“You know what I think,” said the Minister of Parliament, his breath already betraying his level of physical fitness, “I think I have waited to assess this matter fully and can... finally announce that I support the will of the people of Britain in their determination to decide their own futures.”
With that, the Minister of Parliament shrugged off his jacket and danced his way into the throng.
CHAPTER 15
+12 Hours
The Non-stop Dancer was exhausted, every sinew of his body screamed in rage, blowing pistons, and burning muscle wherever the white water river of dance took him. He could barely move. As he looked at the stream of wavering limbs around him his neck burned, his body drenched head to toe, but still, he smiled.
The colours he saw before his eye were messages from the angels. The whirlpool of human skin that moved as he moved, that stepped when he stepped, were a synergy of light, love and happiness that was blinding to all that stared asunder. The Non-stop Dancer looked upwards to the heavens and raised his arms. Behind him there was a sea of limbs, clasping at the passage of light sent from heaven itself.
They were no longer individuals. United in dance, joined in the ecstasy of becoming one, they were a new species, a new organism, a dangerous warning from the power of unity. They danced atop mountains, they danced into a new dimension, they were the heralds of a new dawn, they were the new crusaders, singularly, via the medium of dance, they had created an entirely new reality, a new beginning, it was as if the future had been laid at their feet.
The Non-stop Dancer dropped his arms to his waist, and slowly limped through the remnants of his moment, of his second in the spotlight and stopped for an instant, face to face with the assembled crowd of onlookers, gawkers and stalkers that had originally observed him with contented amusement. The Journalist pushed himself to the front of the crowd, a cameraman scurrying behind him. The Journalist held out a microphone and waited, hoping that silence would do the work for him. Slowly the crowd hushed and the ocean of limbs slowly froze into a winter’s lake.
“I have never been and never wanted to be a Non-stop Dancer,” pronounced the Non-stop Dancer. The crowd of gawkers almost frowned in unison. Had they made a noise it would most certainly have been a collective ‘ooh’ rather than a supportive ‘aah’. “My aim in dancing was to get people out of the shadows and onto the dance floor. That is why we started dancing twelve hours ago, and that is why I feel I have done my bit.” The Non-Stop Dancer pushed the microphone away and started walking into the crowd.
“Excuse me, but what do you plan on doing now?” asked the Journalist excitedly. The Non-stop Dancer turned to look at him, his face red and coated in sweat.
“I couldn’t possibly dance any more than I already have, and so I feel it is right that I stand aside, and let somebody else lead the dance,” said the Non-stop Dancer calmly. He pushed passed the Journalist and limped through the crowd of onlookers without looking back even once. Had he had the foresight or inclination he would have seen the lake full of refuse that he left behind.
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