Cruncher Seeya extends three tentacles across the sand and attempts the heel-toe-heel for the seventeen thousandth time. The rhythm falls apart at the toe. It always falls apart at the toe. Three centuries of practice, and still the move that made one lucky traveler a legend eludes the greatest showman beneath the Dune Sea. But technique isn't everything in show business. Cruncher hauls himself toward the elaborate stage he's built on the surface, its red and purple ground shimmering under twin suns. A cane. That bounty hunter didn't have a cane, did she? Cruncher selects a gleaming prop from the collection near the stage entrance and spins it between two tentacles. The weight feels right. He taps it against the vibrant floor, once, twice, building a rhythm that doesn't require perfect footwork. When the next traveler stumbles into his arena, they won't be watching his tentacles at all. They'll be watching the cane, mesmerized, forgetting to be terrified long enough to actually answer his interview questions. The prop twirls faster. This could work. The cane's curved horns catch the light as Cruncher practices his entrance. He glides across the stage, the prop spinning in elaborate figure eights above his head. The metallic surface gleams with purple and gold accents. His reflection distorts across its polished length. A flourish here, a dramatic pause there. The cane becomes an extension of his presence, demanding attention the way his footwork never could. He strikes the stage floor with the tip. The sound echoes across the dunes. No more competing with memories of perfect heel-toe-heels. Now his guests will focus on the spectacle, relaxing just enough to forget their fear. And relaxed guests always give better interviews. Cruncher plants the cane and takes a bow to his imaginary audience in the northwest quadrant. The show just got an upgrade. But a cane alone won't create the full effect. Cruncher drags a platform table from his collection and positions it center stage. He arranges it carefully, adjusting the angle three times until the surface reflects light back toward the entrance. Perfect. His guests will arrive, see the prop spinning above the gleaming table, and their eyes will track the movement instead of his feet. He tests the routine again, sweeping the cane in wide arcs over the table's surface, letting the horns frame his questions. "Tell me about your journey," he practices, the cane punctuating each word with a tap against the table edge. The rhythm flows naturally, no complex footwork required. When fear becomes spectacle, even the most reluctant guests start talking.