Racconto inviato | Submitted story 7

Racconto inviato | Submitted story 7

Jacques and the Bloody Tap Shoes Conspiracy

 

It was 1990, the glorious era of shoulder pads, mullets, and mixtapes. Jacques, a Senegalese giant with muscles sculpted by the gods and a smile brighter than a disco ball, had just arrived in Dublin. He wasn’t here to study medicine or engineering like his parents hoped. No, Jacques had a dream: to become the greatest tap dancer the world had ever seen.

His feet were a work of art—moving so fast they made hummingbirds jealous. At the dance studio, he was a superstar. Posters of Jacques were plastered everywhere: Jacques: The Tap King! Jacques: Feet of Fury! Even the studio’s trophies practically bowed to his talent.

But one morning, Jacques walked into the studio and found a scene straight out of a low-budget crime thriller. The trophies were smashed, his posters defaced with what looked like ketchup (or blood, but Jacques liked to stay optimistic), and his prized tap shoes lay on the floor… covered in blood.

Beside them, a note read: “QUIT NOW OR YOU’LL BE TAPPING ON YOUR OWN GRAVE.”

Jacques squinted at the note. “Mon dieu! Who wrote this? A poet with anger issues?”

Jacques stormed off to the police, carrying the bloody shoes and the note. The officers, however, seemed more interested in his French accent than the fact that someone had left him a death threat.

“You’re French? Sacré bleu! Shouldn’t you be in Paris eating croissants?” one officer asked, snickering.

“I’m Senegalese,” Jacques replied, clenching his fists. “And I don’t even like croissants.”

Frustrated, Jacques went home, only to find his apartment turned upside down. In the middle of his living room, a dusty old gramophone played Toxic by Britney Spears on repeat.

“Okay, who threatens someone with Britney Spears? And why is this thing even working in 1990?” Jacques muttered, kicking the gramophone off with a perfectly executed tap spin.

It was official: someone wanted him out of the spotlight.

Determined to uncover the truth, Jacques decided to spy on his dance rivals. One night, he followed a group of dancers to an abandoned warehouse. Peeking through a filthy window, Jacques saw a scene so absurd it almost made him forget the blood on his shoes: a group of dancers rehearsing… wearing pink tutus, cowboy hats, and bright pink bikinis.

The worst part? They were performing his choreography!

Jacques grabbed his massive 1990s camera (which looked like a toaster with an antenna) and started filming. But just as he was sneaking away, his foot landed on something sticky—a squashed chocolate bar, or at least he hoped it was chocolate. The noise gave him away.

“HEY! IT’S THAT FRENCH GIRAFFE!” someone shouted.

And so began the most ridiculous chase in tap-dancing history.

Jacques bolted, his tap shoes clattering like a drumline on steroids. The gang of dancers chased him, their tutus and bikinis bouncing wildly. Thinking quickly, Jacques started tapping out a rhythm so catchy that his pursuers stopped mid-chase to copy him.

“STOP DANCING AND CATCH HIM!” one of them yelled, but it was too late. Jacques had already grabbed a random pie (why was there a pie in the warehouse? Who knows) and hurled it into the face of Maurice, a washed-up tap legend.

“This tastes like betrayal!” Maurice screamed, slipping on the pie and crashing into a pile of glitter.

Jacques made his escape, leaving behind a trail of chaos, bikinis, and tears.

The day of the big showcase arrived. Jacques wasn’t about to let a bunch of tutu-wearing hooligans ruin his career. Dressed in a sequined shirt that could blind a small country and a pair of backup tap shoes, he stepped onto the stage.

As Jacques danced, the audience was mesmerized. But behind the curtain, the jealous dancers were plotting. Maurice, still covered in glitter, tried to sabotage Jacques by cutting the stage lights. Instead, he tripped over a disco ball and ended up dangling upside down from the chandelier, screaming, “I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE THE TAP KING!”

Meanwhile, Jacques kept tapping, improvising moves so outrageous the audience thought it was part of the act. Finally, one of the saboteurs snapped and ran onto the stage, shouting, “IT WAS MISS O’HARA’S IDEA! WE JUST HATE HOW PERFECT HIS FEET ARE!”

The crowd gasped. Miss O’Hara, the studio’s bitter instructor, tried to make a run for it but slipped on the same glitter pile that had taken down Maurice.

Jacques bowed as the audience erupted into applause. Backstage, his phone rang.

“Hello?” Jacques answered, still catching his breath.

“Jacques, darling, it’s Elton John,” said the unmistakable voice. “I just saw your performance. Incredible! I want you on my next tour. Tutus and bikinis are mandatory, of course.”

Jacques grinned. “Only if Britney Spears can be my opening act.”

And so, Jacques became an international tap-dancing legend, proving that not even bloody shoes, jealous dancers, or a glitter-coated ex-champion could stop him from achieving his dreams.