Just after dinner time, the first artists took to the field stage. He was a skinny man with a face resembling a skull, he was Conrad Money. The audience of seven hundred or so people sat on the grass and the hard, cracked soil, just waiting to see what would happen. Conrad was ready to face such an atmosphere of hostility. He had a keyboard strapped across his chest which he started to finger a melody with whilst staring down at his own foot. A man with a bandana on his head jeered. Nevertheless, Conrad slowly started to kneel down with his face screwed in a more intense expression of concentration, sweat started to appear on his head. The melody sped up a little while he recorded it onto a usb casette linked up to the 10kw system. He then stopped playing, faced the audience and squeezed the muscles in his face again, turning a deep red. A huge magnifying glass had been rolled out from the left of the stage and now placed in front of Conrad. He was popping all of the blood vessels in his face, small droplets of blood started to appear. They seemed to shine like rubies, gently rolling down like molten gem stones. The keyboard melody meanwhile had slowly gotten louder and louder, nearly deafening everybody. Some people had started shouting silently at Conrad Money who was quivering in concentration. The sound suddenly stopped. Conrad stopped pushing and stood up, smiling. A luxurious voice could be heard. “Conrad Money everybody. Good afternoon everybody!” said Bono before beginning to sing.
As Bono tearfully dedicated his last song to the starving children living on the streets, the crowd wondered how long it would last. A small cloud slowly shrivelled into nothing, then Bono thanked the crowd. A sculpture was now rolled onto the stage, dragged by Conrad Money. The sculpture was made of gold, shimmering slightly in the heat. It was of a famous professional wrestler, posed apparently mid-grapple. The wrestler himself was backstage, cracking at his fingers. He wasn't sure what was going to happen, he had just been told to wrestle with a statue for five minutes. As he was shown behind a curtain by a short usher, he crumpled a bottle of water in his hand. “Hey, toss this in the trash would you?” he said, chucking the folded plastic to another usher. Finally, he got out onto stage and looked at the golden, scale model of him. It was pretty lifelike. But the wrestler was a pro, it didn't put him off. He didn't even care. His hands slapped around the shoulders and he started to try and push and pull at the metal body. The perfectly polished surface of the statue was slowly getting slathered in fingerprints, the real man sweating and straining. Behind him a DJ was scratching out some kind of jazz funk. The wrestler was finding it suprisingly difficult after a minute or so, not needing to pretend any more. Hot metal. Conrad Money was now reading out quotes other Wrestler's had taunted him with for the last twenty years, nearly rapping along with the funk. The DJ's dreadlocks slapped from side to side. A single tear welled up in the Wrestler's eye. The crowd meanwhile were starting to understand, nodding. By the end of the piece the Wrestler had burst into tears after staring into his gold, dead eyes.
