Panel

The moment I set foot in the stadium, I can hear every little sound: every breath the women take; every time their fingernails touch a desk; and every time my heart doesn't skip a beat. The sounds are all so refreshingly human, rather than the sound of charging bulls hardly anthropomorphic enough for me to truly get charged up. I'm sick of that. It's complete BULL, like a speculator. I can't stress that enough.

I like spectators but some time has passed since I've really approached one. This isn't normal; not for me, nor for anyone. How can we only get close to animals all our lives, like victims of domestic violence? These circumstances have been totally unnatural and inhumane. But I'm here now because I'm famous. Make no mistake about it: I'm here because I'm famous. Otherwise I would be behind bars for even suggesting that such social interaction that will now occur should take place.

So many animals have become newly domesticated over the last 20 years: since 2020, kookaburras to kangaroos to koalas, to - overseas - eagles to falcons, have all become pets living in homes occupied by single people. The word SINGLE has perhaps lost all meaning now, because we've normalized some singularity (what was once deemed strange) so much that being forever single seems like the only possible way of life, like THE singularity would come as no surprise while we already eat, sleep, and work with only bots and animals.

They built the best robots, sure. They were good like that. They could never create just the right vaccine, but the robots they built were close to perfect. They had to be, because they would be ALL anyone could have, besides pets. Me, I had my bulls. I ran with them so much that I domesticated them over the same years that I rose to fame. I cared for them dearly. In the back of my mind I always knew that if I showed people how much I can care for animals that maybe - just maybe - I would one day be allowed to properly interact with another human being enough to actually smell her breath.

Have I stepped out of line by merely thinking such thoughts? It's hard for many to imagine doing what I'm planning to. It's been hard for many years. But people returned to Pripyet after the Chernobyl blast, right? They wanted to. They needed to. People still risk their lives climbing Mount Everest, where oxygen is tighter than even the time they may have left on Earth. Speaking of LEFT ON EARTH; others are NOT, travelling to Mars for the thrill of it, creating just enough thin oxygen to survive. And there is speculation that the Martians have actually found a way into one another's arms through tunnels like those dug below the Berlin Wall, below the DMZ, or in order to escape from Stalag Luft III during the Second World War. The Martians may have actually touched one another. People say that this is a conspiracy theory, but I question the need for conspiring when the Martians have an entire planet to themselves, away from the miserable grasp of despots residing on Earth.

I can see the women now, sitting at all corners of the stadium. They've said that they wanted to take me out, echoing the calls of despots but meaning something completely different. They're just some of many women around the world who have risked their lives to say such a thing publicly. And these women hail from Pakistan, Nepal, China, Japan, Palestine, North Korea, Brazil, and Mexico, because this is a truly postmodern Olympic stadium we now occupy, like Wall Street. I guess that these women are the new gladiatrices. But I sincerely doubt that I will die. After all, we all breathe in very minute amounts of carbon dioxide that has passed through the bodies of other humans. A stronger dose of such gas does not necessarily spell doom but, rather, could mark the dizzying spell the whole world is waiting for: the magic of lost intimacy.

'You're doing this for the rush,' people virtually tell me, well aware that I always ran with bulls well. This I can't argue with. The rush is something I clearly anticipate, even though the women will never rush toward me. I will need to approach them one by one. They are each sitting in glass domes much like those on Mars, but upon my approach small panels will slide up the domes, like following the contours of breasts, rolling over milk: think of them as the chests of people falling over in dairy farms if you're a capitalist who values the dollar over intimacy and cries over sexualized spilt milk.

I can hear the helicopters approaching the stadium now, and suddenly the breathing of all the women well before me appears to cease. They're still breathing of course, as my heart still beats, but I simply can't hear the once crisp natural human sounds anyone would pay to hear, like attending a concert to see your favorite artist perform. But of course the choppers need to carry reporters over me; of course the revolution needs to be televised: La segunda Revolución Sexual. Some native tongue is hard to ignore.

Then I see native tongues. The women are showing me theirs. They look like loose locks of hair falling out of hijabs: such forbidden sights just when forbidden sounds have been drowned out by blades of a watchful and somewhat patriarchal nature. Big Brother cannot hold these tongues before me; only the WOMEN will, and when and IF they choose to.

I take a deep breath; such that is now generally forbidden in such close proximity to other humans. But I take it well, and I exhale, blowing away glass ceilings despots have somehow made out of thin air. I don't choke. I take one step forward, then another. This is my time to take one small step for woman, followed by one giant sigh of relief from mankind.

The women have all been running, like from bulls, and now eat their own versions of a traditional Spanish bull stew - or estofado de toro. Communication regulators will simply not allow me to smell undiluted breath and so the women are required by law to consume foods as strong as policies and opinions, and sharp as knives. Again, I must stress that these women are true postmodern gladiatrices.

I lock eyes with the Pakistani woman; the one I am now closest to. She puts some naan bread down and smiles so sweetly that I can almost smell it. But this would only be my phantosmia running wild like ghostly bulls. Phantosmia is all too common now, with people even having vivid dreams about smelling those whom they were once close to. I return her smile, so much more than simply a letter to sender, and rejoice at the sight of her stunningly beautiful face. It's not what it once was but it's no less beautiful. And, as we now lock eyes, the goal is to free her from the nightmares that reflect former moments in her life: moments during a lockdown before the separation of humans. Sure, she has CHOSEN to see me, but I personally CHOSE to see the women whom had suffered the most under the rule of despots. This woman lost half her face after a horrifying acid attack. That's another reason why she's a gladiatrix. The pain she has endured is unthinkable. She was never allowed to leave home, then she was forced to live alone - as we all have been - for years and years, but for her the psychological pain of her last memory of human interaction, being the most painful imaginable, running on replay in her heavy head is beyond words. To see her smile now warms my heart no end.

She stands up as I walk closer to her, and presses her palms against the glass like they're trees in her snow globe worlds apart from Pakistan. Of course, it's hot here in Australia. But that's beside the point of her remarkable smile. She now cheekily sticks out her tongue, then places her palms together as if about to pray.

I reach the glass and she becomes my perfect field of vision, replacing the fields between humans we are all so used to seeing. We've been socially distanced to perpetual devastation. Now, finally, two of the several thousand humans still on Earth stand so close to one another that every perfect unique wrinkle on one's face is visible to the other, affirming that we're indeed humans and not bots.

We both stare intently at one another and also the panel in between us. Some people may expect me to run once the panel slides up, like I'm running from extremely volatile bulls. But if they do then they don't know me well enough to realize that the greatest adrenaline rush is born through such intimate encounters as this, rather than running on some Olympian field. It's no strange stretch now to even imagine surviving on the air between us, when it truly is the only thing between us. When it truly is, my heaven - our heaven - will be here and now if not where we'll go shortly.

She exhales and her breath fogs the glass, painting it in a manner that needn't spell out a single word before being deemed dangerously toxic. I inhale, simply anticipating the space between us opening up like gentle people, pleasant phases, and discussions, rather than hard artillery. Her cheeks go red, incidentally naturally figuratively painting over past pains. She presses her lips to the pane and I follow suit. When will the panel be lifted like the wings of butterflies inside us both?

The radiance of her presence alone reflects the entire atmosphere. This is global heartwarming. Now, like atoms moving fast like charging, like electrons (or bulls), her hands begin to shake, and mine do too. How can this panel not slide up with all the electricity now in the airs around each of us, born of intoxicating forbidden breath? Still, it doesn't budge. It remains in place like the both of us.

I begin to smell something even though the panel is yet to rise. The panel definitely has not moved yet. I can smell almonds. I look at the woman's naan bread like I'm allergic to nuts. She follows my pupils, notices my nostrils flaring, and when our eyes lock again I can see that this wise woman has figured out what's going on. There are no nuts in the naan bread, and even if there were, I would not smell them on the other side of the glass, and her breath would be far stronger than this bitter scent.

The realization dawns on us both as the panel begins to rise. THIS IS A FALSE FLAG OPERATION.

I look up to only just make out a dome well above my head, presumably hidden from the gaze of the journalist in the helicopter.

This is murder.

The scent is cyanide.

What can we say that can be heard over the helicopter?

All of a sudden this incredible Pakistani woman and I are face to face. She exhales, sure, but it's from fear now. And I don't want to inhale. Not only will I die but this will send the absolute wrong message to a global audience.

My mouth is closed and I'm holding my breath.

I want to yell SHE DID NOT KILL ME, but I can't open my mouth.

We're truly in the camp the despots wanted us in all along.

I can't hold it in any longer.

The Pakistani woman begins to cleverly sign a statement, but the cameras will surely not be pointed at her. I'm the one people are watching.

I open my mouth to exercise my right to free speech.

I...