Allow me to transport you to a tale, yes, a tale as old as time, or as some historians would say, "as old as 1977". On one fateful night—a glimmering night that sparkled with all the fury of a fourth-season running disco ball—we had the delightfully bizarre happening known as the Crystal Incident.
There we have it, folks! It was another mundane sleepless night, the clouds were dancing waltz, and the moon played the role of an unreliable disco light. Just as the cranky owl was about to strike midnight, a commotion unfurled. The prison was introduced to its new warden.
This warden was the epitome of menacing charm. Standing at a towering 7-foot, his silhouette could easily be a bedsheet ghost, that is if bedsheet ghosts decided to dabble in bodybuilding and excessive protein shake consumption. Picture Bigfoot in a warden uniform, only with better hygiene and an evil glint in his eyes.
This warden, whose name continues to elude historians (he's mostly referred fondly as "Ironside"), had a strange fixation. He was bent on making the prison inmates wear headbands. Yes, you heard it right, headbands. But viewer discretion is advised. These were no ordinary sweatbands swiped from a forgotten 80s fitness VHS. These were studded with a peculiar crystal looking as mystical as unicorn tears but as ominous as a suspiciously quiet toddler.
Ironside, this witty titanic beast of a man, adorned all his prisoners with these headbands. You could mistake the scene for a twisted summer camp, where the cool kids get an uncanny, glimmering headgear. Only instead of campfires and marshmallows, it was gruel and despair, with a side of rhythmic disco beats in the background.
Why headbands? Why crystals? Was Ironside a frustrated disco drummer who had to quit his band and then run a prison because life happened? Or was he just an advocate of disco-sparkle penal reform?
Well, conspiracy theories range from Ironside being a mad scientist who believed that the crystal could control minds (Perhaps via transdimensional FM Radio?), to him being a disco maniac establishing a prison-wide Daft Punk tribute act.
Each night under the twinkling stars, strands of disco music found their way into prison cells, the sparkly headbands bobbing to the beats. The prison transformed into a bizarre discotheque— 'Penitentiary Pulsar,' where the inmates grooved in synchronized rhythm with their blingy headgears.
After a successful run of three weeks, the Crystal Incident ended one morning when the supply of crystals inexplicably ran out (or the warden's fascination pivoted to something else). Though the rhythmic jingle of disco faded, the legend lived on. The Crystal Incident, which began one unremarkable night, continued to shimmer in the annals of history.
So, that's our glittering tale of the Crystal Incident, a disco-dazzling spectacle that defined a generation, an outlandish testament to one man's passion for sparkle—indeed, a crystal-clear representation of the unforeseen whimsy of history. Who knows? Perhaps you'll find an echo of this luminous tale in your early morning mirror dance routine.