Get everyone moving. For science!

He needed to know.

Taking a breath, Lenny set his pen under the line from earlier, and began scribbling.

"Everyone in the general vicinity of this parking lot is secretly a part of a flash mob. Their performance will comprise of them all, naked, doing a dance number from the early 20th century."

The man put the pen down. Pulling his sleeve over his watch, he watched the second hand go by, then stared back out the window.

At first, nothing seemed different. But his eyes slid back and he took a closer look.

The people chatting on the tables were not so chatty anymore. Instead, their backs were pushed off of their seats, brows focused, eyes darting at each other almost in an invisible dance, even across tables to people he'd presume they never knew, with lingering looks. A group of high schoolers who had been giggling their way to Type&Co had paused their stroll, whispering amongst themselves as one tall girl amongst them scanned the perimeter. There was even an old, bearded man, possibly a bum, peeing in a bush, wryly looking over his shoulder as he zipped up.

Lenny almost let out an audible scoff.

Alright, now, there was no way that guy was--

"Hit it, guys and gals!"

Lenny tried to pinpoint where the voice came from, but got pitifully sidetracked. After all, the moment it came, practically everyone in his line of sight stood up (if they weren't already), straightened, and immediately -- with clearly practiced time-efficiency -- began taking off their clothes. Tanktops, skinny jeans, flip-flops, heels, sweaters, bras, briefs; everything.

Everything was coming off, in broad daylight.

Suddenly, a booming string of music blared through the air, and Lenny ducked his head under the windshield to see a trio of people, two naked women and one bare man, circled around a set of towering speakers on the roof of a Verizon store, bopping their heads, and in the women's case, tits inadvertently jiggling from the motion.

Shrieking out of the speakers was a musical standard he faintly recognized but never really knew the name of. After all, he was no music historian. What he could discern was it being one of those old American compositions you'd hear out of the era of swing and big band music, and the crowd of stripping strangers around the perimeter were suddenly converging in three large sub-groups. Their flesh were all in the open, some close enough to be touching, hip to hip. And then, seamlessly, they kicked it into gear; legs swung up, bodies were spun, knees met the ground as women were catapulted up and their legs split apart in the air, flashing pussies of all kinds of level of hairiness straight at the security cams. And, in Lenny's case, his smartphone's.

This is incredible, he thought as he filmed a dirty blonde who couldn't have been out of high school throwing up a leg in tandem with the music, hands on hips, a positively poster-ready smile on her face as she twisted side to side. Her firm tits obeyed every law of gravity imaginable, and it was all here, in a local shopping plaza, at the teeming strike of noon! And right next to her, a well-built college-aged fellow, doing the same exact dance. Balls bared, penis flying free.

Lenny couldn't believe it.

He grabbed the Book of Reality and threw it onto the front passenger seat as he started the car. There was not a sliver of doubt in his mind.

This was no book of reality.

This was magic.