I was back in St Palma, my scenes for Gamelandia had wrapped. Now it was late evening.

It was time to party.

Rising up against the sky, was a multi-storey building with a stony dated façade and windows that glowed red. From the outside it looked like the outside of a macabre-themed museum, or some haunted theme park ride. Above was a suspended walkway heading on through glass doors straight into the second storey of the club.

I’d never been a big clubber, but I’d developed a taste for it since being shrunken; as I’d discovered during nights out with Jen, a nightclub was one of the few places I could glide around masses of people unnoticed and undisturbed, feeling like just another venue patron in the crowd.

“NOW, YOU FELLAS ARE WITH ME, ALRIGHT?” said Farris, to Raf and I. “IN THIS PLACE THE ASS IS WORLDCLASS.  STICK WITH ME AND I’LL SHOW YOU HOW TO GET YOURSELF A LITTLE PIECE OF ACTION.”

There were no bollards or stanchions or rails or other perimeter security guarding the front door. Ahead, our path was blocked by a bouncer wearing black up and down: suit, shirt and tie, and impeccably shiny black dress shoes.

“IF YOU BOYS COME HERE ON YOUR OWN TIME,” Farris was saying, “DON’T PULL ANYTHING WITH THESE GUYS. THEY’RE NOT ALLOWED TO HIT YOU, BUT THEY WILL.”

Farris and the doorman nodded to each other.

“LOOKING SHARP, WAYNE.”

“RIGHT ON THROUGH, MR FRANKLIN.”

Past a set of double-wide walnut doors, the interior club was huge – larger than any I’d ever seen. Three separate bar areas and the dancefloor was not one single central square – as I was familiar with – but a collection of rectangles around the interior, connected by aisles walkways. If you didn’t like the faces or vibes in one of these dance areas you just followed the closest walkway to the next group of bodies. It was a wonderland of pulsing lasers, and intricate elegantly styled shifting neon lightwork displays, shifting along the color spectrum, neon panels sometimes spelling out words or displaying symbols.

Bronze, oil-skinned, scantily clad women danced on podiums spaced around and high above the dance floor positioned in the center of the whole space, which was centrally linked by aisles to all the other dance floors. I didn’t even realize podium-topping disco girls existed outside movies, let alone expect to find myself visiting a club with them installed.

There were tables and chairs around the perimeter of the central floor, and a big glass pane to one side which separated the mix board and turntables of the live DJ setup. Up railed stairs to the second floor there was a mezzanine that ran around the ceiling – linked by floating walkways – overlooking all the action, and up here were the VIP lounges.

We stopped at a roped off set of tufted black leather banquette seating by the balcony railing viewing the dancefloor below.

Farris greeted the two guys sitting over here: a dark-skinned guy wearing a suit and a baseball cap, and a dark-clothed, bearded guy in a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing hairy forearms, and a neck tattoo rising above his collar.

“JAIRAJ MANN,” Farris introduced the first guy, and then the second: “AND CLYDE GALBRAITH.”

“THIS IS JERRY,” Farris said to them, “HE’S MY NEXT SENSATION.”

The two men dropped their eyes upon me, or my tiny head, poking out from Raf's huge hand. He lifted me up and out towards them as if to say 'here he is, the one and only; look!' I was starting to get the sense this was going to be a very different experience from the easy anonymity I enjoyed clubbing with Jen.

“IF HE ELICITS A ‘SENSATION’,” Clyde said dryly, “IT’S A TICKLE.”

“JERRY,” Jairaj repeated, with a grin. “DON’T LISTEN TO HIM. ALL HE MEANS IS, YOU’RE JUST A LITTLE SLIM JIM OF A FELLA. HOW ABOUT WE MAKE IT COOL, YOU KNOW, ‘TJ’?”

“What does that mean?”

“TINY JERRY.”

I shrugged. It wasn’t a dishonest nickname.

“I guess so.”

“TJ IT IS.”

“MY KIDS LIKED ONE OF YOUR MOVIES,” Clyde remarked. “BUT THEY THINK YOU’RE A MUPPET. THEY SAY ‘DAD, WHO’S CONTROLLING HIM?’”

“NO PUPPETEER,” Farris grinned at me. "ISN'T THAT RIGHT?"

I rubbed my hands together.

"Not tonight."

"SO, WHAT'S YOUR STORY, TJ?" said Jairaj.

I guessed he was referring to my height, but that was a sensitive, somewhat embarrassing subject for me to dive into with strangers, so I played dumb.

“What do you mean?”

"EVERYONE HERE HAS GOT A STORY,” he explained. “RUNNING AWAY FROM SOMETHING, MOSTLY. BAD JOB, BAD FRIEND, BAD GIRL—”

“DYSFUNCTIONAL FAMILY,” Clyde added.

“THAT’S NOT BAD. JUST SAD,” Jairaj said, then his eyes turned back down to me for a response.

“Nothing,” I said. “I mean, none of those. I’m not running away from anything.”

The men all eyed me, a little too keenly, as if trying to work out what I was even doing here.

“WHERE’S YOUR GIRL?" Jairaj finally said: "YOU GOT ONE?”

“Yeah. She’s back home.”

“IS SHE THE FULL FIGURE OR LIKE YOU…?”

“Definitely the full figure.”

In fact – though he was seated – I suspected she would be taller than Jairaj, if not the even taller Clyde.

At my answer, Jairaj’s eyes widened and he looked around at the other three.

“AM I HEARING THIS RIGHT?”

“IT’S TRUE,” Farris proclaimed. “—THE WOMAN IN THE CAFÉ, JERRY?”

“Right.”

Eyes now narrowing in boredom, Clyde pointed a stubby, nail-bitten finger down at me:

“HOW YOU END UP TITCH ENOUGH TO SMUGGLE IN A POCKET?"

“A time machine.”

They all chuckled quietly like this was a sarcastic retort. Clyde let out a single amused bark.

“WELL, HE’S GOT PLUCK.”

"YOU EVER SNUCK INTO THINGS?" said Jairaj, raising an eyebrow. "YOU COULD END UP IN ALL SORTS OF BIG SHIT, BACKSTAGE LIVE SHOWS, CELEBRITY BEDROOMS…"

"YOU'D MAKE A HELL OF A SCANDAL SNAPPER,” added Clyde. He seemed distracted; he had now stood up and was leaning against the balcony railing, intermittently looking down below into the dancing crowds.

“’THE POCKET PAPPER’,” Farris grinned, not sounding at all serious.

“PAPARAZZO,” enquired Raf. “I HEARD THAT’S ITALIAN FOR ‘ANNOYING FLY’.”

I chuckled in spite of myself:

“My girlfriend called me that once – don’t ask for the context.”

Farris laughed; his super white teeth flashing in the darkness.

“MY WIFE’S CALLED ME WORSE.”

“OR P.I.," said Clyde, back down to me. "I GOT YOU YOUR FIRST ASSIGNMENT; I SLIP YOU IN THIS LADY’S HANDBAG AND YOU GO HOME WITH HER FOR THE NIGHT; SEE IF SHE'S KEEPING STRANGE COMPANY."

Jairaj groaned.

“THE LITTLE ASIAN MAMA AGAIN? MAN, GET OVER HER.”

He leaned over in his seat, reaching for the ice bucket on the nearby chrome glass serving cart.

“TJ, TRY THIS,” he said, unscrewing the lid of a bottle of Cognac. “TELL ME IF YOU DETECT THE CURRY. ‘CAUSE I DETECT CURRY, AND MY FRIENDS ALL SAY I’M CRAZY. BUT DAMN, IT’S THERE.”

He began pouring glasses, mine in a shot glass.

“AND ONE FOR THE WINGMAN—”

“RAFAEL,” said Raf.

“RIGHT.”

He slid the glasses over the table to Raf and I. Then watched me take a sip, and then when I lifted my head from the glass rim, he raised his eyebrows:

"CURRY?"

"It's there."

Jairaj shook a finger at me and turned his head around at the others.

"HE KNOWS. HE'S GOT A TINY TONGUE; A SENSITIVE PALATE."

“Have you got any Kolade?” I ventured.

“BOMB SHOT,” Jairaj offered, pulling out a chilled black can and checking the label —AND TEQUILA?”

“Just a shot, but no tequila.”

"KOLADE NO TEQUILA?” he drawled back. “NEVER HEARD OF THAT ONE."

"WHAT'S THAT, UH, AN ENERGY DRINK?" Clyde raised an eyebrow.

"A MIDNIGHT RUNNER,” said Farris, leaning back and sliding his arm over the length of the headrest. “YOU DANCE, JERRY?”

“I don’t think I’m cut out for a career on the dance floor at my size.”

Jairaj turned to look out over the railing into crowd on the floor below.

“I THINK MANDI’S BEHIND THE BAR TONIGHT. DON’T TALK TO HER WHILE SHE’S ON THE CLOCK, SHE’LL PRETEND SHE DOESN’T KNOW YOU, BUT CATCH HER IN DOWNTIME; SHE’LL SHOW YOU HOW TO CRUNK RIGHT UP ON THE TABLE. GIRL’S WHOLE WAISTLINE IS LIKE A COASTLINE – WAVY.”

“THE LITTLE MAN DOESN'T NEED A DANCEFLOOR,” Clyde suggested. “TURN A TUMBLER UPSIDE DOWN YOU COULD DANCE ON THAT.” He lifted his glass as if for illustration.

“YOU SEE MANDI TELL HER YOU’RE WITH JAI.”

The guys then called over a coterie of improbably hot young women – who I later learned were models hired by the club for promotion. Their perfume preceded them like the fumes of spicy wine. Not noticing me at first, they slipped onto the banquette beside the guys. I scanned them nervously, but it was no line-up out of Peta’s portfolio, no one I recognized.

Jairaj was dipping back into the ice bucket.

“POP A CRISTAL AND ONE FOR THE LADIES.”

“HEY…” one of the models piped up, a long legged blonde beauty. Her eyes had stopped on me, narrowing, and focusing sharper and brighter than any of the lasers oscillating around the floor below “IS THAT…?”

My stomach lurched; there was no one else she could possibly have mistaken me for. There was a couple of squeals and next thing all the girls descended on me like a flock of flamingos, bending and craning for a look. There were gasps, delighted exclamations, and suddenly Raf had a model pressing him in on either side as the fascinated girls were leaning right in to get a better look at me, with reactions like I was a baby sitting on his father’s lap, and being cooed over by a gaggle of baby-crazy young women.

I tried not to react as hands swooped in to stroke my scalp and remark how soft my hair was, pluck at the hems of my clothing and exclaim how cute and tiny my outfit was, tweak my muscles and compliment my shape, and playfully poke my belly to see my reaction. There was no escape; the girls bordered me at every side, while the guys laughed. A couple of the girls had settled into their places by the guys, and had taken up drinks, and accidentally making eye contact, was fixed with a moment of lingering eye contact or lip curl, or eyebrow raise or some other signal that went outside notice.

A fingernail was tapping my shoulder. I turned my head to find the blonde hunched forward in her seat beside Raf, her forearms pressed against her knees, her head turned to implore me demurely:

“HEY THERE, GOOD-LOOKING,” she smiled at me sweetly, “I’D LIKE TO HOLD YOU IN MY HAND. WHAT DO YOU THINK?”

Holding me was not her intention. Suddenly I found myself rising up her body to suspend in front of her face as her eyes ran all over me, her breath fluttering my hair.

The guys laughed again at her brashness.

“YEAH, HE’S REAL,” said Jairaj.

"WHO BROUGHT THIS GUY?" Farris waved a hand at me. "RAISE YOUR HAND AND I'LL BUY YOU A DRINK. OH, WAIT, THAT WAS ME! ISN’T HE GREAT?”

“YOU ARE JUST ADORABLE!” she said, rotating me a little. “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU EVEN EXIST!”

Suddenly all the girls were expressing interest in holding me. The models were hired by the club to act interested in the VIP patrons and flirt with them, but it was difficult to tell who was acting anymore.

“YOU HAVE THE TINIEST, CUTEST LITTLE EYES,” a girl said as a pair of fingertips tilted my head up so that she and another girl could peer into my face. One of these girls dissolved into giggles.

“HE LOOKS LIKE A PAST BOYFRIEND,” she explained. Apparently the idea of this past boyfriend being my size was incredibly humorous. Her fingers explored every inch of my body, utterly fascinated at my uncanny resemblance.

“HE LOOKS LIKE A FUTURE BOYFRIEND,” one of the other girls muttered, giving me a sly wink past her wine glass.

With alcohol, some of the girls became more venturesome.

One of the girls had me sitting in her cupped hands, and said she was going to ‘tell me a funny story,’ as I was lifted up right before her face, before her lips swooped in, meeting my face and sticking there a moment as she planted a big kiss, withdrawing again to ruffle my hair, before placing me back in Raf’s hands.

The guys were chuckling again.

“THAT BOY’S TURNING INTO A BIRTHDAY CAKE,” said Jairaj, “‘CAUSE HIS FACE IS ALL FROSTED UP PINK.”

Oh Jesus. I scrubbed at my cheek furiously, if someone took a picture and Jen saw it, I would be in a hot cauldron of trouble when I got home.

Raf had to get up to use the restroom, putting me on the table, leaving me utterly vulnerable to whichever model was bold enough to snatch me up first. They were listening to the lazy conversation going on between Farris and Jairaj, but their eyes kept wandering down to me, as if trying to catch my eye.  One of the girls gave me an incredibly muted ‘come hither’, just enough for me to see it and no one else. I started taking resigned bets with myself as to which girl was planning to make me her ‘right this instant boyfriend.’

Then Clyde stepped away from the railing and came towards me, leaning down, his hands on his knees, revealing small tattoos on his fingers. He can’t have drunk much; his pupils were too focused. He seemed to be vibrating with some weird energy.

“VIP TAKES THE CAKE DOESN’T IT?” he said quietly. “BUT LET ME SHOW YOU AROUND THE GROUND FLOOR FOR A DIFFERENT VIBE.”

I knew how he felt; the Kolade was fizzing in my bloodstream, I was keen for something to do with the flush of energy, and replied with urgency:

“Sure!”

Without another word, a huge, lined palm hovered over me, thick fingers snatching up the back of my jacket collar and tugging my feet off the tabletop. Then, as Clyde stood up, I was racing up through the air with him, while he hooked a thumb in his breast pocket and slipped me inside. I came down right beside a ballpoint pen, and the top of the pocket slipped up over my head as my feet sunk to the bottom. Reaching my arms up to grab the top, I pulled myself up until my head burst out again, with the top of the pocket coming up under my armpits. The models let out groans of disappointment that their entertainment had been snatched away.

“THAT’S CONVENIENCE,” remarked Jairaj approvingly, referring to my storage. “YOU COULD HOLSTER THAT BOY.”

Clyde turned back before leaving:

“LET THE CHAPERONE KNOW THE WEE LAD’S WITH ME,” he said to the remaining two men.

His footsteps trembled pendulously as he left the table behind, and the pocket shuddered as he took the dark aluminium stairway down to the ground floor,

“IT’S ALL THE SAME CREW IN VIP,” he said, as I bounced against his chest with every downward step taken, “BUT ON THE FLOOR IT’S A DIFFERENT CROWD EVERY NIGHT. SO, IF YOU WANT TO BE ANONYMOUS, YOU’RE BETTER DOWN HERE – WHERE THE FLOOR IS CUSTARD THICK – THAN YOU ARE UP THERE.”

To my surprise, we veered past the central dancefloor, busy with moving bodies and the scantily clad women gyrating on raised platforms. We were moving along the wall, avoiding the dancefloor altogether. Clyde’s voice was rumbling out of the noise:

“THOSE GIRLS ARE LOVELY BUT I PREFER THE CHALLENGE OF A WOMAN WHO IS NOT BEING PAID TO SMILE.”

Up another couple of stairs, visible in the dark only by strips of white neon light like a zebra crossing, we were on the other side of the central dancefloor area, entering a much lighter, quieter space where the acoustic was muted to bass throbbing. The walls were not hidden behind darkness and lasers, instead patches were lit up by warm orange like sodium street lamps, with a brick bar in the middle, and a pool table across to the side.

With a small bump, Clyde dropped onto a padded stool lining the bar, but immediately twisted around so his back was to the bar’s glass walled drink display. One of his fingers tapped the top of my head to subtly get my attention, as he muttered:

“WHEN I TURN AROUND: LADY, TWELVE O’CLOCK.”

Then he casually swivelled in his seat, giving me a panorama of the room: along a row of crimson seated bar stools, polished wood tabletops, and across the other side of the room, where two people were leaning against the brick wall, talking. One of these was an Asian woman with a lustrous sheet of ebony hair ending in curls at the tips. The platform pumps on her feet were striped red and white like candy.

The walls swivelled back again before Clyde said:

“HER NAME’S ZO SASAKI. SHE’S – OH! FUCK IT—!”

He hissed, jumping up like he’d been stung, and we were suddenly crossing the room at speed, then heading down a dim corridor, before a men’s room door swung out of the way and we came into a more warmly lit bathroom.

The upper half of Clyde’s enormous profile stood directly in front, reflected in the mirror, and parallel, my head and arms poking out from his breast pocket. I tried not to stare at myself, though it was hard. I loved ‘riding’ people for the adventure, but I hated seeing myself in their possession, it reminded me how tiny and helpless I was.

“SHE’S JUST LEFT,” Clyde explained.

His chest wall expanded deeply against my back as he took a big breath and let it out slowly, as if we’d just leapt out of the way of a speeding train. He seemed about to speak but the door thumped open, admitting a man who went straight into a cubicle. Clyde shifted back and forth in the mirror, and made a show of washing his hands, before the man finished up and left again. As soon as the man was gone, Clyde ripped a poster advertising safe sex off the wall, and, flipping it over against the mirror to a blank white side. His fingers rose up as if to snatch me out of the pocket, but instead withdrawing the pen, which he then used to scrawl ‘OUT OF ORDER’ in big capital letters, covering the entire poster. Then he stuck it up on the other side of the restroom door with the poster tack.

“YEAH, SO,” he was back in front of the mirror, speaking casually again as if he’d never been interrupted, “I NEED SOMEONE TO KEEP AN EYE ON HER.”  

 “You said she left.”

“GONE TO TEAR UP THE DANCEFLOOR. MARK MY WORDS; SHE’LL RETURN FOR HER SAINT LAURENT OVER-THE-SHOULDER. IT WASN’T ON HER, SO IT’S STILL AROUND HERE SOMEWHERE, PROBABLY WITH HER FRIEND.”

“Are you…” I began nervously, “…into this girl?”

“NOT SO SURE ANYMORE,” he said in a veiled way. “RIGHT NOW, I’M TRYING TO GAUGE HER COMPANY.”

His black pupils trained on me in the mirror until it made me blush.

“HAVE YOU EVER HAD A GIRL SAY SHE LOVES YOU BUT HER EYES SAY SOMETHING DIFFERENT?”

No, I wanted to say, but I’ve had a girl assure that we were ‘just really good friends’ in between smirking eyelash flutters and an ironic laugh. I got the feeling he couldn’t relate to that one. But I got the gist of what he meant, or the root of his concern. He liked a girl who hid her intentions from him. I could relate.

“Something like that.”

“THEN MAYBE YOU CAN HELP…”

“What do you want me to do?” I said, growing wary.

“GET STUCK ON ZO AND KEEP YOUR EARS OPEN FOR MENTIONS OF OTHER MEN. RUN THEIR NAMES BACK TO ME, OR ANYTHING THAT SOUNDS OUT OF PLACE. AND WHO SHE’S GOING HOME WITH, IF YOU CAN.”

“What if she catches me?”

His reflection in the mirror appraised me with a straight face:

“SAY YOU LOST YOUR WAY TO THE BATHROOM AND TRIPPED AND FELL OVER HER SHOE."

"Literally anything is more believable than that," I scoffed.

“YOU SAW THOSE WHOPPING JIMMY CHOOS,” he countered, “THEY’RE SPEED HUMPS.”

“But really…”

“SAY IT WAS A DARE,” he shrugged a shoulder. “OR DON’T EVEN MAKE A PEEP; SAVE ALL SALIENT DETAIL TO YOUR MEMORY HARDRIVE,” he said, giving the top of my head a poke, “AND TAKE THE SMARTEST COURSE OF ACTION.”

“What’s that?”

He hesitated as if he hadn’t expected that question. As if I was an idiot for even asking it.

“WHAT ANY SANE GUY HERE WOULD DO. RUN. AND JUST BETWEEN YOU AND ME, MOST OF THE GUYS HERE ARE TOTAL PUSSIES, I DON’T KNOW WHAT SHE—”

He cut himself off. Then his expression blanked and his voice calmed again.

“I CAN’T PULL THIS OFF AT MY SIZE – YOU SAW I JUST BARELY AVOIDED DETECTION. THIS IS IN YOUR LAP. YOU HAVE THE BIGGEST BALLS IN THIS PLACE, MATE, I SWEAR, OF ANYONE HERE.”

“I’m not so sure about that…” I said, wondering if that was a joke at my expense.

He raised his eyebrows.

“YOU’RE HERE. IN THIS CLUB.” he said, as if that proved it.

“But I-I…” I began, hating myself under his intense stare, “…I-I’m so tiny.”

He nodded.

“THE PERFECT NINJA.”

The Kolade was making me feel bubbly and exhilarated now. I wanted to prove him right.

“Fuck it,” I said. “I’ll do it.”