Run for your life.

I’m going to be a pacemaker in a 5,000-metre race at the Diamond League. The plan is for me to set the pace that will help the guys break a new world record. I’m neither fit enough nor technically skilled for the job, but it’s been a childhood dream of mine to take part in a major athletic competition. The Diamond League management turned out to have a relationship with bribes that’s as unproblematic as FIFA’s. When I promised them a little social media stardust in return, they gave me the green light.

Weltklasse in Zurich is the magnificent stadium where I walk in, side by side with the world’s elite, greeted by the cheers of 25,000 spectators. The runners have been warming up on a side arena, where they’ve stretched, had massages, and practised mental exercises. I, on the other hand, have been warming up in a car with the seat heater on full blast, eating an extra-large meal of ultra-processed junk food. Inside the stadium, I wander around with chips and mayonnaise, trying to make small talk with the runners. It doesn’t go well – they’re as nervous as racehorses and completely focused on the event. They stretch, bounce lightly on their feet, or stare blankly into the distance. A steward asks us to line up at the starting line. I throw my food onto the grass and take my place on the line with the others. The scent of adrenaline is tangible in the air as the murmur of the crowd quietens. The starting gun is raised just as I calmly take out my phone.

Suddenly, the gun fires, and the race begins. The crowd roars, and the runners take off at full speed. I remain standing and watch the race on the big screen. The small TV camera on rails running along the track follows the runners closely. What no one knows is that the night before, I installed a small but powerful speaker on the camera, audible only to the runners. I now activate it from my phone. A distorted collage of sounds blares out: a rabid pack of growling wolves, which then transitions into Trump’s imbecilic ramblings mixed with the sound of screaming pigs on their way to slaughter. The effect on the runners is immediate – they pick up the pace. Then comes a hellish screeching noise of a train braking and the rattle of machine-gun fire. Hitler’s yelling voice is heard screaming “Ausländer raus!” The runners glance nervously behind them and shift into an even higher gear. Then Trump’s voice returns, panting exaggeratedly, giving the impression he’s getting closer and closer. “Grab ’em by the pussy, grab ’em by the pussy, grab ’em by the pussy!!” The runners sprint desperately at full throttle as the soundscape shifts to detonating landmines, whistling rubber bullets, and the snapping jaws of wolves.

Afterwards, I have a meeting with the head of the Diamond League. He’s conflicted about my performance as a pacemaker.

-How can you be, after a new world record? I ask, confused.

-It’s not the result I dislike; it’s the method. The food sponsors also thought it was distasteful that everyone vomited after the finish.

-You got the highest minimum performance in a race ever – every runner outdid themselves. What more could you want?

-I just think there must be other ways.

-This is modern, I reply irritably. In the past, you could motivate people with positive things. A dream, a vision, or a role model. Today, that path is completely closed. There’s nothing positive left that motivates people anymore. All that remains is fear and the flight impulse. I made them run for their lives, as if there were no tomorrow. Which is both effective and true.

-So what you’re saying is I no longer need to offer a million pounds in prize money? he says, suddenly looking far less sceptical.

-What about the other events? he continues, intrigued.

-I haven’t thought it all through yet, but I believe, for instance, you could link the high jump bar to a bomb that detonates at home with their loved ones if they knock it down.

-This feels really good, he says. I look forward to a long partnership with you.

-Likewise, I reply, noting that he has an erection.