I SHALL RETURN... WAIT TILL YOU HEAR MY TUNES.
Sweat ran down my face. I breathed heavily. I knew what was to come. The rest: ignorant, helpless, transfixed.
Lights flashed and strobed, haloing my head. I was a techno-angel-genius reaching its epiphany. The triumphant music in my head drowned out by the emphatic cheering upon my arrival. “Dom, you ROCK”, “You rock, Dom”. Might have to get that on a t-shirt. That’ll show Boris what popularity looks like.
I had laid my plans before my followers. Airwaved it into their synapses. The carrot had been attached, and the stick was extended. “Dance to my tune now, you peasants,” I thought (although I stopped myself voicing this view for fear of disassociation – not that I fear such a thing…). My set had begun.
It was orchestrated to perfection. Every note, beat and phrase massaged together to propagate the minds and interests of all those in attendance. Every head-nod in unison to the timings of my directions. The cameras followed me with every movement, swing of the hips or flick of my oiled bald brow. I stood forward embracing my support, a hologram of a younger, fitter me filled the projection space behind me. “Am I God?”, I wondered.
I had reached the pinnacle. Saviour of the World. Ruler of the coded stratosphere. Lord of the weirdos, misfits and gilet-bearing disciples. The lights pulsed once more. Perhaps for the last time… who knows. Their intensity was brighter this time, I felt enlightened, omniscient, realised. Reality and meaning tangible and growing ever closer. The shouting became intense like a drummer on the stretched skin of my ear lobe, although also disconnected: similar to a room of conversation that you have wandered into, alone. I know the feeling all too well.
But it became unbearable.
“Dom, you rock!”, “We love you Dom!” pierced the void of actuality and super-forecasting, knocking me out of my audible high. I peeled away my headphones for a moment of relief, but this was not originating from my earpieces or from my head as I had feared. The sound, less muffled now, revealed a greater personal dread: haters.
“Dom, you cock! You COCK Dom!”, “We loath you Dom” I heard from the far door. The neighbours had heard my set. I had offered them tickets but £70 was too much to see a “questionably-dressed mid-life crisis failing to be relevant.” Still, they weren’t the only ones not to turn up. Poodles enjoyed it.
I agreed to conclude my set for the night but mentioned that it was a bit much to have the Police lights outside. And the paparazzi. Then I saw her. Obviously, the perpetrator of this shutdown. Princess Nut Nuts. Across the street and then scuttling away for another night of mischief and democratic interference. If this sounds envious, it’s not.
I will no longer have to moonlight. Every hour of the day will be dedicated to delivering the DJ the people want. By next Christmas, my live performances will improve, the music will be most important, and I will be fully employed.
DJ Dommy Comms/‘The Forecast’/Saviour of Slytherin (yet to decide on my stage name) will return.