Shoot Speed Kill Light


A Highly Scientific Experiment for Plotki


Question:
How long can Bob stay wake in Prague enjoying its non-stop activities before collapsing?

Apparatus:
One foreigner (Bob)
2000 crowns worth of ‘staying awake’ juice from Plotki
The city of Prague
A dictaphone

Method: Speed Bob up and give him a dictaphone (so he can record his
adventures). Arm him with a brief to visit as many non-stop places as
possible and push him into the belly of Prague.

Prediction: Messy

The following are the more comprehensible sections from Bob’s recordings. He talks about himself continually in the third person and at time cries and asks for his mum. This might raise some ethical questions about the nature of Plotki’s research….

And He’s Away   Friday 9.34pm

Bob swallows half of his present from Plotki and goes dancing in some shitty club.

Photosmagoria  Saturday 10.36am

They say that ‘you are never alone on Charles Bridge’. And whilst in the past this saying might have referred to the stone statues which line either side of this historic walkway, today it refers to a scary-eyed Bob who is cutting through the happy snappers smiling like a maniac, jumping like a kid and appearing in lots of confused tourist’s pictures. The logic behind this action is that photos last forever, even once the weekend-breakers with their cameras are long gone. Bob is preserving his historic non-stop trip by leaping behind tourists just as they have their photos taken.

King Charles, for his part, opened the bridge officially in 1357 on the 9th day of the 7th month at the 5th hour and 31 minutes (!1.3.5.7.9.7.5.3.1!) Bob didn’t know why. But he suspected Charles would have approved of his non-stop trip.


Everybody say “this guy can’t draw”

Tramp Attack  Saturday 12.09pm

Leaving Charles Bridge, Bob almost flew over the outstretched hands of a homeless guy, who’s face was pressed so hard into into the cobbled floor it was almost leaving a mark.
‘Wao… sorry there dude.’ Bob politely apologised. ‘I didn’t spot you there. ’
‘It’s okay. Could you spare some change?’ The guy didn’t raise his face from the floor as he spoke.
“!Wait a non-stop-minute! Have you ever considered the never-ending aspect of your job? Have you ever considered the perpetual nature of begging? Have you ever considered that your job is completely non-stop in every single way; you are always working because in a sense you are always your job, because your job is being homeless?
‘Have you ever considered buying me dinner?’
“Yes. Just now. Wow, you’re good. Come on, I’ll get you a smezny syr.’

Deep Fat Fry My Brain and Put it in a Bun Saturday 1.13pm

‘!Hello!’ Bob leered over the counter and the expressionless fast food vender on Wenceslass Square. Her face had been beaten out of its once pretty youth from years of dealing with drunk Stag Dos and Hen Parties.
‘Give me five smezny syrs pleeease’ Bob grinned and in doing so almost elicited a human reaction from the vender-robot. ‘You hardly have the charms of Ignatius Reilly, the greatest hot dog seller of all time, but I love you all the same.’
‘125 crowns.’
Bob gave four of the deep fried cheese’s to his new best friend who thanked him and strolled back down to Charles Bridge to continue his non-stop begging.
‘Have you ever considered,’ Bob once again drew the attention of the never-smiling deep friend cheese seller, ‘that you never close shop?’
‘No.’
‘So may I ask a question, which I understand I may not want to know the answer to, but how do you ever clean? I mean all this fat and the dirt form the traffic is bad enough, but if you never close then you never clean. That’s disgusting.’
‘Are you saying that we are dirty?’ The woman had morphed into a Very Big Man.
‘Er…’
‘Listen here you little cocky shit. You can eat the food or you can fuck off, I don’t care, but don’t harass my staff.’
‘Well you listen here. The art of selling food is a beautiful one. It should not be dirtied by your foul mouth and your sub-standard cuisine. You should take pride in the preparation and selling of such wares. Food is an amazing gift from the earth and we should present it in the most perfect way possible. It should not be sullied by the cesspit of fat which bubbles in your grimy excuse for an establishment…..

….Bob was running now, but was still spouting a trail of speed fuelled obscenities at the Very Big Man who was chasing him through winding streets.

Bob spun round the corner nearly knocking over a crowd of German tourists… ‘ach nein’… they seemed very boring, Bob made a mental note to never go on holiday with Germans

Stairway to Heaven Saturday 1.45pm

…storming into Florenc Metro station, still chased by the Very Big Man, Bob sprinted to the escalator and bounded up it. The VBM followed. Bob got to the top turned around and went back down the escalator. The VBM did the same. At the bottom, Bob once again spun round and headed back up the escalator. The VBM still followed, though he looked like he was tiring.
‘Have you ever considered,’ shouted Bob at the VBM, ‘that in many ways escalators are just like non-stop stairs.’
‘Come here you little shit.’
‘Anyway I have limitless energy and you are fat from too many deep fried cheeses, so feel free to chase me all day. In fact we could make this a non-stop chase. It would be perfect as I’m doing this research for a magazine called Plotki.’
“Plotki? I’ve never heard of it.’
‘It’s a problem many people have, but it’s definitely not a non-stop problem. Are you not bored of chasing me yet?’


Run rabbit run rabbit run run run

Trambed Saturday 10.46pm

Bob, still full of beans, sailed out of the metro and jumped on a tram with its doors snapping shut behind him. VBM was screaming something but, as it was now late in the evening, the citizens of Prague ignored big angry people who shouted a lot.

So warm on the tram….

Wake up! Where am I? On a tram. Jump off quick.

Trams are non-stop in Prague. 24/7 indeed. The effects of speed however are not. Suddenly Bob was wide awake and standing outside a 24 hour gym. What a stroke of luck. If God exists he must be a Plotki reader.

Workit Baby  Sunday 3.30am

Bob was in a gym. It was 3.30 in the morning. He grabbed a membership form and slumped into the sofa. He again fell asleep.

‘Would you like a taxi home sir?’
‘No I’m fine reading this membership form. I am giving genuine consideration to joining your fine establishment’
Sleep.
‘Would you like a taxi home sir?’
‘No I’m fine reading this membership form. I am giving genuine consideration to joining your fine establishment’
Sleep.
‘Would you like a taxi home sir?’
‘No I’m fine reading this membership form. I am giving genuine consideration to joining your fine establishment’
Sleep.
‘Would you like to leave now sir?’
“I suppose it’s for the best. Any non-stop supermarkets open round here? I’m on a research mission.’


krasně oči, velkě nos: perfektní

PanicAttack at Sainsburys Sunday 4.47am

Supermarket. Bright lights. Scary women repeating something unintelligible at him. Keep walking. Needs juice. Mmmmm lovely orange juice….

Insomniacs, drunks, students with no friends and the poor souls who have been roped into working the night shift drifted around our hero Bob. He stood and stared at beautiful girl stocking the shelves,
‘Do you like working the night shift’ he inquired thrusting the dictaphone almost up her surprised nose,
‘Well,’ she laughed, ‘it keeps me interested because people like you turn up.’
‘You think I’m interesting?’ Bob replied noticing her matching socks and t-shirt (classy lady).
‘Well you’re walking round the store talking into your dictaphone and staring wildly at people. It’s not an everyday occurrence.’
‘But I want orange juice.’ Bob pathetically whimpers. She passes him some orange juice and stares sympathetically at him as he dances to the cash point and out of the store.

And into the night.

And to bed.

Via a non-stop Herna bar for a beer or seven.

Dreaming of the supermarket girl.

FIN

 

Links:
Don’t Talk To Frank
www.urban75.com/Drugs/drugspeed.html

Shoot Speed Kill Light is a song and a half by one of the greatest bands to ever walk the earth
www.primalscream.org

Panic Attack at Sainsburys is an album and a line from a song by the unstoppable Chris TT who I would happily marry tomorrow
www.christt.com

 

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