Improv in Asda

I’m hanging around in my room which is on the top floor of the hotel complex owned by my father. It’s a fashionable place, very dark but sleek interiors, hints of blue around the hidden lighting in the ceilings – more like some futuristic space-ship than a hotel, except for the blue carpet. I’m packing a rucksack on my bed. There’s loud music coming through the floor from the club/bar below.

Two girls are walking down the corridor before me dressed for clubbing. They walk straight past the ‘Private’ sign on my open glass door before realising they’re in the wrong place. They apologise and go out again, turn left and go down the stairs.

There’s a boxing match in the bar this evening which I intend to avoid – I’m planning to go out instead. I hear gunshots being fired, three or four, which must be in the bar. I go down the backstairs (rucksack over my shoulder). Through the circular safety-glass window I can see the shooter, so I open the door and shoot him twice, in the head and chest. Then I leave.

~~~~~~~~~~~

I’m cruising around Burton with Louis at the wheel. We end up in the Asda car park, just listening to some tunes. Then one of the Chinese gangs turns up in their flashy and noisy cars, so we decide to leave, quickly. We go to Mr Chang’s – the manager of Asda, who lives pretty much on site in a nice semi-detached house, attached to the supermarket itself, although it looks like it’s just on a nice suburban street with a lawn and its own tiny road.

Mr Chang and his wife are delighted to see us, and we’re welcomed with open arms. We’re soon sitting in the hall drinking Tsing-Tao beer and fiddling with our cool mini-computers (like PSPs crossed with Star Trek datapads).

Our peace is disturbed by the sound of the noisy cars outside again, and Mr Chang turns pale. He says he has to face them. He tells us there’s going to be a challenge or a contest, and asks us if we’d like to take part. I ask what kind of contest, Mr Chang says it’s an improvisation competition; you have to keep talking no matter what. I lose interest; too easy!

He goes outside to join the ring of people standing in the Asda car park. They’re all members of rival improv groups; I recognise a couple of them and shrink further into the house. I can still see them through the open door as they begin the game, some talking, others chanting rhymes like:

“Look at Tommy Tucker, the tubby little fucker,
You grab his ear and I’ll take the other,
If we pull hard enough he’ll split down the middle,
And splash all his guts into a great big puddle. “

(It’s the only one I remember and in the dream the meter somehow worked)

This goes on for ages and I doze off. I wake up in the guest bedroom in a sleeping bag, Louis is just waking up as well. I realise I’ve left my computer on all night and am panicking about it for some reason. Louis laughs that it’ll cost me a fortune, but I try (unsuccessfully) to explain that I’m not on pay-as-you-go access. I’m trying to get to a particular site but the keys are mixed up or cross-wired because I just can’t type properly. After much frustration we just chuck everything in the bags and load up the car.