Flip Flop Flying

3,338: Massive aircraft hanger

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There was this massive aircraft hanger. Really big. It looked like the shield thingy that covers the Chernobyl reactor. Inside that was a mall. No shops. Just white walls where the shop fronts would be. The escalators worked. Upstairs on the third floor was a multiplex cinema. Ten screens. You could hear a lot of talking from each of the rooms. Excited talking because, you see, these were all fans of Harry Styles. And he was going to play live. It wasn’t one of those live streams they do in some cinemas. It was more interesting than that. Slightly evil. Harry Styles would be playing inside one of these cinemas. There were armed riot police lining the corridors of the multiplex ready for the immediate aftermath of him coming on stage. Fans had bought tickets, you see, for the event. When they arrived they chose a room and sat down. When one screening room was full, that one was blocked off. This went on until all the rooms were full.

Harry came on stage in the 7th room. Not the biggest, not the smallest. As anticipated, the people in the other rooms weren’t happy. Nine rooms of disappointed people. That’s when the police moved in. They asked people to leave. A lot did just that. Others were dragged out. Why Harry’s people hadn’t foreseen this is anybody’s guess. The people in the 7th room had a jolly good time. He played some new songs, some One Direction songs. He was only onstage for about 40 minutes, but everyone was happy.

On the train leaving the hanger, everyone became aware that a contagious disease was spreading. There were no symptoms, but we all knew it was happening. We all knew we could die. But we were unable to vocalise this. We couldn’t tell people that we were contagious. People made a collective decision, through telepathy, that they would stay on the train. Contain the disease and hope it didn’t spread any further than amongst those who were already doomed.

A tiny man, a real human, no taller than a packet of cigarettes grabbed my trouser cuff. He tugged at it. He bit my ankle through my sock. Others on the train were experiencing the same thing. After we’d been bitten by the tiny people, we abandoned the containment plan and tried to get out of the train. We smashed windows and pried the doors open. We had to get back to our friends, we had to tell them about the disease. But, of course, we couldn’t vocalise this. The only way we could tell them was by giving them the disease. It was a vicious disease.

Not everyone died. Most of the people on the train did, though. I survived. I flew to Los Angeles. I wanted to get away from Europe. I saw Harry Styles with the other members of One Direction sat outside a cafe. I stopped and told Harry that I was there. He introduced me to Robbie Williams. Me and Robbie got along quite well. He liked my paintings. He had a proposal: I could live with him in his mansion. I could use the pool house as a studio. It was like the pool house in The O.C. On the last day of every month, he would come into the studio and choose one painting and that would be my rent. I could sell the rest.

And I sold the rest. Robbie’s Hollywood friends loved my paintings. I painted every day. I swam in the pool. Robbie and I played a lot of ping pong. Life was good. I had survivor’s guilt, though, and you could see it in my paintings. And that’s why they sold. People wanted to hang my guilt on their walls. I felt even more guilty. I couldn’t keep these feelings out of the paintings but the success of my paintings only made the guilt stronger, like I was profiting from the deaths of those people on the train. This extra guilt made the paintings even more successful. And on and on it went. I could afford to buy my own LA mansion, but I knew I could never leave Robbie’s. I would make an effort to do shitty paintings. I wanted it to end. While I painted them I was sure they were rubbish, but by the end I would look at them, and they were still good. They were loved. They sold. I hated my work. Everyone loved it.

And, as you may have suspected, just like season nine of Dallas, it was all a dream. Which, while true, is a shitty end to the story. But that’s how I felt when I woke up, so, y’know.

The song in my head when I woke up this morning
Hasta Que Te ConocĂ­ by Juan Gabriel

On this day
67 hours, 25 May 2007. So much of these 67 hours are still quite fresh in my head: flying from Berlin to London to Athens to London to Berlin, all in the name of watching a football match. With no sleep.

Here’s an interesting Wikipedia article
The Love Unlimited Orchestra

Self-promotion
Flip Flop Flyin’ Flip Flop Fly Ball
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Written by Craig

May 25th, 2017 at 1:32 am

Posted in Blah blah

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