Run This City

Red dress.

Whole room misses half a sentence.

She doesn't stop. Doesn't look around to see who's looking.

That's how you know.

Bartender sees her coming— glass already waiting.

Security moves the rope.

Guy in her way?

Not anymore. Nobody told him.

He just— moved.

I DON'T NEED THE KEYS— I RUN THIS CITY.

DON'T NEED YOUR NAME—

YOU ALREADY KNOW ME.

LIGHTS GO GREEN

WHEN I HIT THAT STREET.

WHO RUN THIS CITY?

(She does) DAMN RIGHT!

Walks outside. Cab pulls up.

Wasn't even hers. Now it is.

Crosswalk changes. People follow.

Nobody knows why.

Woman at the corner looks at her shoes.

Guy beside her fixes his jacket.

I check mine too.

She didn't say anything.

That's the problem.

I DON'T NEED A CROWN— I RUN THIS CITY.

WHOLE ROOM TURNS

WHEN I WALK IN WITH ME.

NO ANNOUNCEMENT.

NO PERMISSION.

WHEN I MOVE— THE WHOLE DAMN ROOM CHANGES POSITION.

Red light.

She keeps walking.

Cars stop.

Now— I'm pretty sure that's not how traffic works.

(Keep up) Now we're downtown.

Windows open. Music gets louder.

Somebody on a rooftop starts playing violin.

Drums from somewhere three blocks away.

Whole city suddenly feels half a second behind her.

She turns left— everybody turns left.

She stops—

(Why'd everybody stop?) (You stopped) (Oh)

I DON'T NEED THE KEYS—

I RUN THIS CITY!

BASS IN THE STREET WHEN I WALK THROUGH WITH IT!

RED ON MY BODY!

WHOLE NIGHT WITH ME!

DON'T NEED THE CITY— THE CITY NEEDS ME!

(Traffic) MOVE. (Lights) CHANGE.

(Whole room) MAKE WAY.

(Who runs this city?)

(Do you really have to ask?)