No one comes for them. They gather around Sykes and wait as instructed for the woman in the Russian officer's cap, but Bravo has fallen through a crack in the collective mind and so they stand there marooned while a roadie crew swarms over the stage and ash from the fireworks settles on their heads. They have been through the wringer of a world-class spectacle and need some time for their nerves to recover. Like, about six years might do it? Bravo is roasted, toasted, and ready to pop, or maybe already popping in the case of Sykes, who sits himself down on the bottom step and weeps sparklers of racy little hopeless tears. "I don't know why I'm fuckin' cryin'!" he squawks when Lodis asks. "I just am, dammit! I just am!"

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