Some German guy has written a number of stories about Roy Orbison wrapped in cling film. In fact, there’s no way to describe it at all, so here’s a sample:

It always starts the same way. I am in the garden airing my terrapin Jetta when he walks past my gate, that mysterious man in black. ‘Hello Roy,’ I say. ‘What are you doing in Dusseldorf?’ ‘Attending to certain matters,’ he replies. ‘Ah,’ I say. He apprises Jetta’s lines with a keen eye. ‘That is a well-groomed terrapin,’ he says. ‘Her name is Jetta.’ I say. ‘Perhaps you would like to come inside?’ ‘Very well.’ He says. Roy Orbison walks inside my house and sits down on my couch. We talk urbanely of various issues of the day. Presently I say, ‘Perhaps you would like to see my cling-film?’ ‘By all means.’ I cannot see his eyes through his trademark dark glasses and I have no idea if he is merely being polite or if he genuinely has an interest in cling-film. I bring it from the kitchen, all the rolls of it. ‘I have a surprising amount of clingfilm,’ I say with a nervous laugh. Roy merely nods. ‘I estimate I must have nearly a kilometre in the kitchen alone.’ ‘As much as that?’ He says in surprise. ‘So.’ ‘Mind you, people do not realize how much is on each roll. I bet that with a single roll alone I could wrap you up entirely.’ Roy Orbison sits impassively like a monochrome Buddha. My palms are sweaty. ‘I will take that bet,’ says Roy. ‘If you succeed I will give you tickets to my new concert. If you fail I will take Jetta, as a lesson to you not to speak boastfully.’ from the first such story