He had taken a bad hit of Disco, and laying there under the moon, which looked like an off-kilter mirrorball, and he wondered if he had any Blues to bring him down. What a fucking trip, a bad one at that. He’d ended up here because he had heard that Berry Malodorous was in town and he wanted to engage in a dance off with the man. It had been a mistake.
Fagel Bollard crapped out on the dance floor – for that night, for some reason he was like the anti-Travolta. His temperature suggested dysentery rather than Saturday Night Fever and he was barely Staying Alive.
Berry sent him a condolences card stapled to a Barry Manilow record.
Where was he going to go now? He wasn’t sure. Would this be his last dance off? Surely not. He had heard that the coming week was going to have a dance marathon styled after the Fonda movie, They Shoot Horses,Don’t They? He would got to that and use it to build up his stamina. Then he’d turn up at The Battle Weapon Primer to dance to the latest white labels by The New Chemical Brothers.
One day soon he would be ready to face Berry again, and on that day, he would dance like his feet were on fire.