Simon Comments:

I gaze out upon the street. It is lined with brutalist, communist architecture: vast and uncompromising, like my penis.

I have been many things, soldier, beggar-man, thief. Until Poland, neither lover nor felon. Tonight I did two things of worth; I fled a bill of perhaps five pounds, and I devoted myself entirely to the ideal of love. We met the best of all possible vaginas: warm, silken, resplendent in their own glory. No man could resist and yet call himself Man.  Before today, love has been a fleeting thing: a leaf on the wind, ice cream on the tongue of a child, delicious yet melting away to nothing. Before today, I knew nothing of hotpants. We make our plans, pray to our gods, and hotpants make fools of us all. I am among the best of men, and yet I know nothing but the tortured fultility of a man who may look but cannot touch. He who looks upon the face of God, or who has gone to strip club.

Beer is a constant in our new life. Who we once were has  been burned away, the memories fade like dust, dust in wind. All the now remains in the indeniable fact that 9% beer is 75 pence. Nothing is at it once was. Edde bought a Gladius and swore himself to the ancient codes of combat. Matt decided to shave his beer. I don’t even know what.

It is the end of all things.

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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