ICE CREM.DROP THE A.
Cone stands. A doesn't.
Badge Line
A row of tiny pixel stamps marches under the cone like curbside stickers — misaligned ink, rough edges, different weights, repeating the same stubborn little bark. It reads like a chant and looks like a fence of postage. Blink and a few swap places. Same words, new scars.
Status
Log Line
THE CRIME - we dropped the A like a cone drops a scoop: public, loud, sticky.
THE ALIBI - on purpose.
The cone doesn't panic, doesn't apologize; it squares up in the red punch panel, cherry perched like a referee. If you came here for cream, you misread the poster. If you came for CREM, you're reading it right.
Set-List Entry

Swirl
Tall and cocky, stripes tight, a little wind in the paper edges.

Drip
Slow, deliberate, one bead leaning over the lip, daring gravity.
Splatter
The aftermath stamp: chunky ink stars and a smear that says the floor knows our name.
Devices & Gag
Sticker buttons sit hard-offset, like they were slapped on a sign in the rain — clicky labels torn from a zine.
An outlined meter trembles when your cursor prowls near it — no caption, only nerves.
A
Flip it. Watch it slip, bonk the cherry, skitter off. CREM remains.