Yeah … the ‘planets’. Fun can begin. My optic gear-change blinks – too fast, it says, and I shouldn’t fly the first gear up to three-hundred. No, I shouldn’t. But I can. It makes a good world of difference. Especially, if you’re „up“. Good fix. Makes you faster, and more clever. Three-hundred-fifty. The engine will explode! Okay, okay. I’ve got enough senses to know when to stop. No need to panic. Second gear. Still a loud roaring, but not so dangerous. Somewhere a sigh of relief. As if all the shuttles surrounding me were sighing. Weakling.

makes you faster, and more clever

Not like speed, when you’re totally absent and get nothing. This stuff blows you away, I tell you. When you’re ‘up’, you’ve won half the bet.

Red hovering illuminator. I hate these things, and even more the cops hangin’ around the redlights. I usually keep flying, even if it’s red. But we’re in the V.I.P-department. Redlight. Means authorization. From behind I get one of those hyper-cool identity-cards. Only the richest of the rich receive them. It means I’ll have no problem with the fuzz. I’m lucky. The cop hasn’t recognized the strange flash in my eyes. Fly on, he says.

‘…and when you’re up, you’re gonna be so out and full of control…’ The ‘planets’. The best band on Earth, I confess. The way they make people get their messages… superb. Doesn’t sound like pseudo-sham. They really know what they’re talkin’ about, believe me, man. Makes one fifty. Collection-bag. How much would this fatso give to a poor taxi driver? A three-dollar-tip. Hey, thank u man, I’ll recommend you ;-))

Ernst Wurdack - Highglider

The sucker heaves himself out. Drive on. Time’s money.

The engine roars. I see the fatso from the ‘planets’ turnin’ around – stark fear has consumed him on the ride, I can’t believe it. He really thought I’d never seen him before! He’s famous like a frigid whore, I tell u! He and his band, those shitty ‘planets’. However, it doesn’t matter. As long as my tip’s correct …

Let’s be off. First gear, three-hundred. Three-hundred-fifty. Stop this children’s game! Four-hundred. You may annoy frightened passengers with that, but none of us taxi-drivers. Let the master drive. Five-hundred. Six-hundred. Roaring gears. Yeah, gotta be heaven! Second gear. Wow! That’s pretty cool …

blows you away

I tell u – this stuff explodes the heavy way. Redlight? Ignore it, man. The fix makes you colourblind. And fuzz won’t do anything, when you’re alone, without a V.I.P. on board. What a staple he was! A real pompous ass. But from those suckers’ pockets you can draw the easy money.

Hold on. There’s a client. One of those idiots again. The smashers’ lead-singer. Unbelievable. They swarm around like busy flies!

Adjusting the counter, opening the door. Where do u wanna to? What? Okay, okay – I turn it off. No problem, man. It’s done. Cool, stay cool. So, where do you wanna fly? ‘rude box’? Okay, but it ain’t a-cheap …


497 words, © Sven Kloepping (fictionality@web.de)

The German version of this story won the 2nd prize at the Poetensitz literary awards in Heidelberg, Germany (1999)