They keep dancing. Baggy trousers, khaki. 5 of them. They whizz and whir in front of me, mostly in my field of vision but sometimes they flitter around the periphery. It makes me dizzy. They are showing off their moves and sizing up each others style.
They have those wheels. I wanted those. Faster, better, smoother. The concrete is mostly rough but those wheels still glide.
The second group move in. There is tension in the air, like fog, hanging, suffocating and stifling.
I keep quiet, I have to, I mustn’t be heard.
They approach each other, I can’t hear what they are saying.
I hear the sound of bike engines.
Then those two arrive.
The rest stand around as spectators. They’re expecting their money’s worth. So am I.
One has a tight black leather dress, her modified stockings are also black leather and conceal her wheels. Classy. Jet black hair, pulled back tightly in a bun.
The other wears a short white top underneath a Kimono cross Sirwal attire. She has mousy hair, messy but also pulled back.
They start off facing each other, the woman in a Kimono bows slightly, hands pressed together. The other woman examines her fingernails and looks bored.
The beat is started by someone in the crowd. The speakers start to sound.
They move their legs rhythmically, in perfect symmetry, gliding in a semicircle and always maintaining eye contact. The crowd is pushed back and their space becomes larger in the concrete plains.
Without warning their guns are suddenly visible, they’re shooting, missing. They twirl their bodies in seemingly choreographed circles and head for the open space beyond.
Motorbike engines fire up as they are followed. I keep ahead of the bikes and follow the action.
The taller woman in black is leading, two big movements of her feet and shots from her gun ensue.
The kimono clad woman swiftly following does a complex twirl and returns the shots.
The woman in black flinches but doesn’t stop moving.
to be continued