I told you that I would deliver a BOGO deal today.
Question: Are you holding a grudge? About?
Answer: The United Kingdom lays in ruin. Southern England wraps its arms around the antique town of Guildford. Being only 27 miles from the metropolitan shit-magnet capital, it is a surprise that this idyllic town survived the Beatles let alone nuclear fallout. The pushcart populous ebbs and flows through the vintage streets, the black and military green breather masked individuals providing the producers of Dr. Who a little chuckle. A rapid succession of winding down the dust-covered streets leads to a fenced field. A constant scraping sound followed by wind is drowned by cheers. They swell in drunk rejoicing. Boos join in. The threat of tetanus is smeared across fence. It is an omen of the exact fear within its cube.
A Grudge match is in session. Hairballs of a rabid cat that decided to drink the nuclear fairy piss that seeped out of a dead hobo. That’s the ongoing myth at least. They are actually a sophisticated synergy of nature and mechanical magic wrapped around a ball of fiber optics. I am outside the fence with Ragnar, my blue-yellow grudge. The crowd makes him antsy. Let’s see if he can win one more piece of bread today.
Question: What are you looking forward to?
Answer: Eating one more piece of purified French bread.
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