Chris fills a supermarket bag with various boozes. James
pisses on the back fence. Pete leads you to the dining room. You make confused
noise.
A Persian rug lays beneath a table of thick burgundy
wood. Pete and James lift the table whilst Chris and yourself drag the rug into
the hallway - or, rather, you pull the rug without friction. The rug floats
thirty centimetres above the floor and slowly rises.
Chris: 'All aboard the Royal Flying Dinner Service.'
You fall forward onto the rug. You are on all fours,
halfway between floor and ceiling. The supermarket blag clinks between your
hands and knees and Chris scrambles up. He stands, pushing on ceiling with left
hand and helping lift Pete up with right.
James holds the door open. Chris sits cross-legged at the
helm and the rug accelerates forward. Your shoulder hits the door frame and you
go 'cunt'. The screen door slams shut. You are above rooftops and James dangles
off the rug's side.
Pete: 'I'm just saying. There's fishing, and then there's
trawling.'
You: 'Oh shit oh shit ohhhh shit.'
James: 'Yeah, yeah.'
Pete helps him climb up. The four of you crawl around
until seating is organised single column and all cross-legged. The rug zigzags
above the suburb. You sip whiskey whenever you get nervous.
'Oi! Give that back!'
'Stop leaving it outside!'
Frank runs a pushbike on a suburban pathway down on your
left, a woman in pursuit and catching up. Chris u-turns the rug and you slug
whiskey. Swooping down and levelling off at last second, sidling along Frank.
James lobs a beer to the woman:
'Sorry about him. He's had a few.'
The bottle shatters on cement. Pete grabs him under one
arm and your grab the other, both lift him onto the getaway vehicle. Frank
tries to bring the bike but it lands in a tree.
You garnish with:
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