It’s rare a thing dies when you want. Emily saw the red in her head. It was a
circling. It was thief. It was a bicycle thrown downhill in a torrent of firing. Dash,
I’m the man with the cash. I mean, the God. The black helicopter following me
has a matte-black finish. Its wingspan is massive. This is a whirlybird with a
vengeance. Oh shit, oh fuck, oh no.
Vlad Pitt the Elder’s just landed in my soup. And he’s squinting up at me. And
he’s so adorable. Like a drowned puppy. “You are my saviour,” I coo, like a
duck. And then gulp him down.
Outside, it’s empire. Circa 1800. The ships are laden. The cows all bronzed in
humiliation. My moustache, trembling, like ships from a sinking rat. We shone
like the planet teems.
Such lace undergarments as to be—what?—toss, tempting and teasing me.