Free Wildlife by Joe Stretch Page A

feature ‘Five Questions for . . .’
    Hello, Asa. Do you think you’ll be remembered?
    (
Long pause
) Yes. But not for my songs or my reality-TV days. For something else.
    Do you regret the decision to abandon your theatrical debut?
    (
He appears to be in tears
) I’m not in a position to talk about regrets.
    What’s next for Asa Gunn?
    (
Still weeping
) From among us, a Dickhead will rise. At the end of our time, this Dickhead will come to us, armed with our future.
    Fair enough and, so, what exactly is the Wild World, any ideas?
    The Wild World is a revolution.
    Who do you most admire?
    Joan Rivers.
    Underneath the interview a statement reads, ‘A spokesman on behalf of the Wild World today refuted the suggestion that the Wild World is in any way connected to the tactic of revolution.’
    Janek dumps the newspaper in a bin and walks across the squeaky wet grass to the shores of the Serpentine.
    Swans call out to the sky. Janek thinks back to Peter Gabriel and the swan at Reel World. He remembers the sound the neuro-monitor made when he played funk bass into Life’s brain. The sound of the A-HA moment. Having spent three days in bed with Life, Janek is confident her brain had grown excited because it recognised itself in the word ‘LIFE’. It wasn’t love of existence. If I had Life’s confidence, he thinks, her ability to affect her surroundings and have fun, then my brain would probably go apeshit over the word ‘JANEK’. As it is, Janek can imagine his brain hunching both of its shoulders at the sight of his name, unfolding its white pipes like arms and raising them into a questioning gesture, as if to say, So what?
    Janek walks along the water’s edge, suitcase in one hand, bass case in the other, beanie on his head. Naturally slightly bored, he sets down his suitcase for a second and feeds the red earphones of the N-Prang into his ears. Janek dislikes the realism of the whispering wind and the squawks of swans that it carries. He wonders what music the WildWorld has to offer. Probably music made by bands full of brightly dressed kids who like the idea of living.
    But Janek quickly finds that the music of the N-Prang is bass-heavy. He flicks through the first few tracks and finds only huge deep bass notes, held into place by kick-drum, hi-hat and snare. His footsteps fall quickly into the rhythm of the N-Prang and he’s puzzled to find himself marching round the Serpentine at a fair old speed. On the far shore he can see elderly men and women in pink wetsuits diving into a cordoned-off section of the lake. The waves begin to dance. The trees around Hyde Park hold hands, shake their heads and begin to sway.
    Walking with the music, Janek feels strange. He feels like he’s biting happily on a brick. The song of the N-Prang enters a breakdown: higher bass notes stretched long under a shimmering string section. Janek glides past a bench. A group of kids in matching white hoodies greet Janek with playful finger pistols. Janek smiles. One boy mounts the back of the bench and leaps off, performing three or four somersaults before hitting the ground, pulling his hood up and pirouetting quickly with one finger held against his lips. The song of the N-Prang kicks back in. The kids dance as Janek walks on, each of them, even the girls, gripping their crotches.
    There’s a very old man, wearing a flat cap, a tweed jacket and with a pipe puffing bubbles between his lips. This man has skin like Bible paper. The man begins to break-dance as Janek walks by. He is spinning on his flat-capped head, unsupported by his hands and with his legs thrust into the blue sky like those of a frog. Bubbles continue to blow from the man’s pipe. Large bubbles float into the cold winter air and then burst.
    Two women push pushchairs and really work their backsides for the pleasure of Janek’s eyes. Great booty, thinks Janek, still striding like a smooth, impossibly