A challenge from Richard to use a closet, fish nets, a badly applied fake tan, a rubber chicken, 2 metres of nylon garden hose and a massuese named Sven in an email lead to the following small narrative…
 
A small tap on the door followed by a polite but efficient voice uttering “Curtain call in 15 minutes” signalled the onset of nerves for Stephen as he applied the last of the neon orange spray tan to his face. He quietly berated himself for such a reaction. This certainly wasn’t the first performance.
The dance act of Steve’n’Steve’n'Sauce had ignited the passion for the performing arts in people like no other.
Within mere months, they’d not only revived the ancient cultural phenomenon known as disco but propelled into stratospheric heights of popularity and profitability that even the greediest of music industry executives could only ever dream of previously.
Beside Stephen sat his dance partner, Steven, quietly applying the stick on crystals to cheeks in the same dedicated and precise manner that he applied to everything he did.
Stephen’s brief bout of envy over Steven’s apparent laissez-faire attitude to life was interrupted by another knock on the door.
“Yes?” Stephen enquired.
“I’m sorry gentlemen. Your attendance is required upstairs.”
“But we’re on in 10 minutes…” started Steven before being cut off.
“Your attendance is not optional.” stated the voice in a very matter of fact manner.
The two performers stood wearily, gave each other the customary theatrical eye-roll to each other to indicate their enthusiasm for the task ahead and left the room.
It was a common point of relaxation for the club owner to stand at the giant floor to ceiling window of his office above the dance floors and watch the customers below. To the casual observer, it would appear like they were dancing, chatting and drinking but to the club owner, they were so much more. A life stream of sentient cash strolling through the door. Every one of them, a little poker machine just waiting to spew forth oodles of cash to any lucky entrepreneur who was smart enough to pull their little psychological handle at precisely the right time.
The sound of the large heavy door opening behind him brought a smirk to his face.
“Gentlemen!” he started in the warmest of tones, “How does the amazing dancing pair of Steve’n’Steve find itself this fine evening?”
Stephen was about to answer when the owner resumed, answering on their behalf “Fantastic of course! Who wouldn’t feel elated beyond all belief to have a chance to perform at the world’s most renowned and exclusive night club?”
The owner turned to them to reveal a broadening smile that neither performer felt better for seeing. A single gold tooth sat in the middle of the owner’s upper gum. Shining and twinkling in the light to such a degree that one forgot almost immediately anything else about the man… which was saying something given the man’s obvious passion for all things shiny.
It was rare to find an individual who not only celebrated his male pattern baldness but actively highlighted it with a vigorous programme of waxes and lotions.
"If it wasn’t for the silver sequin adorned tuxedo that he wore seemingly all the time, one could lose a lifetime just staring at that shiny head" contemplated Steven.
The pause in conversation along with the confusion on which questions were rhetorical and which weren’t once again had Stephen about to offer up some sort of non-committal response before being cut off yet again by the owner.
“Tonight gentlemen will be the calumniation of lifetime’s work. Ever since I was a child, clutching my rubber chicken in bed, listening to my mother tell me stories of the famous disco stars of the past, I’ve dreamt of holding the world’s most spectacular dance competition.”
“A competition,” he continued “that not only challenges the physical prowess of the dancer… but also the mental agility!”
The owner stabbed down triumphantly at a small button on a control mounted to one of the nearby desks.
A small whirring noise began, followed by the floor between the performers and the owner parting to reveal a scale model rising up to waist level.
Before them was a small replica of the club’s main stage and located in the middle were two little figurines that looked suspiciously like the two performers. Even at small scale one could clearly make out the oversized hotdog costume that had become a trademark of Stephen and it didn’t it wasn’t a huge leap of imagination to spot the familiar pink trim of Steve’s ballerina dress.
A quiet gasp went out in unison from the two performers as they studied what else occupied the miniature stage.
“Yes, that’s right gentlemen,” grinned the owner triumphantly “tonight you will be performing the Double Disco Two Step of Danger!”
“You can’t be serious” complained Steven.
“Oh but I am!” gesticulated the owner “tonight will see not only the amazing duo of Steve’n’Steve’n'Sauce perform one of the world’s most dangerous disco moves involving 2 meters of nylon garden hose… but!… also perform it at the world famous RBanks54 night club, discothèque and nunnery!”
The owner continued excitedly   “Imagine the crowd! Imagine the press! Imagine the prestige! Why the name of Goldbold and Nagy will go down in history!”
“Imagine the multiple deaths and class action lawsuits if something goes wrong” replied Steve in a less than enthusiastic tone.
 
Stephen raised a hand in a meek fashion and quietly asked “Who were you planning to get to be the ‘la viande de la mort écrasé’?”
“Don’t worry,” the owner replied confidently “everything is taken care of. Young Sven from downstairs will be playing the part in tonight’s performance.”
“The trainee masseuse?” enquired Steve with an incredulous tone.
“Yep!” beamed the owner “He’s been secretly training for months. A strict regime of corn flakes and broken glass down the front of one’s pants followed four to six hours reciting the synopsises of A-Team episodes in a locked closet. The kid is a natural I tell you!”
Deflated sigh left the two performers in unison. They knew they had no choice. The owner may have phrased all of this in terms of a polite conversation but they both knew the ugly reality.
If they didn’t do the deathtifying act then their careers would be as good as over. No more special appearances in Vegas. No more big paycheques from the gossip magazines for random stories involving what may or may not have happened on a certain royal yacht last summer. No more fulfilling their life long desire to strut their stuff on the dance floors of Europe.
“Okay. We’re in.” sighed Stephen in resignation. 
 
After all, they still hadn’t achieved their greatest dream of all yet: performing at the Readify kick off.
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