Ed Comments:

My eyes snap open. The room swims before me, the ceiling – mere inches from my face – bucks and spasms.

Should I reach out and caress this demon? I attempt…and fail. I have neither the motivation nor motor skills. I am as beast.

Suddenly, movement.

Bunn – bringer of pain – engulfs my conscious. He prances around the vicinity, gleeful and revelling in morning charm. I despise his very soul. I remain as beast.

Now aware of my enormous prowess in slumber, Matt becomes enraged. Snarling, his tosses forth his telephone, spewing verse upon verse of vexing verbal tirade.

Axes? Marching? The front line? We are at war!

I fly into an uncontrollable fury. Dozens fall before me and I am yet to clean my teeth. This is how every morning should be.

Alas, the bloodlust overwhelms my being and I feel nothing. Panicked, my conscious retreats into my memory and reminds me of the past 48 hours. Could it be that two men could rein such terror upon a city? Apparently so, for we are as Gods.

Reality eventually penetrates the shroud of wine I have so vigilantly constructed around my face. I shower.

The water does little to alleviate the mounting terror. Are they waiting, my companions? Will they demand that I once again drench my balls in vodka? I pray not.

Steeling myself, I take to the streets. Simon’s sickening stride grows ever-longer, as I – balls aflame – struggle to keep pace. Flip-flops are now my nemesis. I curse them.

We arrive, eventually, at a dragon. I am unsurprised. Gouts of flame erupt from its face. I am marginally more surprised, yet un-intimidated.

Naturally, I challenge the dragon to personal combat. It ignores me entirely. My surprise finds new life…and I am as beast.

Shamed, I vacate the castle. Everywhere I look, another challenge. Must I – Champion of Murderbeers – defend my fellow buffoons against this tirade of hotpants? I decide this is likely and approach the nearest of them:

Loudly and unashamedly, I declare that the Polish are unlikely to sweep up Auschwitz any time soon.

I weep for hours.

Once again, I return to my companions. Ice cream drips from their faces. Their breeches are tight and their demeanour crowing. Yet, when they gaze upon my visage, they find not a single shit. I have no shits to give. I am as beast.

About the Author
Ed Gamester is a silly man who lives in the United Kingdom. He is the harbinger of Ghost Squad, singer of Gay Bum and author of A Rum Run Awry. He fights, kills and dies for TV and films, and gallivants around the place wrestling, drinking and lifting things for glory and profit. Where Ed treads, there stamp the boots of the Guild. Ed does not wear glasses, but feels this photograph makes him look more intelligent and artistically talented than he is. Feel free to contact him: he is disappointingly affable.

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