Wednesday, 8 June 2011

A furious customer punching a prostitute in the face because he's sickened by his own desire

It is pissing over here. You know when that fruitloop was banging on about the end of the world a couple of weeks back? It was pissing on the day he called as Rapture, and I thought the rain was pretty biblical and appropriate - not to the point I believed him or anything, on account of him and his Rapture shite being johnny-come-lately stuff that sounds like a child came up with it. I mean, someone really should have been a mate to the guy and pointed out that basing all his maths on what people assume was the exact date of that Noah's Ark thing that didn't actually ever happen was possibly not a good idea. Mind you, he got through the last end of the world he predicted, so I imagine he'll be fine. Rich, white, conservative, and fine.
Posting a bit late, but please bear with me...

Well this page didn't go into the shape I wanted it - you know, unlike all the other pages which were concisely worded, tightly focused, and advanced the plot. This is a halfway mark of sorts, and I think I've introduced the vague theme of lies and ennui in a small town where - I think I am being fair here - the only notable feature is the option to drive straight through it on the way to somewhere else without ever having to turn a corner. The idea is that all the principle cast are introduced within the first twenty-two pages and that this will make a 'chapter' of sorts so I can stop pretending there's anything linear about what I want to do and instead switch to time-hopping vignettes like comics machine and 2000ad regular Bob Byrne manages to do each week without his wrists knackering themselves, the jammy fucker. My only solace is that Byrne is a southerner and thus destitution is his constant companion, though it's small comfort as he lives in Spain now and doesn't even need a roof on his cardboard box because of all the sun. God, I remember sun...

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