A trip down to the shops.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
I'm Coming . . . Again!

A recent interest in hypnotherapy and regression has led me down some rather suspect, but ultimately quite fulfilling paths, much like a path on Hampstead Heath. An article regarding the subject appeared in a magazine I read rather frequently, and am not ashamed to admit to doing so. This tome is, of course, the Fiesta 'Readers' Wives' Special, issue number 45. Whether or not the original data source was reputable or not it had certainly opened my eyes to new experiences, and not only the eyes on my face. The pertinent section of the article went much like this:

"...We wiped ourselves up with her wispy knickers, unfortunately they had the absorbent capacity of Izal Medicated toilet paper; you know, the stuff that's like tracing paper and makes a thorough wiping of yourself a near impossibility. I left before her husband arrived with her sex dripping from my semi-tumescent shaft.
The next day she phoned me at the office, my secretary just having enough time to swallow my voluminous load before routing the call through to my private line.
'Hello?' I said, lust dripping from my inquiry, a sense beyond the four nature had blessed me with had telling me that it was her.
'I have an opening for you at four,' she teased, her special code now second nature to me. 'You're lucky I can fit you in.'
'I shall visit your shaven vestibule with my turgid file for your detailed examination at the allotted hour.' I said smoothly.
'Riiiight,' she replied, teasing me with her apparent sarcasm. 'Anyway, I have to go, my hypnotherapist is due.'
'Hypnotherapist?' I say, confused by the concept.
'Yes, he is going to regress me to a past life. He says I was a Babylonian whore who serviced men, women, animals and inanimate objects alike. It gets me so wet being regressed...'
I could imagine the slick spot starting to gush over her gusset and felt the twitching response of my stabled stallion kicking at the stable door."

As you can see, it makes the idea of regression a most pleasing one, and for something that can bring a twitching response simply through its mention it surely can't be a bad thing. The Yellow-Pages had quite a range of services under the heading of 'Voodoo', and I was particularly impressed with the advert for 'Mystic Mags'.

"Mystic Mags Pheromone-X
Make women find you irresistible without them even realising what a deformed, deficient, pointless, socially crippled, morally reprehensible freak you truly are. With mystic chemicals extracted from the sexually mature larvae of the Phallus Enormii spider this spray is undetectable by the human nose, but by sending active signals to the sex centres of the brain one whiff of this spray will juice up any bird you want to pull. At only £5.50 per aerosol this enhancement to natural sexual aura is a must for any man interested in having sex with women*

*The use of this spray may result in the rectal infestation of Phallus Enormii spiders, but 33% of users experience no infestation problems."

It was a tempting offer, even at the expense of having ravenous spiders devouring my colon from the inside but I was unconvinced in the end and I carried on browsing through the alphabetically arranged listings of alternative therapies. Finally I came across what I was looking for, mainly thanks to the aid of Wicked Wendy, a young lady who advertised exorcism through oral-genital manipulation, expelling the demon through an arcing cord of fishy globulets. In the end it was Xenaa who was providing the service I was looking for.

"Xenaa's Regression Lounge and Spiritual Massage.
Capture past lives, previous incarnations and false memories with the aid of Madame Xenaa's cosmic powers, much akin to those of Paul McKenna, but without the popular television coverage and frequent appearances on Richard & Judy. Let Madame Xenaa palpate your Zen karmas with her special brand of feng-shui chi rearranging massage for a modest fee."

There was an accompanying telephone number, although that wasn't particularly surprising as it was in a telephone directory, and I reached for the phone and dialled the number excitedly. Madame Xenaa answered in a very rich, East-European accent and I made an appointment for that very day, convinced that with an accent like that she was bound to be in touch with her gippo heritage of fortune telling, as well as peg selling, cousin marrying and car thieving.

By the afternoon I was sitting in the incense stenching waiting room of Madame Xenaa, joss, and oil burners dotted the room whilst a home-rolled cigarette lay smouldering in an ashtray the size, shape and colour of a blood-streaked vomiting. Xenaa's 'maid' had shown me up the narrow stairs crammed between a butcher and a chiropodist and to the top floor flat where Xenaa practiced her mystical powers. The maid accepted my money and told me to wait, so that is what I found myself doing, feeling more and more awed by the gypsy apparel strung up from every available point about the room. Maybe it was the whale-song being played through a single two-inch cube speaker but I felt as if I was almost going into a trance sitting in the velvet chair amongst the candles in the shape of human hands. I snapped from my daze when Xenaa flounced into the room, billowing more than I thought it possible for a person to. The layers of lace, chiffon, voile and string made for a severe sight, but yet I still felt relaxed, as if somebody was watching over me in that place of new-age extremes.

I was beckoned into a room and I was instructed to relax on a chaise-lounge whilst Xenaa spoke to me in her deep Russian tones, sounding like a man in drag but looking like a walking kelp forest. Her words began to blur into a calm relaxing buzz, and before I knew what was happening I was being roughly slapped about the face by Xenaa's maid-woman. She explained to me that Madame Xenaa had to leave due to unforeseen revelations, but a tape of our session was mine for the small sum of twenty pounds with the option of getting a pack of joss worth seven pounds for only an extra fiver. I happily accepted the offer, thankful that there was some evidence of my regression and keen to purchase some wildly over-priced joss. I went home and listened to the tape.

Xenaa: ...And by ze time I finish ziss sentence you vill be asleep. Are you asleep?
     Me: Yes.
Xenaa: You are sure you are asleep, and not just making it up?
     Me: Yes, I'm asleep.
Xenaa: So you can't feel ziss fork I am sticking in your leg, no?
     Me: No.
Xenaa: Good, zen ve can begin. I vant you to go back, back beyond your birth, to ze time ven you verr here on ziss vorld before.
     Me: It's nice.
Xenaa: Verr are you?
     Me: In the desert, it's hot, but pleasant, and my sandals keep my feet cool.
Xenaa: Are you alone?
     Me: No, the lads are here. I can't get rid of them.
Xenaa: Ze lads? Can you explain furzer?
     Me: They're just a bunch of men who follow me about by the looks of it. Stalkers I suppose you could call them, but they're not unwelcome. I'm counting twelve regulars at the moment.
Xenaa: And you say you verr in ze desert?
     Me: Yes, it's sandy and rocky, but I like the starkness of the landscape. It clears the mind.
Xenaa: Now I vant you to go back, furzer back to an earlier time in zat life. Vot do you see?
     Me: Mum and dad are fighting again.
Xenaa: Zey do ziss often?
     Me: All the time. It's always the same argument too. Dad keeps accusing mum of having it off with other men whilst she denies him even a peek. I feel like dad blames me for a lot of what's happening.
Xenaa: You haff brozers and sisters?
     Me: Yes, quite a few.
Xenaa: And you don't see anyzing odd in zat zen?
     Me: No, but then I am only six years old you know.
Xenaa: Very vell, ve shall go onvards, on to ze end of zat life. Vot do you see around you?
     Me: Wow, it's quite a spectacle.
Xenaa: Zerr iz a lot happening around you?
     Me: It's all go, and there seems like a main attraction somewhere up ahead.
Xenaa: Are ze stalkers viss you?
     Me: Most of them seem to be, but it's the crowds all over the place that dwarf their presence. It's like everyone's come to see the main event, it must be something important.
Xenaa: Verr are you?
     Me: I'm climbing up a hill with people on all sides of me. I feel quite important actually, but I doubt that the people have all come to see me. I'm probably just a labourer or something as I'm carrying one hell of a heavy wooden beam.
Xenaa: You are carrying ziss beam to ze main area of activity?
     Me: Yeah, somewhere in that direction.
Xenaa: I see.
     Me: Whoa!
Xenaa: Vot is it?
     Me: Oh, no. Sorry. Some woman has just thrown herself out of the crowd and in front of me like a suffragette in front of the king's horse.
Xenaa: Ziss seems odd, does it not?
     Me: I seem to be fairly used to it. She was trying to rub a sponge across my feet, odd woman. Maybe she's into some kind of fetish?
Xenaa: Ziss could be ze case, but tell me, vot else do you see around you?
     Me: We're getting nearer to that main centre of activity. It looks like some kind of structure is being built there, a couple of piles with cross-beams have already been planted into the ground, and I must be carrying the third one. It's like they've come really early to the opening of a supermarket.
Xenaa: Vot is ze time of your experience?
     Me: It's already starting to get dark, I'd say around six in the evening.
Xenaa: No, you mizunderstand. Vot is ze historical time period?
     Me: Oh, right. They've invented the wheel but not the car.
Xenaa: Can you narrow it down furzer?
     Me: There are Romans around, so it must be Roman times. They don't look as jolly as I expect Romans to be, even with the big muff on their helmets. Actually, they look very hostile. I don't think they like me.
Xenaa: Are zey taunting you?
     Me: They are, and jabbing at me now with pointy sticks. I'm not enjoying this.
Xenaa: But ve must get to ze bottom of ze expiry of ze previous existenz you have had.
     Me: Well, okay, but I don't like it. I'm being instructed to put the wooden piling into the hole, which after carrying it all that way is some relief, even with the pointy sticks. They're definitely building something. There's a carpenter here with a hammer and nails.
Xenaa: Nails you say?
     Me: Yeah, huge ones, longer than six inches. They must be wanting nail up something fairly substantial.
Xenaa: Somesing, or somevonn . . .
     Me: Oh, now this is shit, the Romans are taking the piss again. Wait, what the hell is that they're putting on my head? It's like barbed wire or something, it's really scratchy. Jesus!
Xenaa: Zat is enough. I haff heard enough and can go on no longer.

The sound of Madame Xenaa flouncing out was all that remained on the tape before the usual hiss of static one gets from an unrecorded section. I checked my leg, and sure enough there were three small red pucker marks, lokking as if they were made in some way by a fork. I really didn't know what to make of it, and still don't. Whatever I envisaged, it certainly doesn't seem very plausible, and isn't it always Romans or Cleopatra when these things are done? The funny thing was that it said on a sign on the inside of the door leading out of Madame Xenaa's flat to 'Please Come Again'. I'm not sure whether to bother now.
Saturday, March 06, 2004
Dawn of The Dead.

With the law being so lax when it comes to upholding the Official Secrets Act I feel that now is the right time to tell my story. I am a Civil Servant; at least that is my job description. In reality I am attached to Military Intelligence as a civilian observer for the Government. The piece of paper I signed swearing silence those many years ago has, overnight, been rendered obsolete and my ball-gag has been removed. What I am about to divulge remains Top Secret, and the reading of the following material is an illegal act punishable by 'buggery-until-prolapsed'.

31st Sept 1977, 08:43:07 .35
I received a most distressing telephone call as I entered my small office on the floor above the sex shop on Capstone Road in Peckham, an unassuming and well disguised nerve-centre for my operations. Technically that was a correct description, but as my nerve-centre comprised of a telephone and a cabinet full of files it might have sounded more grandiose than it actually was back then. The phone call, as far as I can remember, went like this:

Me: Hello?
Anon: We need you to check something out.
Me: Where?
Anon: Chapelhay, it's somewhere in Dorset.
Me: I know it.
Anon: There's a scientific installation there.
Me: I see.
Anon: Nothing big, but they're working on biological agents.
Me: What do you need me to find out?
Anon: Why we've lost all contact with them.
Me: I see.
Anon: You'll have the details of the Parasol Labs in your files.
Me: I'll let you know what I find.
Anon: You will, and by midnight tonight. Goodbye.

It was a fairly standard phone call, except for those accidentally routed up here from the premises below. Whilst being proficient at killing men with my bare hands, my position also led to me knowing the prices and specifications of the entire range of 'Lady Turbo-Vibes', 'Inflatable Glendas' and the 'Teen Titty Teaser' films. I pulled the file on Chapelhay and sure enough, there was marked a small square on the map labelled 'Parasol Bio-Labs'. The associated literature pertained to personnel, security information about the labs, valid override codes and a key to the disabled toilet, the only one in existence. I memorised the information, took the key and started on my long drive to Chapelhay.

31st Sept 1977, 10:13:56 .87
My Triumph Stag pulled into Chapelhay and it seemed eerily quiet for such a time in the morning, a time when shoppers would normally be ambling happily down the roads. Only later was I to realise why nobody was around, for them time no longer had a meaning as we would understand it.

The maps that had been provided in my 'thorough' set of files had been drawn up in the fifties, and since then clusters of ugly, concrete tower blocks had risen up, causing my navigation to the 'Parasol Bio-Lab' to be an adventure in itself. In the end it was down to chance that I stumbled across the entrance to the scientific facility. The sole of my shoe slid through a pile of dog's mess, a large clod of the nasty material collecting in the arch of the heel. I remember being thankful that nobody was about to see what I had done, and I proceeded to remove the claggy substance by transferring it onto the metal railings of a fence surrounding an electrical sub-station. I recognised the substation from the map I had browsed over in my office, and that meant that the entrance to the labs was just beyond it, on the other side of an ugly concrete monolith that blocked my path.

I eventually found the lab entrance, but it took some finding. The structure had been assimilated into the concrete monster once seen as an ideal home ten years previously. A small numeric keypad above the handle gave it away, and I entered the code that I had memorised. 8198008135. I turned the handle and the lock sprang back, only the slightest of hisses escaping as I opened the door, giving away the presence of a hermetically sealed environment beyond.

31st Sept 1977, 10:51:61 .10
I had stepped into darkness, the door swinging closed behind me like the blouse of an un-paid prostitute, rendering me as blind as a child looking into a laser-pointer. In a few seconds I was bathed in the glow of a red light allowing me to see the small 'airlock' I found myself in. A few more seconds passed and the light changed from red to green, a door in front of me clicking open, the locks released. I walked through the door and down some damp, dimly lit steps until I was at least twenty feet below street-level, stepping into a small room scattered with papers and scientific equipment, mostly smashed. I scanned through some of the papers, and what I found alarmed me, more than anything I had thought possible.

Progress Report.
Subject: Patient K
Date: 04/08/77
Name: Jackey Goodey
Age: Chronological:24 Mental:7
Status: Unstable
Our effort to create a degenerate form of Homo Sapiens is coming along in leaps and bounds. Another course of Scumbulin was administered in enema form today with the need of only mild restraint with the cattle-prod, and much like Patients E, I, P and Y it is having the desired effect with minimal genetic damage. Patient K is losing all concepts of reasonable morality, acceptable behaviours, common sense and overall intelligence. We gave her a choice of clothing today, and between a pair of jeans and some towelling trousers, she chose the towelling trousers. We have yet to draw conclusions from this result.
Entered By: Hans Flick

I picked up a second document and read the few lines in the dim lights.

Internal Communication.
This is not directed towards any member of the staff specifically, but could people please remember to dispose of the corpses of patients that reach the end of their studyable life in the appropriate furnace. Furnace one vents into Chapelhay and must never be used for bihazardous material. I appreciate dragging the body to furnace two is a little more work, but if you do it again Doctor Ackerman then you will be following it.
From: Lead Science Officer, Barbara Minge.

Things were looking grim, and I feared what lay beyond the stainless steel doors that must lead into the main laboratory complex, but my assignment was to find out why communications had been lost, and my job was not done yet. I discarded the documents and pushed open the heavy, tarnished doors with extreme trepidation.

31st Sept 1977, 11:00:12 .63
The rest of the complex was in a similar state of disarray as that first room I had been in. A quick search didn't reveal any immediate signs of life, just more abandoned rooms, empty but for the debris littering the floors. There were operating theatres, holding cells, high-security laboratories, enema rooms, offices, all deserted. I occasionally picked up the odd piece of paper strewn here or there, all pointing towards the most repugnant studies on making perfect soldiers by polluting the human body in an attempt to revert the guinea-pigs into unthinking grunts, capable of all that we as people find unthinkable, atrocities, genocide, scatology, torture, and all without a second thought.

Progress Report.
Subject: Patient L
Date: 14/07/77
Name: Jemima Saville
Age: Chronological:43 Mental:N/A
Status: Stable
Patient L died this morning in a spasm. It is likely that Spastixetine is the compound responsible for this but will require further study on other patients to determine if this is so. An official request for more disposable subjects has already been filed.
Entered By: Rita Shaggisinoerder

31st Sept 1977, 11:23:34 .45
The silence of the seemingly abandoned labs was broken by the sound of something heavy thumping against a wall somewhere within the complex, reminding me of the sound a sack of puppies makes if you drop it from the roof of a town-house. I was in an autopsy room at the time, the glistening organs and limbs of the previous 'patient' sat in a bucket next to a bloodstained operating table. With the way things were I was certainly not going to check out the noise unarmed, and so I reached for the nearest thing I could find that would pass as an offensive weapon. In hindsight I realise that the dismembered arm was of little more use than my own, two, perfectly functioning arms, but it seemed a good idea at the time.

The noise had seemed to come from a closed refrigeration room, a sign above the door declaring it to be the mortuary. I stood outside the dulled metal door with a fear that I had only ever felt once before when in training. I once thought that a high-velocity round had removed my manhood. Thankfully the bullet had ricocheted from my penile piercing leaving only a slight graze on the shaft, some swelling and a fairly clean circumcision. With a trembling hand I reached out and opened the door, a lump forming in my throat.

31st Sept 1977, 11:25:04 .98
The lump in my throat was almost followed by a lump in the back of my trousers as the door flung outwards, sending me sprawling onto the floor, the haggard form of a person falling out of the doorway and joining me on the floor and letting out a low gargled moan. I scrabbled for my third arm and jumped to my feet, raising the wet-end above my head, ready to strike. To my best recollection this is the discourse that followed:

Me: Who are you?
Him: Uuuuurgh!
Me: I'm warning you. I'm not afraid to use this.
Him: Uuuurg, uuuuuurrrr!
Me: Tell me who you are, now!
Him: Uuuuuuuuurgh!
Me: Alright, I warned you.

The severed limb was brought down with all the force I could muster as the body of the man writhed on the floor. Upon contact the arm released gobbets of clotted blood and torn sinew, the sickening noise like that of a seal being clubbed echoing through the complex.

Him: Please stop hitting me with that stump.
Me: Who are you?
Him: My name is Flick, Hans Flick.
Me: You're a scientist here?
Him: Yes, yes I am.
Me: What on Earth happened here?
Him: It got out. It got out onto the streets.
Me: Who got out, what are you talking about?
Him: Not who, what. The agent, it got out.
Me: What agent, what are you talking about?

I had helped the gore splattered scientist to his feet and studied his face. His sallow cheeks pallid, eyes sunken and lips cracked. He explained what he had meant as he guided me, limping, through the labs.

Hans: You know what we were doing down here?
Me: I read some of the status reports, I know what you were trying to do.
Hans: Well we did it. Three days ago we found what we had been looking for. Combining Spastixetine with an enema administration of Scumbulin created what we needed. The bodies of the human subjects we tried the combination on recombined the compounds into that which we were searching for.
Me: You degenerated them?
Hans: Five of them responded just as we had hoped. Patients P, I, K, E and Y. We named the condition after their assigned letters. We had developed pikeys.
Me: The fools.
Hans: If only we knew then what we know now. The pikeys, by their very nature were scallys, and it was only a few short hours before one of the doctors here, Vaginia Pessary, bludgeoned one of the subjects to death with her own shoe; Patient Y. That would have been fine, where it not for the fact that the body was put in the wrong furnace.
Me: Furnace one?
Hans: You know about that?
Me: I have my sources.
Hans: The cremation of the body made the active agent airborne, and without thorough filtering it was free to be disseminated amongst the local populace.
Me: You mean...?
Hans: Yeas, all of Chapelhay has been infected with pikeyness. They have no desire to get up before twelve. They have no morals, no taste, no dignity, and no shame. They are pikey through and through.
Me: That's outside, what about in here, the place looks like a bomb has hit it.
Hans: It was something even more destructive. A rampaging group of pikeys looking to steal anything that wasn't nailed down and they could sell. Once we realised containment had been breached we tried to dispose of all the patients to avoid further contamination, but it didn't work. Babs Minge, the lead scientist tried to administer a fatal dose of butane-gas to Patient I, but the agent must have made them more resilient to such attacks. The butane only seemed to aggrevate Patient I, sending him into a rabid frenzy. He broke his restraining straps, grabbed a Pyrex beaker and glassed Babs repeatedly in the face. She didn't stand a chance. Patient I released all the other subjects. I Just managed to get into the mortuary room before they saw me. None of the others made it.
Me: So where are the pikeys now?
Hans: I don't know. I haven't heard them for a long time, they probably got out.
Me: But the door has a keypad, how would they know the codes?
Hans: They wouldn't.

A chill ran down both our spines as that could only mean one thing. The pikeys were still down there somewhere with us.

31st Sept 1977, 12:00:40 .11
I looked at my watch, and the realisation of the severity of my situation set in. I told Hans what time it was, and his eyes widened with fear. He urged me that it was probably an excellent time to leave the 'Parasol Labs' before the residents arose from their slumber, and I could also report the situation to somebody who actually stood a chance of doing something about it. Little was I to know that there would be nothing that could be done to stop the pikey infestation of Great Britain, the damage done was already irreparable.

Hans and I crept through the corridors of the laboratory system until we arrived back in the room I had first entered at the base of the stairs. Sounds of feet scratching through the debris on the floor had been following us for the last few rooms and our hearts were beating furiously, like Mary Chipperfield with a monkey, but they almost stopped as we stepped into the final room before our escape.

31st Sept 1977, 12:06:27 .27
Standing in front of us were three people, two men and a woman, all dressed in tracksuits. They looked as surprised to see us as we were to see them, their dirt streaked faces and leering, slack jaws frozen in the middle of a struggle amongst themselves over ownership of a five pound note that they must have found amongst the debris. They blocked the stairs leading up to civilisation, normality and the world I used to know, or at least I though I knew.

I took advantage of the slow wit of the pikeys and turned to run back through the stained steel doors I had just walked in, but there was a fourth pikey, one arm hanging limp and useless, a 'K' tattooed on her forehead. This was Jackey Goodey, Patient K. I didn't know what else to do, until I saw the sign showing a disabled person on an unassuming looking door just to the right of the framed image of Jackey Goodey in the steel door frame. I shouted for Hans to join me as I reached for the door, but he shook his head.

Hans: It's locked, nobody ever uses it. There isn't a key.

He was wrong, but I didn't have the time to tell him before he made a running lunge for the stairs. The three poised degenerates standing by his escape route leapt on him, their clawing hands searching for wallets, watches, Special Brew, anything of value to them. He tried to fight them off, but he was overcome. I scrabbled the key into the lock of the disabled toilet and released the door from its frame with a swift tug. By now the clawing hands of the pikeys had begun to tear flesh, the screams of Hans bouncing around the room as I closed the door on the horrendous sight. Jackey had lunged at me at the last minute, but due to her mental incompetence she had tried to use her withered arm and did nothing more than slapping my back softly before I slammed the door shut on her.

They banged and clawed at the door for a long time, so long that it seemed like weeks and days rather than hours and minutes, but they eventually gave up, the sounds of their feet dragging through the papers and scientific equipment fading away as they slunk off, no doubt in search of a bottle of cheap wine, or maybe a kebab. To be honest I didn't care, so long as they were going away, giving me a chance to escape.

31st Sept 1977, 19:19:53 .74
Slowly, oh so slowly I inched the door open and peered into the semi-gloom beyond. The coast seemed clear, and I began to creep out of the toilet, vowing never to abuse disabled facilities again as they are there for a good reason. I stopped in my tracks as I saw the eviscerated corpse of Hans, starting at the base of the stairs and spreading out from there quite a bit. My first reaction was to gag, trying to hold down my breakfast of liver and kidneys in an attempt to avoid adding more organs to the slippery pile I had to pick my way over. I held back and made it to the stairs, thankfully without any sign of a degenerate pikey following me.

I started up the stairs, and there she was, Patient K. Her eyes wide with stupidity and mouth leering with witless ignorance she leapt at me, her one arm extending out in front of her, the gleam of greed coming over her face as she saw my ring. I saw what she was after and slammed my back against the wall, holding the hand with my ring on out in front of me. My diversionary tactic worked. Like a Jack-Russell after a badger Jackey Goodey swerved to grab the gold shiny band around my finger, the speed she had attained provided her with the momentum of a horse's penis dropped from the Eiffel Tower when measured at ground level. I snatched my hand away at the last minute and Patient K made her foolish mistake for a second time. She tried to reach for me with her cripple-arm, doing no worse than grazing my lapel with limp fingers.

I ran up the stairs as Jackey hit the spongy corpse of Hans Flick at the bottom of the stairs. Without looking back I stabbed in the code to release me from the underground bio-tomb and the door sprang open for me on my first try, even though I was sure I had made a mistake in the thirty five digit number. The decontamination room seemed to take hours, but the light eventually blinked green on the door out clicked open.

31st Sept 1977, 19:27:47 .81
I found a public telephone that hadn't been vandalised and phoned in the situation. It was like being in a war zone, the streets crawling with people-turned-pikeys. My training came in handy, and within less time than it took to kill ten of them the helicopter for my extraction arrived.

Several units were sent into the area to try and contain the situation, but they couldn't, and pikeyness began to spread swiftly, mainly around the less wealthy areas of the country, much like the plague in 1666.

All that I have recounted here is fact and my own experience, whether you choose to believe me or not is up to you. Just remember the next time you get your hub caps stolen, you can blame that wanker Doctor Ackerman. Fucker.

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