“Don’t be fooled, nothing to do with practice, they’re new-borns, it’s in their genes,” a prisoner utters, seeing his fascinated companions caught in some hypnotic trance at the perfectly synchronised dance.
But then, the dancers turn to display their large shoulders to the audience, tensing their muscles and stretching them until two vertical slits open on each shoulder and metallic silver wings gradually unfold and deploy, each wingspan reaching at least over two of their dancing comrades on each side. The crowd cheers, the prisoners are transfixed.
“FLY my friends, FLY!” Colonel Loga calls as the dancers, using their podiums, lift in turn to fly above the audience, their wings flapping elegantly at the beat of the drums, under the command of their golden-pink leader. They rise in a vortex until splitting and spreading high above the arena in swarms, creating patterns instantly recognisable: Colonel Loga’s face, Labaguette’s face, an elusive River fading in the distance, the words “Heroes” appearing at regular intervals.
“Why?” the King asks, “if they can’t fly?”
“Beauteous evil,” the Captain remarks, “nice and useless. Colonel Loga is frustrated and we will pay the price for it.”
“There’s always Labaguette,” the King says. Just then, Labaguette lands on Captain Traumatic’s shoulder.
From afar, the glare in Colonel Loga’s eyes, not missing a beat, attempts to burn some hole into the chore of his saviour pet’s heart.
“STOOOOOOP! STOOOOOOP!” he thunders, interrupting the performance in its track, one line of dancing policemen stopping so abruptly that wings clash, interlock and dancers fall to the ground, crashing as the audience stands humming in disapproval and forming ‘zeros’ with their thumbs and indexes.
To be continued…