It was a dark, stormy night. No, it was a dark, cloudless night with few stars scattered across the sky, like after a pack of cheap instant macaroni splits open with a crackle and a gush of rock-hard broken pasta pallets sprinkle all over the kitchen floor.

"Damn..." he mumbled as he looked up toward the sky and saw a tiny bi-plane spinning out of control, as if a freshly bug-sprayed cockroach dancing wildly on its back before resting forever - waiting to be pinched inside a piece of kitchen towel and thrown into the bin with murder written all over dirty fingernails. He also smelled fear, and noticed there was a half-open bottle of Fear cologne lying on the ground.

The bi-plane took a majestic dive: Her Majesty the Queen of Euquay (pronounced Aooa-yuuk-yuiwa-yiay) was flying and no one else. How that woman could fly - he wondered. He wondered because the woman could not actually fly at all. She was being flown with her hands tied behind her back and her mouth gagged with a fabric shoe-shiner soaked in a putrid blend of shaving-cream and BurgerKing-mustard-sauce. The woman that he wondered about was the real pilot - the devilish almond-eyed surly elvira known to the underground tyre puncture pluggers as simply The Delvira.

Yes, he thought. Today is a great day for freedom.

Then he corrected himself, because it was night time. A dark stormy night. No, a dark, cloudless night with stars scatt...

To be continued...

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