Rocky outcropping. An ebony-black, shining monolith stands, emitting the distorted strains of Ligeti’s “Atmospheres.”
Monolith: Eeeeeee…eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
The sound draws a tribe of protohumans. They leap up and down, shrieking.
Protohumans: Ooooooo! Oooooooooooooooo!
Monolith: Eeeeeeeee! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Slowly, slowly, they edge closer.
Monolith: Eeeeeeeee! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
“Moonwatcher” the tribe leader, gets closest of all. He tentatively extends his hand. Almost touching it. The monolith gets louder…
Monolith: Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
With the timeless gesture of every dude who's ever manhandled a TV on the fritz, Moonwatcher whacks the monolith with the back of his hairy hand.
The monolith shuts up.
Moonwatcher snorts.
The protohumans return to their caves.
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