Warning: the following content is not suitable for all audiences
You run into a Tokyo train station, swimming against the stream of white and black; a whistle blows as you slip between the two blades into the gated freezer, barely avoiding their grasp; blasted by the blizzard, you drop to a squat, looking around in bewilderment—looking for the next enemy; but the ferry riders mimic your glance, looking wide-eyed as if you were about to shoot up the place; you try to keep your cool, but the bullet was already whizzing into motion, faster and faster, as the Shinjuku cityscape exponentially blurred to streaks of light; you tumble onto the ground and become batshit crazy, flailing around until you become a bat; the voice of god begins to speak, articulating some mada-nada you couldn’t understand; then it begins to speak with sense, saying something about the next station before—boom!; the entire carriage explodes like fireworks and rains down its missiles onto the Madison Square Garden below!
What—but that doesn’t even make sense!
Hold on, it gets better; because you survive; because before you blow up, you become like dust in the wind and scatter with the train’s corpse; but once you hit rock-bottom, onto the cobbled streets of New York, you reform back to shape; a taxi screeches to a halt next to you and swallows you whole before continuing on its merry way—
How is he in New York now?
A bullet, you see; nothing a bullet bat can’t do; but this taxi—this taxi is like titanium; it keeps your batshit ass inside as you bounce up and down the seats; the driver looks back at you through his rear-view mirror with a sinister grin, like one of those old galactic empire evil geniuses; the taxi from hell serves and dodges around the midtown traffic with the dexterity of a man on an electric skateboard; then you notice the rear-view mirror is his face, and the man driving the thing was simply a headless horse; you start banging on the windows, like a bird that doesn’t know any better; the gatekeeper only laughs at you like a maniac, swerving around like a fanatic on infernus caffeine; it smashes into a colossal wheel and you spin around and around in it, like a guinea pig on a treadmill, before the Ferris wheel flings you off into the sky, landing deep within the canyon below; upon impact with the red, stripey stones, your taxi bursts into a herd of bat-crazy bison—
So… we’re in the Grand Canyon now?
…and they charge out the ridge like a stream of bat-spiders, spreading out in every which direction until they reached the meteor crater—
So yes, we are in—
…upon which the fog starts to roll in, and you can see that the mountains across the bay is lush with maple trees—
The bay?
Trees that glitter pure verdant on the lovely Vancouver shore; but you don’t take notice, as your bison billows through the streets like a bulldozer, racking up a snowball of hockey pucks and maple syrup; you play innocent and pretend you aren’t there—that you aren’t at fault, but you can’t help but feel batshit sorry; then, as if taking pity, your sorry bison crashes into the bridge with a great heap, flinging your batshit body once more onto the pavement; but for reasons you cannot understand, you start to run again, along the edge of the great wall, stumbling once the fortification below began to crumble, and you fall down the side of the mountain into the Yellow Sea, turning your batshit arms into batshit fins as you swim along the shore, staring at the k-pop divas dancing on stage—
Are we back in the east now?
Almost done; hold on; because then—then a hail of stars start to drop from the sky, nuking the unstable waters around you and forcing you to paddle harder; you zip across the waters until you hit the shore; paparazzi swarms you as you set foot on land, asking questions about how you survived the apocalypse and whether the whales really did sing like batshit mermaids; you dodge their questions and dash once again into the streets; you chance it by running through twelve lanes of traffic, rolling over and under the cars as if you were an agent in Mission Impossible, only to realize on the tenth lane that the cars weren’t moving at all, because it was LA traffic; so you take your time on the last two lanes, strolling as a British colonel would during a salvo of shrapnel, only to be betrayed by the truck in the twelfth lane, who honked his horn so loud that it blasted you like a batshit rocket into the stars; you parley with the space station, debating with it about whether your bat wings allowed you to fly in space, before plummeting back down onto… To be continued…
He put down his glass of wine, and sat there smiling gayly at his companion, who sat perplexed. My good friend, he said, that didn’t even make any sense.
It’s not supposed to make sense, replied the storyteller. See? I don’t like to think too much about it; just enjoy the ride. I will tell you more when we meet again tomorrow.
I see. But, then, why tell this nonsense of a story if you know the audience won’t make any sense of it?
The composer smiled blissfully and replied simply: Because I can.