I dreamed that I walked in the ashes of the Third World War.

I’d taken up smoking as soon as the first missile flew and Ireland split apart to reveal the children of a special friendship that went a little too far and a thousand primed heads pointed towards the moon.

I dreamed that the Conservatives burned their unearned officer’s outfits and clothed in their accents walked amongst the rabal mass of the Labourers and the shirt-chequered liberals and the nazi-coated taxi drivers.

I dreamed that a plump-faced cherub addict wavered and split and let his dog-jowled confederate lead the charge suspended from hydrogen balloons like a dragon-rider.

They stood on the shores and beat back the black-skinned Atlanteans to emerge from the water, not humans.They burst the bloated frogs and butchered the pigs who swam from their own islands.

I dreamed that I heard the screams and fell asleep to a sound like a butcher’s axe and I woke up in a desert rock sound and walked for miles and coughed that black tar from my lungs with every thirteenth step.

I came across a white-skinned figure with milky eyes sucking the moisture from the moss that grew over a tumbled statue of Billy Joel. I dreamed that this man had no arms, no legs and was completely hairless. His lips were overly-elongated, and he was a barnacle on stone and this was what humanity had done to itself, and I couldn’t bear it.

I walked the world, traversing water with the ocean on my tongue and crossing sandy plains with memories of a Joan Baez documentary rattling in my stomach and making me nervous.

I came back to the fallen city, old and wizened and ravaged by my actions and this hairless creature mocked me with its permanence and I thought of George Washington and dropped a rock on its snout and it spasmed and I could hear it choking and I let it drown on starvation and oxygen.

Dear Psychologist,

From a purely aesthetic point of view, this guy looks like a fucking freak; never mind the eroticism. I’d recommend a hearty-dose of iron, straight through the heart. Or, if you can’t get planning permission, I’ve got a furnace out back that we can use instead? I normally use it to heat the garden in summer, cos’ you know how fickle and flighty these Welsh weathers get. I found it on a website I was running some SEO for, and don’t you know they gave it to me for a discounted price? It’s a YPLC, but I wasn’t expecting the half a percent discount – if I had of done, I’d have probably upgraded to the YP9C.

Hers,

The Right Lord Honourable Sir Peter Morrison

P.S. Tell Bush I know about the legacy, and Lara Croft is looking into it, but she keeps getting killed by this Tiger demi-god every time she steps out of her front door and she’s locked her butler in the freezer again – we’ll have to cover it up; don’t want the plebs to hear.

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