The lights were blinding.
Jason stood center stage, the heat of a thousand spotlights pressing down on him, the roar of the crowd washing over him like a physical force. He couldn't see their faces—just a sea of silhouettes stretching into infinity, a hundred thousand souls packed into an arena that hummed with collective energy.
He opened his mouth, and the words came easy.
"So I was at the grocery store yesterday, right? And I see this woman staring at the yogurt section like it personally offended her. I said, 'Ma'am, it's just fermented milk. It didn't kill your father.'"
Laughter erupted. Thunderous, rolling, cascading waves of it. Jason felt it in his chest, in his bones, that electric high that came from holding an entire crowd in the palm of his hand. He paced the stage, microphone loose in his grip, feeding off their energy.
