SEXY TRAMPOLINE by KiNo

[ CHAPTER ONE: JACK THE HITS FAST ]

Five to midnight. Neon-lassoed rooftop bar, Desert 5. Simulating Tumbleweed chic. Hollywood night curls in cowboy strokes.

FetoQueen, in a chrome-pink jacket and tight torn jeans, flips out her pocketcam on a band grinding haggard renditions of hits from an epoch that pales this one like a Pisstagram story. She points her feline lens, devouring excitement with the appetite of her typical Friday night alchemist — wide-eyed, tapping every thrill in arm’s reach.

The band finally belts a number that jumps any room.

“Hit the Road Jack” — bassline stomps like a wild horse.

The bass player clocks her cobra cam slicing the crowd, fixed on him across the spin-cycle of bodies.

She zooms in.

His stare holds.

Half-smirking, she gently bites the cigarillo piping in the clamp of her lips.

The groove snakes. 

She spins around — exhaling satisfaction.  

Dang. He stutters a note — recovers fast. 

Fast like a hitman swallowing guilt before that fatal trigger.

She lowers the camera.

Now it’s him being recorded by something else — her raw presence.

Beat drop.

She mouths the lyrics — not singing like everyone else, teasing.

“Don’tcha come back no more.”

The crowd is oblivious. The air whiffing through this rooftop isn’t.

The smell of her Davidoff mini coils tension around his strings. It might as well be the noose of destructive desire. 

* * *

SCENE 2: WILDFRAME (Stairwell Interlude)

Rust-stained emergency elevator ramp behind the club.

Graffiti ghosts, sticky echoes of spilled secrets and tongue-burnt liasons. A place to contract the lust bug.

FetoQueen descends in slow pulses. Her crocodile-skin, ankle-licking boots click like gunshots muffled in velvet waterfalls. She’s reviewing the footage through wet transmission. Refuelling comments from her many pursuers pile up like broken plates at the taverna she spins inside her buzz. Mezcal, agave, lime so fresh it catches fire with the Mexican chili gunpowder rimming. Perfect trampoline for the delicious mini cigar she lights. Gallops of her verve hit the road like Scott Walker’s Jackie. 

Her face: glowing with hissing likes in the successful social-mania screenlight. Her eyes conducting a private concert of piranha-threaded messages.

The club backdoor swings —

Bass Player enters, sweating apogee and curiosity in equal doses.

He doesn’t speak. Just hovers two steps away, suspended like a rattlesnake bracing for the stomp of killer boots.

Ding dang. She receives a text message. Having seen her in action, the photographer of her last shoot feeds her fire with the contact sheet. She responds with two hearts, then turns to the bassist, flashing him the phone with her enticing photographs.  

– I want you to write me a song for this role I’m preparing. 

An offering or a dare.

He takes the cue. Sips his drink staring. One. Two. One. Two. 

Now they’re level.

Piercing through the charged silence inflicted by the weight of the images. He says “Wow, he is a really bloody good photographer”.

– How do you know, it’s a he?

– I recognise my own gaze on beauty, thank you very much.

She is turned on by the fact that the man might be able to plough her sapiosexual fields. 

She offers him the cam — playback frozen on his face mid-note. He sees himself through her lens, pulling a musician’s silly face, sticking out his tongue!  

Touché.

He laughs out a raw gasp.

“Oh, God. Is that how I look when I’m grooving in every song?”

She shrugs —

“Not in every song! Only when you hit it.”

The tension breaks. They sync.

He pulls out a pick — places it in her palm like a pressed petal.

Before she pockets it, snaps her cam into action like a pen — signing a contract. She points it at him like a revolver 

“Our song should be called JACK THE HITS FAST, Okay?! And it better be a hit.”

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