Dali’s Bollocks


I am in a series of adventures. They start when I am abducted from a hospital. All my memories are false. I was created a short time ago.

I am sliding down rocky paths on a hillside with friends of Gary Numan.

At the bottom, I sit on a toilet by the road, waiting to see who notices me.

I am taken to a roller derby club. I pay to be dominated by women. Inside, the space narrows, and I pull myself along on tiny hooks on the ceiling. The ladies are better at this form of locomotion.

We enter a large space. From the ceiling hang many fine threads, each ending in a hook carved in the shape if a silver letter. I don’t recognise some of the languages. One of the ladies changes her font. Her body is sharp, silver letters.

I am suspended from the ceiling. Far from feeling pain, I feel freedom. I can fly through this space suspended by hooks in my flesh.

Outside.

A man on a bench offends me. I rise into the sky and summon him, controlling him like a puppet. Others appear in the sky, challenging my actions.

The man apologises.

I find myself imprisoned. A narrow cell just wide enough to levitate vertically in. I look down. There’s a toilet but no door. I verbally repent misusing my power. A wall slides open.

I’m in a doctors office. She tests me for involuntary reflexes. I pass the test. I have none. Behind me other patients twitch, wired up to sensors.

I walk around the lab, seeing other me’s from the past being tested. I ask the doc what I’m made of. She says I have Dali’s bollocks.

I pick up a book. The cover reads “Paul Smith-1980”.

Inside is a photo story of everything that happened after my abduction.

The roller blade women, the friends of Gary Numan, all the same people.

I wonder what I should do now, now I know who and what I am.

I leave the lab. A screen appears in mid air and tells me a place to live has been supplied. It suggests buying a phone, as staring at screens others can’t see could be mistaken for madness.

I walk onto the street. I have been registered blind, so I can pretend not to see people from the past. I see buildings I recognise from another existence. In the street, my creators argue over me. One pursues me. I throw lumps if cheese at him. I have foresworn violence.

I am flying.

Pursued by cheese.

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