The year was 2027.
By this time, all human spleens had become sentient. Not just sentient but… aroused.
And not just angry. They were worse. So much worse. They were needlessly verbose.
Into this half-destroyed, half ruined, half zebra, half baseball bat in a trifle you’d been particularly looking forward to future loomed one man.
That man was… Scott DeathBoy’s hangover.
He had been seen before, when times were tough. Legend had it that if the chips were down and the voles went sideways and small orange things lovingly referred to as ‘Secret Keith’ had gone entirely coplanar, Scott DeathBoy’s hangover would erupt. Arrive. Arrive and erupt.
He’d be there and somewhat agitated is what we’re saying. Like a hovercraft in a plant shop.
As the crisp, moist, flaccid leaves blew luxuriously across the meadow of the tiny anthropomorphic rat monkeys, remarkably many of which were unaccountably called Steve, Scott DeathBoy’s hangover surveyed the damage wrought on the town by a decade of vicious - yet erotic - attacks by the local clergy.
Time had been cruel to the meadow of the tiny anthropomorphic rat monkey badgers, remarkably many of which were unaccountably called Steve. Taxation had reached a level of hubris hitherto only glimpsed by people putting on shoes they really should have stopped wearing several years ago in Camden when they used to draw complicated circuit diagrams on their chins and call themselves the Duke of Chambourcy and go out on the lash every Tuesday at a club made to look like the inside of a jackdaw. Yet until now, Secret Keith had still retained a degree of multidimensionality, occasionally protruding into the z-axis at a rakish angle if you left out a saucer of milk and cooed lovingly into a cunningly glazed trumpet.
And yet even here, in this idyllic custom horse retina, free this week with every copy of the Radio and TV Times, it was clear that nothing was built to last. Nothing, especially not idly discarded punnets of Dairylea.
The local baboon outlet had built its entire warehousing infrastructure out of a vast reservoir of Dairylea, supposedly obtained from a nearby ghost who went by the name of Aunty Pimlico. Aunty Pimlico was wise, yet capricious. She was known to be powerful, yet also wildly arbitrary. Some quietly mentioned that she was even considered Greek, yet unusually fluent in Jamaican dancehall patois. Still further people genuinely not invited to furnish anybody with an opinion maintained that she wore a series of moustaches that could only be described as… fractal.
So it came to pass, that in the neighbouring meadow of the tiny anthropomorphic rat monkey fish badgers, remarkably many of which were unaccountably called Steve, a great hunger was felt. A hunger that could not be sated by conventional means. A hunger that could not be sated by food. A hunger that could not be sated by tickling its chin a bit and blowing gently up its arse until a flute-like melody emerged. A hunger which, upon further inspection was not actually anything resembling a hunger, but seemed more likely to be a vole.
And that vole was Scott DeathBoy’s hangover.
Scott DeathBoy’s hangover had strolled into the highrise, low-rent skyscraper multistorey car park meadow of the tiny anthropomorphic rat monkey fish badger kestrels, remarkably many of which were unaccountably called Steve wearing only a hat and a terrifying erection. And a suit.
He stood there, glowing faintly in the direction of Kent, humming the theme tune to Automan and announced wildly and in a newly minted dialect of Hungarian Welsh that This Shit Was Going to End Here, Lady.
There had been no ladies in the gentrified, nouveau-riche rooftop garden meadow of the tiny anthropomorphic rat monkey fish badger kestrel horses, remarkably many of which were unaccountably called Steve since the year jazz died and everybody knew it. Scott DeathBoy’s hangover’s statement was rhetorical.
Finally, though, and with a crushing yet nuanced narrative flourish which leaves the reader both impressed and physically moist at the promise of a denouement, the terrifying (yet erotic) conflict at the heart of this utopian philosophical treatise was resolved with a single click of the fingers of a crocodile, resting lazily against a bar, tapping his chin to an infernal French rhumba thought to be only practised by upwards of three chaps you could regularly meet outside the Spa on a thursday, reportedly there to buy ham.
It was over. And yet, at the same time, it had only just begun. The highly desirable, bargain basement, must see, by appointment only showroom meadow of the tiny anthropomorphic rat monkey fish badger kestrel horse illuminati volvo percussionists would finally know peace. A peace which was forged in blood. A peace that would last for all time.
A peace that was brutally shattered by a man, a piece of fudge, a mawkishly upright lemon rind receptacle and soft furnishings expert known by only one name. Scott DeathBoy’s hangover.
As he strolled, rotating slowly around a scale model of Ipswitch, a smile came to his lips. “One time for the foghorns!” he murmured, and lapsed immediately into a really delicious pie.