Three hours shut up in that Porta-potty, just me and this chunk of dry ice, and the place has turned into a meat locker. The halter top and short-shorts don't help, but they're key elements of the plan. How long before some festival official decides to investigate that "Out of Order" sign on the door? I should have used more official looking tape. Is there really enough ventilation in here to keep me from dying of CO2 poisoning? I've read dry ice can do that. When the moment comes, will I lose my nerve?
I keep rotating the bottles and wondering if this can work. I'm focusing on that sweet sweet moment and then I hear it; the echoey voice: "Ladies and Gentlemen; Jim Morrison and the Doors!" I pick up my prize; glacier-cold and sprint up the long dirt aisle to the stage.
The roar of the endless crowd ripples over me, then it begins to play out just as I knew it would. A huge bouncer runs to grab me. I stop. I pose extra-cute and hold out my treasure. "Last cold six pack in the place. It's yours if I can stand in front. Pretty please?"