Dating : A full jar of hot mustard

Zigzagging through the streets, snapping my fingers along to jams on the stereo, not in a hurry to be anywhere except where I already am, moving with the moment feeling jazzy so much that I bubble over on the stove, spilling some of my good tasting medicinal soup on the floor.

Pressing the freak-burner button for the third time that day has the effect of blasting me back in the seat as the dragster tears a hole in the road going wherever it is going faster than before, powered on antimatter (in this case, the absence of awareness) with an inability to relax on the part of the pilot. That’s right, now I’m in a traffic jam.

Well, stuff the pillow: I cut out of the queue and circle around so that the sweet and sour tofu grill is twenty meters out directly facing the line of cars that are barely moving. Going to need to knock one car out of the queue to get through, the one car being a convertible (cut in half) kiwi fruit with black cherries for wheels. I rev up the curry powered V-16, slot it into first and squash the fig. There is a loud bang and a heavy jarring up my spine but I don’t break my back. I had spun-out one-eighty, but made it through. With the dust settled, I observe that the kiwi fruit has rolled on its side in the ditch, spilling its four occupants in their fine clothes (dressed up for race day, the picnic races, the cool blue air at the track located at the base of the hills) into the rich top soil in this fertile land, we’re out in the country, two hundred miles from the nearest city.

I cut across a shallow ditch and take off up the paddock, got the liquorice rear wheels spinning ferociously across the grass sending clods of earth flying as I pull on my driving goggles and wave goodbye; now gone in reverse through the camera lens to the other side from spun back out into a new scene.

. . . Slipped on a homemade midnight blue balaclava with green stitching around the eye holes and an anarchy symbol sewn on the back — I fire a laser pulse-rifle made manifest from the future, shot it into the ceiling squeezed off a single neutron unit (a full jar of hot mustard) that tears through the roof, slices a white line into the sky and gone into orbit.

From the ceiling rains down biscuit size pieces of plaster. One much larger chunk landing directly on top of my flight deck: I stagger backwards seeing a vision of two trillion stars through the panoramic portal at light speed before cosmic space mist rushes in obscuring the scene. I fall down on the floor. There is laughter from the customers. They wonder, is this some kind of theatrical event? And within that wondering, they wonder, Is he improvising? Because it isn’t in the script that they had studied before getting down here to do what they are doing, not that it would have been, because I’m making it up as I go. I’m acting naturally. According to an established set of contrivances. Also, I have no free will. All behaviour and action is ruled by cosmic randomness. Please elaborate. Indeed, the next draft will break down this puzzle in finer detail. But it being an endless enquiry, each layer yielding another and yet another in an endless maze of mirrors. How many sand grains are on all of the beaches that have ever been and will ever be? Also including metaphysical sand grains, and other kinds of sand grains, ones that might have been, that at least at one point appeared to have had all the potential of becoming, but that never were, and that wouldn’t be; nobody knows why or remembers anything. No-one knows their names.

(From the lump of plaster breaking my rhythm) I stand up, stagger sideways, but right myself and am able to shake it off.

I take a run-up and go airborne crashing candy first through the brittle toffee window of the teller’s booth landing side-on on the other side. Wielding a crowbar made from foam painted to look like iron and heavy as hell, I am full-tilt bionic the way I bust open the safe, splitting the steel door clean-off at the hinges. I fill a clown-faced cake tin with bubble-gum while pulling several awkward faces from different angles for the camera, then several more, making sure to give them enough to choose from when cutting the flick together later, you could say it is 1982. With the tin full up and busting out I press on the lid, sit on it, walk around the end of the counter and kick open the cardboard door, cross the floor to the revolving wheelhouse which structure the carpenters have improvised on top of a decommissioned roulette wheel. I spin through and exit on the outside.

The road rocket is a groove machine. I peel the mandarin for a fast getaway, see you when I see you.