A frosty morning in the smog drenched capital rears its frozen head. The cogs of society loom over the jaded populus, ominously turning, slowly, but with an unmatched resolve. The jet black tarmac groans under the weight of its metallic masters. The gnarled feet of repression dance on the grey clouds. The starlings and magpies swoop gracefully past the spotless windows of rusty cages, unaware, bathing in the long forgotten juices of untainted freedom, unaware.
The most powerful man in a one metre radius, Jaques Crampgut, sits at a government sponsored desk, wondering if anyone will notice if he uses the office scissors to trim his overgrown fingernails. They probably will, but he does it anyway. Bespectacled line manager Lea Sookhoo sits hunched over his Dell flatscreen, picking at the pixels like discarded pennies on a dusty backstreet. He, like many others, is under the naive impression that Jaques is entering NHSP results from the morning clinic at HR00 onto eSP while clearing the transfer list and updating the NHSSAS, but in the cold unforgiving light of reality, he is writing gully bars to a brand new Naive beat that would blow your nose off if you only had the guts to look it dead in the face.
Rinseout Friday, a snotty soldier on a grassy hillside in 1604 AD, just waiting for the order to charge, fingers twitching, wrapped around a gleaming blade.
Coming soon.
How gay was that?
Its quarter past twelve anyway, time for a grette break, fuck you motherfuckers.
