Wednesday, November 30, 2016


except the first eleven...

John Lee Hooker Jelly Roll  
Eleanor Rigby Mark Kermode 
Spencer Davis Eric Sykes 
Esther Ranzten Jesus Christ  

Angela Merkel Sister Bliss 
Tony Hancock Charlie Chuck 
Neneh Cherry Yoko Ono
Isi Noho Muzzi Izzet 
Emile Heskey Luther Blisset 
Lucy Parsons Perry Mason 
Googie Withers David Jason 
Marmalade Atkins Maxim Gorky  
Mhairi Black Stephen Hawking 
Imelda Marcos Indira Ghandi 
David Hockney Andy Pandy 
Rosa Luxembourg Rosa Parkes
Julie Andrews Petula Clarke 

Miguel de Unamuno Kasuo Ishiguro 
Kenzaburo Oe Richard Madeley 
Liam Brady Harry Palmer 
Douglas Bader Mack The Knife 
Emma Goldman Mozzam Begg 
Barrack Obama Doctor Legg 
Stanley Kubrick Big Bill Werbeniuk
Osama Bin Laden Mimi Van Doren Jeremy Corbyn 
Arthur Daley Alex Higgins 
Dr. Jekyll Michael Stipe 

Nicola Sturgeon Bessie Smith 
Siouxsie Sioux Sharon Stone 
Beryl Reid Calvin Klein 
Bazooka Joe Ronnie Lane 
Mott The Hoople Kwai Chang Caine 
Giannina Maradonna Claudia Schiffer 
Silvio Berlusconi Lena Zavaroni  
Snobby Roberts  Katy Perry Haile Berry 
Charles Bukowski Henry Chinaski  
Greg Rusedski Konstantin Stanislavski
Keyser Söze László Bíró  
Edna O'Brien Darren Bent 
Julian Clary Norman Lamont 

Mickey Mouse Minnie Driver 
Jeremy Clarkson Malcolm X 
Johnny Rotten John Lydon
Judy Finnegan Homer Simpson
Chairman Mao Manu Chao 
Lady Chatterley Marie (Skłodowska) Curie
Larry Grayson Grayson Perry 
Lee "Scratch Scratch Scratch" 
Perry Como Larry Sanders 
Gary Shandling Moll Flanders 
Col. Sanders French & Saunders
Oor Wullie Billy Holliday 
Bradley Wiggins Morwena Banks
Prince Buster Bloodvessel  
Shabba Ranks (Shabba!) 

Inspector Gadget Lieutenant Columbo 
Sgt. Pepper Col. Mustard 
General Motors Capt. Bligh 
Moby Dick Dastardly & Mutley 
Cagney & Lacey 
Thelma & Louise
Officer Dibble Jimmy Riddle 
Nelson Mandela Mother Teresa 
La Pasionara Salvador Dalai Lama 
Rafa Nadal Bananarama 
Sgt. Bilko Steven Biko 
Dave Dee Dozy Beaky 
Mick & Keef Joseph Conrad 
Buster Gonad Tyson Fury
Suzanna Vega Elliot Ness
Thomas Midgley Mr. Wrigley
Michelle Shocked Vincent Van Gogh 
Minnie The Minx Robert The Bruce 
Atilla The Stockbroker Dr. Spock 

Mr. Wendel Mr Whippy
Lisa McKenzie Leon Trotsky Winston Lennon 

Noam Chomsky Antonio Gramsci 
Normski Beyoncé Adamski
Fyodor Dostoevsky 

Ziggy Marley Iggy Pop Ziggy Stardust 


You're killing yourself.

- Yeah, I know I am.





Monday, November 21, 2016


Please allow plenty of time to complete the forms

and to collate the information

that you shall need to support your application

to die

Please give at least one months' notice of the death

Please contact the Office of Ex-human Resources

beforehand in order to arrange the demise

Please tick here

if the deceased requires an afterlife clause

Please do take the time to perish thoroughly

and remember to check with your local authority;

some accept corpses in the green bin, others do not

Please do not become defunct in the loading bay

Please replace the handset and die again

Please place your death in the bagging area

Please extinguish all breath before the deadline

Please do not miss the deadline
or you will incur a penalty

Please return the Step Up To The Pledge!

sponsored death forms by Mar 31st

(if reg. UK taxpayer you can claim 25% more!)

Please note: one month following the deadline

Google Death* will automatically alert

"trusted contacts" of your earthly departure

by either social media via text message

For elderly demisers, please make cheques payable to:

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PO Box 20

Skelmersdale WN8 6WT

Please seal your kidneys/pancreas/liver*

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and pop it in the bin at your nearest



Please sign the petition

To help stop this happening at stopdeath/

 * Please ensure vital organs are packaged individually

& placed in the appropriate baggage, marked “unemotional”


Sat on the deck in a t-shirt
watching the Arctic melt

Sat on the deck in a t-shirt
watching the Arctic melt

WD40's three quid a can
DP60's a pound a tin in B&M

Yes, we can 
Yes, we can
Yes, we can bomb Pakistan
Afghanistan Iraq

Who pressed the Aleppo Button?

It does exactly what it says on the tin:

The Hitler Youth wing of the Tory Party
has been accused of sociopathy

Now then, now then, now then!
A strong economy starts with a strong defence

They need people to die

There's a farm where they clone chief execs - 
the guilt emotion replaced by a lump of jelly
and a lexicon of jargon, going forward... 

They need people to die

Sat on the deck in a t-shirt
watching the Arctic melt

Sat on the deck in a t-shirt
watching the Arctic melt

It's corrosive now
It can only get toxic
Cut it out. Move on.
Severed connections
Wash your hands. Job done
Put the WD40 away

Who pressed the Aleppo Button?

700,000 they needed to die

Changed his name to Gomez
in the long run
healthier for the both of you  
no to

sucks big fat pants
at £6 a pair
made by midgets
kept in jars
and fed maggots
by psychopaths

Blustery, windy but surprisingly mild,
going forward...

Sat on the deck in a t-shirt
watching the Arctic melt

Sat on the deck in a t-shirt
watching the Arctic melt

We've found the feminist sub-text
It was buried under a mound of laundry

We're freaked out by our own normalcy
We've normalised the weird
We've skied in Dubai in June
We've basked in Abu Dhabi heat in Aberdeen
as Macronesia sinks to its knees

Collectively, we've cocked up
Some more than most
Scatologically, we bathe our gentialia
in fizzy bottled water because we can

Yes, we can 
Yes, we can
Yes, we can bomb Pakistan
Syria Libya Gaza

A plastic ocean of toxins
at 5p a bag
Now the chlorine gas has subsided
Phosphate falls from the sky
700,000 lost souls forever

They need people to die

Who pressed the Aleppo Button?

Four Tet on the jukebox
Life beats on on Radio One
Black Friday has gone 
to meet its maker 
Hay fever in December
7.4. million online orders in one day

And the Congo at war since 1962
As the chief exec upscales  
and rallies his ground troops
and Amazon drones
for the Christmas invasion, going forward...

Ramadam Mubarak

They need people to BUY...

Sat on the deck in a t-shirt
watching the Arctic melt

Sat on the deck in a t-shirt
watching the Arctic melt

Saturday, November 05, 2016


This is the day we will forget

It’s 11 o’clock on the 11
th of the 11th
It is time for all to remain silent
for a minute or more
for the many
who lost their heads
to amnesia to empire to history

Today is the day a decent person

ignores the memory
of the non-people who never lived 
Stories of indiscriminate slaughter
of Malaysian and Kenyan villagers
in forgotten wars
are not the source of self-righteous remembrance

No solace is sought
for those whose commemoration
would be a political act of treachery
Now is not the moment to contemplate
unsavoury truths or entertain extremist views
to point-score, to muck-rake

This is the day we bury those deaths
At 11 o’clock of the 11th month
Scots Guards will not go rogue
And innocent throats will not be cut
There will be no recall of ISIS-style massacres

No recollection of famines
torture, brutality, Bloody Sundays
British gulags or concentration camps

Now is not the time for Mau Mau
Because 1948 is not 1916
The Easter is falling; winter is rising

This is the day to neglect
the poppy fields of Afghanistan
where the Help For Heroine programme
opiates the local economy
in the name of peace and freedom...
and the liberation of women

Today is the day we listen
To Elgar and comply
Lest we forget
To forgive the crimes committed by
The Great and the Good
The dead are honoured,
but those they killed are not

The merchants of death have prospered
The Blair Witch Project 
dares to wear its poppy
Here lies Anthony
like Margaret and Winston before
Try not to wretch;
Contain your alienation
This is the day to hold your nose
And think of the fallen and the nation

The fabrication of propaganda
is not on the agenda
The fabrication of propaganda 
is not on the agenda
This is not the moment
to resurrect the memory
Of sexed-up excuses for outright murder
With impunity and arrogance
In the name of profit and power

Which way did The Belgrano go? No!
Now is not the time to ask
Now they’re all dead;
Lest we forget

This is the day the stories 
of other heroes are silenced
This is the day to belittle
the bravery of those loathe
To kill and to die in the name of a flag
And a face on a bank note

This is the day to remember

Or this is the day we will forget

Tuesday, November 01, 2016


When we remember
the people who were killed
killing the people we forget

We forget to remember
that right now
there are people who don't count
being killed by people

who won't count the people they are killing

So that most people will forget
to remember most of the dead
most of the time 

and Remembrance Day
is when this is mostly forgotten




Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori… etc etc etc  

Drunk with fatigue like beggars under sacks

Obscene as cancer… Quick boys! GAS Gas Gas!

Think of us when you turn on the tap

Reflect on the horror… etc etc etc  

The sea of blood is deafening

The metaphors mix with the crowds

as they throng and take selfies

Think of us when you turn on the podcast

It is quite overwhelming!

Great in both senses of the word

Great great uncle Harry

You lot have missed a treat!

What we've seen today

We are the privileged few

The many who come for remembrance

Why would you not come too? 

More snaps.  More selfies

The last poppy’s just been planted

Ceramic.  Artistic.  Collectable.

So many people taking photos

And look at the crowds!

Just turn way from the poppies for a moment

It is important to remember that all this

was made to honour the fallen


Much more impressive than anything ever

The sheer number of poppies

has really brought it home

To see in the flesh. In paper and plastic. In ceramic

To remember the dead

There's nothing like the real thing

To see in the flesh. In paper and plastic. In ceramic.

The red. The blood red deafening sea. See the sea!

Thousands and thousands of poppies

It's humbling! It's incredible! It's really really moving!

We were there a 100 years. Watching it grow

It's been absolutely gorgeous! It's beautiful!

Massive. Ambitious. Fitting. Congratulations!

It's been an experience,  a journey...

We broke down in training last week. Stress

It's been really really  really  moving

We all support the military whichever way we can

These guys do a great job. Amazing

We ain't ashamed of our PTSD. Emotional

We couldn't switch off. We kept losing our rags

Our wives could see the poppies in our veins

We were leaders of men. Beautiful!


We've recently joined the cadet force

We're British and we're proud

Of this country and its empire nations

And that's what they fought for!

We've passed the message on

We observed the silence at 11 o'clock

and got all the children to do it too

Life's like that. 

Two of our great uncles died in the Somme

in a volley of Sassoon and Owen

We were 16 when we lied about our age

We love being in the Parachute Regiment

It's the best job in the world!

It is the job of the poet to show you the wounds

It is the poppy that kills the pain

The war to end all wars






November 11. BBC Radio 4. The great, who almost never have to die, and the good, who almost always have to kill, were awaiting the eleventh hour. The wail of the bagpipers playing Flowers of The Forest gave way to Elgar.

Enigma Variations is it? I’ll give you variation.

The Reverend Gerald Ambrosia cursed. He wished he'd invested in one of those gizmos that turns old vinyl into CDs. He wouldn’t be rooting around in cardboard boxes for his pirate copy of Never Mind The Bollocks… just seconds before the two-minute Remembrance Sunday silence he intended to puncture over the village hall’s PA system he’d linked up via the headphone socket from his multimedia PC amp to the ghetto blaster he’d had since before entering Roehampton Theological College. It was the Reverend’s conviction that warmongers laid wreaths like serial monogamists did sexual partners. Inveterate pacifists like him, on the other hand, played punk rock.

If we don't believe in honouring their dead too, we don't believe in honour at all. It isn't silence we need. As we move toward this solemn act of collective amnesia, a kick up the jacksy is required. Now where the hell was Anarchy... Ah ha!

The Bombay Africans had been responsible for carrying her great-grandfather’s corpse back from the Old Dispensary in Stone Town Zanzibar all the way to the parish of St Mary & St Michael Impington in a coffin improvised from a Lipton’s tea crate. As she peered around the door, the rehabilitated image of Lord Kitchener who wanted her to attend last week's Royal British Legion tombola in the interests of national security caught her eye. Patience William Viola Francis Pimberton averted her gaze to escape the guilt. She skipped into the main hall, not even dimly aware of the po-going vicar who had recently launched a gob of spittle towards the picture of Capt. Canon Geoffrey Pimberton.

Having shunned the Cenotaph ceremony, Patience, wearing a home-made white poppy, had popped into the village hall to look for her gloves mislaid at the previous evening’s Tibetan storytelling, when she intercepted the reverential phlegm. It wasn’t quite the opening I’ve-always-secretly-loved-you-Patience gambit she had hoped for, but she was prepared to work with whatever came her way.

Tuesday, October 25, 2016



Aloud he reads the embossed brass words on the side of a titanic cabinet of teak in the corner of the study:
Guaranteed to satiate even the most avid onanist.

- Once again Professor, as a self-educated slum-dwelt poodle-faker, I'll have to admit to a shortfall in my vocabulary...
- Wanker!

- Man alive. Need you be so personal Professor? I merely confess to lexical shortcomings...

- Beg pardon, dear boy, but the vernacular is most apt. Onanism is self-pleasure. Masturbation, soloist of the five-fingered symphony, diddling on the pink oboe, buffering of the bishopric... in short, wanking in the classical mould.

- Well my name ain't Stigg Nibbs, if I ain't ever seen nothin' in all my puff so peculiar as that there gargantuan wooden contraption of tubes and lights, if all it does is what I does to meself... whenever I gets my hands on Uncle Arthur's mucky postcards.

-Flapdoodle and piffle. The Condominator is a concinnity of steampunk and erogenous manipulation, a concoction of aromatherapeutic oils, cannabis sativa, salvia divinorum and gin.

- Gin?!
- Capital stuff. Mind, none but the driest of London Gins from Finsbury's finest distillers. The adulterated muck those scallywags serve up down the jerry shops will not suffice.

An influence of great moment in forming the character of young Stigg Nibbs is the good professor whose offer of lodgings, temporary employment and status, however minor, has helped indubitably.

The humanity of Nibbs constantly manifests itself in a sunny disposition that borders on a personality disorder in the days before personalities are allowed to disorder themselves all over the upholstery. Nibbs' capacity to re-frame the negative is in direct proportion to his misfortune. And to this, a propensity towards hedonism further contributes by reason of the passionate, the mercurial and the temperamental traits with which all rapscallion foils are endowed: to whit, mild dipsomania, fiscal irregularities and a louche disregard for the rights of property and good grammar, thank the skies.
Arf' an' arf at two in the afternoon then, should come as no grande surprise.

Nibbs and the venerable professor have patronised several a hush shop and jerry house in search of unsavoury souls to feed into the latest preposterously unlikely invention. Yet soused in character exposition, and not to mention, Dr. Quinlan Lustbader's Unmentionably Brilliant Steam Ale, an ale of a quality and quantity as to be best consumed uncountably, they have omitted to solicit the morning's quarry.
- I have no intention of guinea pigging again, professor, even though it might be said I tend towards the salacious on occasion.

- The guinea pig is an unfortunate creature Nibbs. You are far far luckier. Besides squalid laboratory rodents infect the outcome.

- I dare say, continues Professor Cucumber, you would rather a stiff gin, a reefer and a go in the Condominator, would you not?
Almost before Nibbs nods his casual assent, a siren ushers him into the vapour-powered machine and all tender thoughts are doused in steam, crunched by mechanical whirring and plastered in 13pt Helvetica.

HELLAY! This is London Calling. London Calling. This is the voice of telephonically transmitted tiffin. Please relax and unbutton your strides....

As picaresque roguery is incarcerated in automotive sexual congress, the Professor becomes partial to a roasted shelled peanut and intercourse with intelligently evolved simians.
When not running amok with the Professor's nitrous oxide and moustache waxer, Wallace Rankin IV is not averse to the occasional buttock rub.

- Stop scratching your arse Wallace and pass me the monkey nuts.
Rankin the ape mimes back to the Professor. The Bird, as latter day sign linguists know it; the middle digit of dissent.
First witnessing discourse between the animal and the professor tickled Nibbs' pink no end. As opposed to the present, where Stigg Nibbs' pink end is undergoing the tickle, so to speak.

- You have to understand the ape's perspective. Language obstructs and obfuscates. Our compulsion for note-taking is mere obsession... the noises that emanate from our mouths... I have merely taught him how to read the signs, shouted the professor once or twice through his hyper-phone.

-Short of loud hailing over the infernal row of clunking and vaporisation, mime, as I think Wallace and I have demonstrated, has the advantage over verbal communication of being largely audible –and clear.

As Wallace Rankin IV actualises a charade involving the taking of tiffin telephonically with a young lady of indeterminate status attached to a series of cables, Stigg Nibbs emerges from The Condominator. His wide eyes and rigid expression register all the naturalism required as the noisy contraption kicks into gear anew. Wallace shrugs a question professor-ward.

- The Condominator is off now Wallace. The noises? I imagine them to be the agreeable sounds of the ready-reckoning accountorator - doubtless about to fabricate your factorum young man.

- Professor? queried Nibbs.

- The bill of fare. The spondulix. The tin, the chink, the filthy lucre. The whole affair needs to be afternoonified with a cash payment. You can't make a quail egg by breaking omelettes. Where do you think those Fortnum & Mason's hampers come from? When the Charing Cross & Londonium Utility Company forward their remittance, you had better to have purloined several score of customers.

Wallace hands Cucumber the factorum.

- Accountorator reckons we charge a guinea a go? What say you?

It occurs to Nibbs that if he is to ply a purveyance to procure punters for Professor Cucumber's splendid invention, he would do well to invest in a brand new cant of togs so that he should feel properly groomed for the purpose.

- Professor? , what attire does the aspirant steampunk pimp don?

Wallace sniffs his finger and awaits further intelligent instruction.


Afresh begins the adventure. Ajar is the door on The Condominator. Agog is the phizzog of Stigg Nibbs. Akimbo are the limbs of Wallace Rankin IV so that he resembles nothing so much as a pair of misshapen izzards. Abroad the apprentice, the ape and the humongous contraption are about to venture in perambulation through the streets of the metropolis like a couple of fruitless costermongers.

Agape is the blabber of Professor Benedict L. Cucumber, as if Eleanor Marx-Aveling's father's friend and patron Herr Friedrich Engels' is in the room, circa The Condition of the Working Class in England [Leipzig Ed.]

- Next to intemperance in the imbibing of inebriating liquors...

- Don't know about that Professor. There's so little proof in the watered down mecks we gets in the jerry shops, wouldn't get a chavvy tight... intervenes Nibbs.

Askance the professor regards Nibbs until he desists, then resumes thus: "By virtue of the perpetually shifting environs which the proletariat inhabits, one of the principal pursuits of the English working man, aside from intoxicating bark juice of varying quality, is sexual licence."

- Is that to be wondered at, Professor? Adds Nibbs, rhetorically.

- Dash my wig, Nibbs. Will you remain taciturn for half a mo'?

- .... Nibbs responds not.

- How many a poor wretch owe any living to speak of to the seduction of the bourgeois, who for once in his life does his fair share in financing the trade... rants Cucumber.

Too many verbal signifiers for Wallace Rankin IV whose grasp of grammar renders the ape capable of generating a cogent intervention none the less. As the professor goes on, and on, he motions to fetch the teapot, every bit the transformational chimpskyan.

- The covertly licentious English gentleman has the effrontery to reproach the sexual brutality of the worker whose sisters and daughters the bourgeois maintains in bondage...
The ape flashes his ten digits five times at the professor and Nibbs. He points at the packet of speciality tea and, eyebrows raised, nods his head in anticipation of a riposte.

- What's that Wallace? 50 cups of Earl Grey? I should coco.

Wallace grimaces, closes his eyes and shakes his head.

Averse to uninvited commentary, Nibbs, abashed into silence by a further look from the professor, resolves to speak no evil too.

- Notwithstanding the hypocrisy of the bourgeoisie, when a worker can purchase few and only the most sensual of delights, there develops an unbridled thirst for the pleasure of the moment. So, for want of providence gentlemen, I suggest you journey to the East End. For they are almost wholly without ethical education and have a love for finery, and in consequence of these two influences their moral condition is most deplorable, and excess of tiffin epidemic amongst them.  

The Condominator shall be the instrument by means of which the working girl shall liberate herself from sexual enslavement. Sex workers of the realm unite! You have nothing to lose but your whips and chains!

His personal journey from philistine to ospimath owes a debt of gratitude to the professor, who has mentored Stigg Nibbs beyond the corral of the three R's. Yet Nibbs knows his bounds when it comes to professorial lecturing, as it seems does Wallace.
In a classic illustration of cross-species yawn contagion, Nibbs feels his jaw tense in anticipation of a big yawn, as he eyes the ape whose gape widens, not in an attempt to catch flying insects, as Nibbs has often observed, but in a riotous act of pandiculation. Yawning and stretching in reaction to the Marxian flap doodler, Wallace's restlessness is infectious.

As both ape and youth know only too well, once Cucumber has the threepenny bit between his teeth, until the rule of property is at an end, there will be no halting him.
Looks exchanged. They both edge out backwards through the In door until backing into The Condominator, astride of which they hop. Adrift of the lecture, atop the most lascivious mechanical device ever devised, only latterly supplanted by Dr. Heywood Konisberg's World-Famous Orgasmatron, the pair set the controls for the heart of Whitechapel. Only to remember that The Condominator is powered externally by the free-propulsion principle, a rule of thumb encapsulated by Professor Cucumber as:
-Who do you think I am? Karl Benz! Get out and push.

It is going to be a while before internal combustion. So, off they shove.

Professor Cucumber's domestic extremism climaxes, alone, again:

-.....owing to the abundance of hot Irish blood that flows in the veins of the English worker... it must always be kept in mind the social war is avowedly raging in England's urban pastures...

Awake awhile will the professor be, as the laudanum opioid works up a head of steam. A handle apiece take Wallace and Nibbs in search of their own surplus motive force. Finally, they break free from standstill. Nibbs strikes up a tune. Aghast is Wallace. Ahead they go.

"Oh Susanna is a sex worker
and she makes love to me
But Johnny is shoe-maker
and he get his for free
with his kisses and his cunnilingus...
etc etc."

3. East End's Up West. 

Until further notice, glimpse into an as yet unwritten future. It shall have to suffice:

A sample of Royal jism. Mercedes Benz comes out of the garage and she almost collides with the professor. Up West. But Nibbs and ape have gone East.

Dorothea Elizalittle's dad: "How much? You must be having a lark! For half a florin I could have sex with the entire street. This is Whitechapel. 18.48. "

Wallace looks at his timepiece. Almost ten minutes to seven. Dream time.


"With good reason, the reason they consider theirs alone, are we nervous of the walking chimpanzees that scatter death as so many words in the jungle. They make us nervous, the walking chimps, especially when calm, as they sight their kill sticks on the forest floor. Metal glints. Light glistens. Sound rustles. Skin sweats. Sweat smells. Remember, the higher up the tree the primate climbs, the more of his arse is exposed to public view. Hope you've got your pith helmet on, dear chap. There's more to evolution than just losing your tails. Slabs of meat. Man v mandrill. Mandrillus sphinx is burnt on the steak. Higher primate slaughters higher primate and back for a cuppa PG Tips with your favourite teatime chimpanzee and a solitary female walker, upright, but bent double, smiling, despite her slavitude, picking bush, with extra typhoid, OO! OO! OO! And we're practically family and all. Family feuds ain't fair pa. We don't got no kill sticks. The two-thumbed males shake killsticks around like wild penises, hit or miss, randomized, wide of the mark! Bang on target! It seems to matter not. They even kill stick their own, for pieces of paper. Their paper pieces give power. Of a kind. The tall dark walking chimp in the colourful clothes contorts his kill stick and reins in his wild penis on behalf of the half-sized light-skin with the pith helmet atop his head, a huge testament of his sexual potency, an open display of genitalia. That's why it's better to big up the belch voice, as we say. We wait in the undergrowth, with grr grr growing impatience, we wait to utter the large one, as they corral the dogs that sniff, scratch, snort, and snitch. We wait. Grr, grr, grunt, growl, grr. Shh! shh shh shh...The walking females who do not wave kill sticks, the soft-skins know how to belch voice. Woe betide the kill stick wielder who wanders into my manor. I'm ready. I've been reading up on the walkers. Upright power. Show me the secret of man's red desire in the heart of the flame. Fire. Fire. FIRE!! The kill stick misses and you fail. Don't make me laugh. LOLZ. HA HA HA! The BIG WORD is more powerful than paper notes. The pieces carry word. The word is on the paper. It registers an act of faith, not reason. Faith governs their minds. I promise to pay the bearer. It reads. I read. I read the promise. Break the promise. Break the bond. I read. I write. I have script. I wield power. The next runty pith helmeted gimp that belch voices an order to kill stick with weedy reedy larynx is going to get it. Primal scream in your face. Remember, life is a drama, not a documentary. Gorillas in the mist. Pah! You Tube taxidermy. Tch! King Kong. Meh! Giant anthropoid takes on New York City only to fall in love with a teeny tiny screechy squirmer who can't even belch voice. Purleese! What about gritty naturalism? I'll give you the drama of the moment. I refuse to be a mounted specimen. I have BIG WORD! Meet my gaze Mr. Elizalittle, pipe, gin and slippers strewn across the drawing room floor. Listen carelessly to my best Gorilla speak in CAPS LOCK! The power of THUNDER. Earth TREMBLES. MUttering RollING Rages. HIDeous DISTotTRionS. GIVE VEnt GIVE VEtn GIVEVenT!! GRRR! RoORR! #ferociousfacebook Now wHO's NeRVouS?..."

Tail in suspension due to incompleation.