A short story

Bruce Forsyth enters the room. Heads turn, conversations pause, never to be restarted. A woman, hair thick with Product, eyes dead, hangs on his arm.

He glides in on a three-inch phosphorous cloud, a low hum resonating through the floor. An Albanian waiter mouths a curse in his mother tongue. The perspective seems all wrong. He looks both larger and smaller than he should. He shrinks out of time with his movement, making a group of office managers nauseous.

Minds sync up. The room thinks as one consciousness. But. Why. Is. He. Naked?

Not only naked. Gloriously naked. Sallow skin, discoloured nipples, tufts of wiry grey hairs sprouting like popped bedsprings. And a hypnotic, pulsing, veined erection. Pointing to 11 o'clock, pre-cum glistening on the helmet. Massive. Smooth, thick and long. Any attempt to look away proves futile as - quietly at first - the Forsyth cock begins to sing.

"It's... only..."

A glass shatters and nobody hears it. The musical tool grows more confident.

"...a... game... so..."

Forsyth is still gliding. Circling the room, shepherding the crowd like a collie, a rictus grin convincing no-one. The glossy woman barely emotes but points blankly at the cock with an acrylic nail. The singing grows louder.

"...put up a real good fight!"

Exactly on the beat, 800 identical naked, hovering, out-of-scale Bruce Forsyths are in the room, their erect cocks singing along in a sickeningly complex harmony.

"I'M GONNA BE SNOOKERING YOU TONIGHT!"

An estate agent bellows above the noise to his colleagues, "IT'S THE MUSIC FROM BIG BREAK!", but they know that all too well already.

The discordance proves too much and people begin to black out. A middle-aged man vomits onto his own lap. A nineteen year-old in high heels and wedding hair tries to articulate the phrase "but that was Jim Davidson" but is crying too hard. A cock identifies the thought and drags its Bruce Forsyth over to her so it can sing in her ear. The pressure proves to much and her eardrums burst. She screams.

The air pressure in the room seems to rise. More eardrums burst and black blood begins flowing out of noses and eyes. The singing gets louder still, shrill and harsh. The 801 Brucies glide faster in their circle, a look of alien hatred developing on each of their faces.

The lights go out.