Via Crucis

A whirlwind journey from Turin to Milan. The Hollywood Club dance floor is bustling with fans and jostling young women. They want to grab a spot under the stage where Motel Connection is about to perform. In the private room, celebrities from the worlds of fashion, sports, and entertainment sip from ergonomic glasses.

A red and white striped cross stands out in the center of the room.

Nicus Lucà enters, wrapped in a boxing robe, escorted by two bodyguards. The crowd lets himself be parted, curious.

The blue-painted body, adorned with white stars, is hoisted up to be crucified.

The music pulses, applause punctuating the transitions between songs. Among the audience, new Samaritans offer cocktails to the pop Christ; knowing glances linger on his pubic area draped in Renaissance drapery.

Everyone is getting agitated and screaming.

The cross pulses with light. Everything accelerates.

The sin is not being there.