Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Monday, May 24, 2004

Dead Irish Poets

I went to see Declan, my Evil Best Friend, this weekend.

"So, how have you been?" he asked between drags on his cigarette. He spoke like a machine gun, the smoke curling around his fingers. I hadn't even sat down at this point.

"Fine, fine," I said, gingerly lowering myself into his presence. I wanted to take him to task before he started on me, and asked him about Bedford. It was a mess. For years he had been using dark magicks, firing curses down past the M25 to try and destroy me. I usually get a cold feeling at the back of neck before a strike is launched, although the shield my peers installed over London has kept him at bay for some time, most of his nefarious assaults are deflected off - and Bedford bears the brunt. The sight I'd seen through the train window on this journey was shocking in its desolation.

I asked him what he'd been doing. "I was bored," he said airily. There was no sense of remorse when he added, "My bad."

I opened my mouth to berate him, but he shushed me. "I see the Corrs are still alive."

It wasn't a question.

I looked blankly at him for a second. Declan stubbed out his cigarette with a vicious twist, and then threw up his hands like a disappointed Italian don.

"Honestly, I gave you three simple tasks..." he said with a sigh.

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