Playful Utopia – part 1

Posted on 29/03/2012

Heads up! I barely have time to duck when a fluorescent yellow frisbee zooms past my head. Further down the street a man in a grey business suit throws down his briefcase and with an athletic leap catches the frisbee before it lands on the ground. He get's to his feet and with a graceful movement throws the frisbee further down the street. After brushing the dust off of his pantaloons he picks up his suitcase and proceeds around the corner. The man in the grey business suit holds pace, looks left then right, and steps backwards into the shadow of a doorway. 'You have the merchandise?' an invisible voice asks. Without replying the man in the grey business suit opens the suitcase, revealing it's content. Two identical guns, gleam in the half-light. Medium calibre, long barrels. The hidden figure picks one up, they're fully loaded, judging by the weight of them. 'My payment?' The man in the grey business suit is here for business. A hand, dripping with water, comes out of the dark holding a plastic bag filled with what seems like hundreds of multi colored bouncing balls. The man in the grey business suit accepts the bag and takes one of the balls out. He tests the ball, bouncing it on the ground. He nods approvingly after bouncing the bouncing ball on a few different angles in the doorway. The hidden figure takes the briefcase, he's still holding one of the gun's. The man in the grey business suit freezes when he hears, out of the darkness, the gun being cocked. Repeated pumping noises fill the deserted doorway, then the dripping hand once more reveals itself from the darkness, this time holding the fluorescent pink and yellow gun, aiming it directly at the face of the man in the grey business suit. 'I'm sorry.' The man in the grey business suit splutters when the high calibre water stream hits his face. He's blown backward onto the pavement, struggling against the force of the water stream, the stream pushes him of the curb and he's spreaded across the hood of a parked car. In the fall the bag of bouncing balls is launched into the air and is ripped open. A soaked woman, in her mid fourties, comes running around the corner, armed with two Super Soakers. Without even looking me in the eye she forces one of the water-guns into my hands and, with the same movement, grabs one of the balloons dangling from the ammo-belt around her chest. The, evenly soaked, middle-aged man skidding around the corner is greeted with a water-balloon in the face and two streams of water coming from our super soakers. The man is helpless, overpowered by our superiority. He produces a deafening war-cry when a white van screeches to a halt behind us, the side-door slides open and an attack squad rushes out, armed to the teeth with water-assault gear. We take a few water balloons to the head before being thoroughly soaked by five high calibre water streams. I'm disoriented in the choas of water and pumping sounds, after a minute the chaos stops. Everyone's empty. Smiling broadly everyone looks at each other and disperses withing seconds, the van screeches off. I'm left standing alone, drenched, holding a fluorescent pink and yellow water gun.