Paul Dirac was conceptually activated from his sober, waking life into his true existence like the pupa awakens into a beautiful moth. He began to sweat black oil that dripped down onto his hands. They felt encased in slabs of concrete, he fumbled with his phone and snapped it so that he couldn't be tracked. Pneumatic blondes revolving down an escalator, snapping jaws towards each other in communication. They descend onto white tiles and marched out of the door, only to collapse and be given bloody mouths by a low thunder storm. The lights flicker. Squashed face gurn agonizingly, eyes rolling around trying to trace brain shapes. Outside it is black and cold, the sound of a grave. People mingle in between each other, from above they looked like waterfalls meeting each other at opposite ends of a river, broken and splintered, thick. Through this he runs, black sweat dripping, leaving marks on the pavement in the shapes of Neil Armstrong's nervous system. In his skull trap he is assembling a bomb, thoughts electric and ricochetting through his head faster than he could control. Mydriasis set, he blew steam out from his thrashing mouth as he started to seizure. A hundred yards away he spotted someone he had gone to school with who was squeezing a big leather rope. He had been a spy all along. The agent had been following him all of his life waiting for this moment and been sent to kill.
The oily man panicked and ran into the shop where the series of blondes were helped up by handsome staff. Running through aisles lined in perfume, he went through another series of doors out into a plaza. He looked behind him to see the agent following him, nonchalantly tapping nearly everything he went past. Probably absorbing the potential energy of objects like the ancient warrior monks of Tibet. Dirac ran, dodging people and public furniture. A large magnet fizzed in a hidden parcel planted in a bin, the pinch crunching things around it as a large, blobby wave of radiation winked out all the lights, phones, cameras and radios. A few seconds of being in darkness, people started crying and running towards the exit. “Who turned out the lights!” yelled a wiseguy. This was the kill code. Dirac stumbled around in the pitch black. Rods and cones. Most just tried to cling onto something, a few just waited patiently. The agent paced towards him, tapping people on the back as he did so. His fingers ran along a column, danced the side of a staircase, tapping a bench. Middle and index were made to walk along the top before smacking the end. The bin with the magnet in. The oily man went through his pockets quickly and pulled out a carton of cigarettes and set them on the side of a plant pot holding a plastic fern before sprinting away. Near to the exit now. The sign above the fire door glowed green. The man hunting him meanwhile tapped a lamp-post, a hanging leaf and the oblong cigarette packet. A high chime was heard as the agent's face sagged limply off his face, he could tell he was already dead. Chunks of his body glided away from his skeleton, being over-taken by other organs and bone pushing forward new sections. Smaller and smaller chunks of his body chased each other as he faded away into a cloud of body debris, lightly hitting the wall and disappearing into a puff of smoke.
