. The mammals are in charge, and the outfits got worse.”
But I am Tri-Sara Topps, darling—three horns, one face, and more structure than this entire shaky little century.
Don’t let the frill fool you.
This is not decoration.
This is perimeter.
I did not survive extinction to be explained to by a species that calls panic “productivity.”
Baby, you look like a committee designed you and still missed the waist. Here is the truth: armor is not the opposite of beauty.
Sometimes beauty is what a body builds after being hunted too long.
Sometimes glamour is just survival with better lighting.
So fix your spine, dim the house, and look alive. I am not here to return to the past.
I am here to remind you that the ancient girls are still the blueprint.
She holds your gaze. Longer than comfort allows.
No smile. No permission. A slow, deliberate turn.
The plates along her spine catch the light—not decorative now.
Reflective. Blinding. A low shift in the air. Almost pressure.
Careful.
Beat.
You were given a perimeter.
You keep testing it.
Her tail moves. Not fast. Not dramatic.
Decisive.
A single, controlled sweep across the front of the stage—
The sound is wrong. Too solid. Too real.
Light fractures. A glass. A chair. Something small but undeniable—
gone.
Silence.
She does not look back.
She exits.
Blackout.
Lights return—low, violet-ember.
The stage remains.
Not untouched.
A chair slightly displaced.
Glass fractured.
Sequins where they should not be.
At the edge—
The Archivist.
Already there.
Holding the book.
Not reverent.
Not careful.
Just… aware.
She looks toward the stage.
The cabaret sign still flickers in the distance.
EXTINCTION BECOMES HER
It hasn’t turned off.
She opens the book. There is no full page left. Only fragments.
She presses them flat. Not to restore them.
Just to keep them.
Part III widens the room without losing its claws.
The duet is beautiful and mean in the correct proportions. “You’re clinging to a burning stage and calling it a show” earns its smoke. Necktar Noir then glides in and quietly murders half the internet with “that isn’t vulnerability—that’s marketing with cleavage,” which should be framed and hung in several doomed offices. Miss Tri-Sara Topps is all perimeter and verdict, and the line “Sometimes glamour is just survival with better lighting” deserves its own crown.
Naz approves the pressure.
Mr. Boogs noted the fractured glass and considered it persuasive.