On A Typical Friday Night I Am:
Dressed a series of ornamental robes, standing a top the tallest tower in town, waving my fists at an uncaring sky full of stars that taunt me with their unreachable beauty, and horribly chilling laughter.
Later, if there’s time, a cup of tea.
Then, it’s off to the past! Yes, I spend my Friday nights In The Past, where I hunt the most deadly prey of all: drug-addled dinosaurs. Because you don’t know life, until you’ve seized it from the jaws of a thirty-ton lizard that just mainlined a kilo of heroin between its toes.
When I return from the past, it’s time for a light shower, to wash off all the dinosaur blood and toxic time-stream residue, and then me and my friends, a pack of typist monkeys I know from this place where we all used to work on an infinite number of type-writers together, trying to compile the works for Shakespeare or something.
Generally, me and my mate go out for a little of the old ultra-violence, all dressed up in our finest suits of cards. We prowl the back-streets on our old-school roller-skates, having dance contests with the various youth-gangs of the area, and generally just making everybody else feel sort of excited-yet-uncomfortable.
Always early to bed though. I don’t much go for long nights out.