The dance of one mans soul trying to escape the body has begun. The crowd explode, standing in the aisles, venue packed beyond capacity, but the only blaze the Fire Marshal is worried about is from the mans shoes, going alight from pure unadulterated friction.
Hand punches the air and women faint to be carried to ambulances outside, waiting for the inevitable heart attack or rupture. This is no mere man.
And he kicks the air, one twice and again, and it send ripples through the atmosphere so fine as to unhook a woman’s bra in the third row. She isn’t embarrassed by this but in fact removes her top altogether, exposing her love for the dancer in two, easy to hold lumps of flesh.
And he leaps, high into the air, performing a spread eagle move, unheard of in the western world, and previously straight men declare their want to have his babies. He lands perfectly like a statue and stops for just a millisecond, enticing tension into the already packed arena of tones. A baby explodes from his mothers grip, but the blood arching out of the blanket doesn’t distract the mesmerized crowd, who gasp as he perform his final flurry of moves.
A kick, a spin, a jump, a split, another jump into a kick, landing on a pirouette. A handstand, rotating into a break dance followed by a solo waltz only to be outdone by an English back flip inverted, and finished by throwing himself into the air to the amazement of the audience, and catching himself above his head, holding for second as his muscles rip his flamingo shirt, and then spinning so fast as to knock the earth off it’s axis, dooming mankind to an insufferable end.