Fire in the Belly - Original Writing It starts with a swallowing. Out of work a minute or two early gives you the edge over the competition. Travelcard in hand, fingers twitching like an addict on the edge of cold turkey, you move straight for the nearest gate. The smooth action you've practiced a thousand times allows you entry. You are faster than the others, more deft in your passage, the ninja commuter. You take the left hand side of the escalator, faintly aware that a tourist will block your descent, unfamiliar with London's rules of engagement. Not today though, your path is clear, despite the person in front of you who slows to a stop a good ten steps before the end. He is a lesser species of traveller, he does not know or cannot understand the minutiae of nerve reflex required for a swift transition from escalator to floor. Applying a small degree of telekinesis you slow the oncoming train to give you time to reach your favourite spot. The place where these other fools will watch the doors open right in front of you, whilst they face the dirty perspex of a carriage window. You reach out with your mind, connecting with the driver, willing him to slow in perfect unison with your positioning. You wait. One minute on the underground can be an eternity. You will be the first to know of its arrival, you will sense it, taste it on the wind, oiled and dry, feel the vibration, hear its rumble and see its light. The other passengers around you will only notice its arrival at the tunnel's edge, they will not know of its life in the dark. You see that they are not aware, they do not know the ways of the tube, they are mindless of the mechanical monsters. You are a true traveller, you understand the lore, the gaps in the aisles, the signs and signals of the life in every lurching rock and braking curve. You know where seating is most likely, you can pick out those who will