You’re in parking lot going into a store and someone descends from the sky and lights on the pavement next to you without visible mechanical or other means of enabling flying. You have seconds before they disappear into the store. Do you leave them alone, or chat them up about how they did that?
You aren’t flying, you’re on a bloody wire!
Get an hoop.
‘Oh an HHHoop.’ Thank you, your bleeding Highness.
Unless they had a device that made them disappear, I wouldn’t let them out of my sight. I’d keep pace with the person as we entered the store together, study their behavior, satisfy myself there aren’t any other hidden mechanisms or simple explanations for what I saw. Then I might ask.
Shoot him in the leg! Then ask him who the fuck he thinks he is.
Pursue! Extract secret! Politely, if possible, but MUST have the preciousssss…
I would tackle him hard and then yell “You are under citizen’s arrest for violating the laws of physics!”
I’d try and trick him into waving at me.
“Ok, that was cool. How’d you do it ?”
That tickled me greatly.
What I would do is ask him for his phone number. If he can fly, I wanna see what other mutant powers he has. Rowr.
Perhaps he was being carried by a swallow.
Personally I would wait till he came out of the store and then ask for a lift.
“Psst…didn’t ya forget the phone booth bit?”
Like turning his/her hands into talons & ripping your scrotum off, then leavinng you to die in the gutter?
No thanks.
Leave him/her be. It isn’t any of your business if he/she can fly, & if he/she does it without machines, it’s likely something exclusive to him/herself. You do not have the privilege of approving or disapproving of anybody else’s aerobatic aptitudes, if any, & it is damned insolent if you accost this person in public.
BTW–if I had opened the wardrobe to Narnia, I’ll be damned if I’d have stepped through.
I’d think to myself: “Whoa! So acid flashbacks are real!”
Then hope nobody saw me freaking out on the imaginary flying man.
You know, if this isn’t a risk you’re willing to take every once in a while… well, I just don’t know how you call that “living”.
As a true denizen of the Sydney western suburbs, I would be obliged to approach him, but there’d be only one thing I’d ask:
“Maaaaaate. You wouldn’t have a spare cigarette, would you?”
Maybe it’s already happened to poor Bosda - he/she’s sitting in a hospital bed right now, tapping on a laptop to post here in between horrifying scrotum reattachment surgery and antibiotic treatment for bugs picked up from the gutter.
Learn from **Bosda’**s mistake, people. Just say no to flying people.
I’d yell, “You aren’t really flying. I’ll bet you have lines through your wrists.”
Nope; I’d really love top be able to fly, but I’d walk or run in the opposite direction; if he’s interested in sharing his secrets with the unwashed masses, it’ll happen without my intervention; if he’s dangerous, some other sucker can find out about it.