Kthaahthikha

I'm come-up with a nifty concept for a film shot in first-person perspective, where the character is an amnesiac who is never named and never recovers their memory, and whose age and gender is never specified. I think it'd make an interesting film where the viewer is the character, like a videogame. I had this idea because I was on my computer, supposedly doing homework but in fact watching the video for "Smack My Bitch Up", by the Prodigy.

Whenever I'm on the computer, doing homework that is frighteningly-close to being due, I start to get the urge to remix old Propellerheads songs and Aeon Flux. Now, an audio stripper is always a great device, not to mention a great name for a guitar-rock band, so all I have to do is conduct a number of felonious activities, thus aquiring Propellerheads recordings and Aeon Flux mpg files (because finding a decent AVI converter to burn with is hell). Of course, being me, this generally involves hopping the midnight flight to the United Kingdom to try and steal the masters from a vault deep beneath Will White's seven-storey quartz-and-steel behemoth that he sarcastically referred to as a "mansion" the last time he kicked me off of his grounds (and when I say "kicked", I of course mean "pursued with a flick-razor"; It is a little-known fact, but part of the deal to let the Wachowski brothers use Spybreak in the lobby scene of the first Matrix film meant allowing White to don an overcoat and extensive facial prosthesis and film the entire scene as Keanu's stunt-double, using convicted rapists and media spin-doctors as the stand-ins for the guards. He did this without the aid of special effects or a coscience, and my aluminium shin is in an excellent position to vouch for his martial prowess).

So naturally, I called in a few favours from a friend of mine. His name was "Didgets" Chafer and he was a former military scientist gone slightly madder. It was he who helped me to construct the elaborate spiderweb of iron, plastic, copper-wiring and half-empty bottles of 200-proof dark rum with which I intended to attempt my latest raid upon the towering fortress. It was a pretty neat vehicle. It had wings. Plus legs - and we all know how awesome a vehicle with legs is (unless it's an AT-AT - the designers of which, quite frankly, should be keel-hauled for overlooking such an obvious flaw in structural defense), so I was set.

I sat smoking a cigarette on the suede-upholstered divan, flicking the ash ostentatiously into the wind. It drifted on the warm breeze and I watched, delighted, as it tumbled down through the open mouth of the flashpan and I realised with a gasp that I had failed to fasten my seatbelt. I had only a few milliseconds to react before I the vehicle exploded into the sky, leaving me soaring on a carefully-plotted arc trajectory that would send me shattering through the plate-glass dome of White Hall and crushing through eight levels to land bobbing with a smug grin in the 200-meter Roman-style evian-filled bath in which White was known to keep his school of Patagonian alpine amphibious marmosets, and by which he would no doubt be lounging, sipping tea.

Using abilities that I had garnered from an ancient Bhutanese monk, I slowed my perception of time to a speed roughly equivalent with that of a Galapagos tortoise travelling at lightspeed in REM. Silently I thanked Abo Gregorio, whipping-out my pen to construct a hasty last-will-and-testament scrawled in an ancient lemurian cypher on the inner side of my left arm. As I finished, the plate glass of the sundome swam up from below me like a curious shark, and all I could think of as my titanium-frame open cockpit prepared to penetrate the window like a poorly-constructed prophylactic, the wind howling, the air whistling and the breeze murmuring gently through my hair was this:

"Why didn't I just fasten my seatbelt?"

Seriously, why not? Frankly, I deserved to die.