Across the steppes, after four long months of winter and dwindling supplies, the starving Prussians, beleaguered by aridity and conflict, trudged their final miles. Staring glazedly into the middle distance, somewhere between their bleeding, swollen feet and the unbroken horizon, the gaunt leader of the tribe choked up a mangled cry of warning.
All the shuffling stopped and in slow motion, the hooded heads lifted as one. Gasps and echoes of gasps cut through the frozen air, transfixed as if by some celestial vision. Then chaos. Despite their wounds and the wintry chill, they threw off their cloaks, frantically peeled off the layers of wool and fur, until all that clung to their broken bodies was the tiny floss of gold-lamé g-strings.
Writhing commenced. They had arrived. Cher’s 22nd final farewell tour.