The service went on...

He considered the array of worthies who'd turned out for Angela. I've caused the death (non-deliberately, he stressed to himself) of somebody with her toes in many rivers.
Lately, the sewer-scribblers had served up an eye-witness account of George Douglas Grant from a time when stickysitu.com was a mere gleam in his eye; a dream not ready, yet, to get beyond the cheap and nasty plastic of his, then, faux-designer shades. In those days, according to the sleaze slopped out by The Moon, younger George would haunt his local healthshop for days on end. The witness remembered seeing GDG, on many occasions, running into the HealthyVibes store in the Minusrat district, beseeching:
'Got any Codeine!?'
The girl who had seen all this was Jane Gaynor (now, not really a girl at forty-two). She'd worked in FotoLand across the aisle from HealthyVibes and recalled seeing, no less than seven times, the healthshop's able-limbed young employee Josef ushering George, politely but firmly, off the premises (Josef maintained his rude good health through a diet high in Jerusalem artichoke-a small, yellowish, white-root vegetable, as everyone knows).
What The Moon had failed to tell but The Asteroid had plastered all over their front page was the lurid detail of Jane Gaynor's subsequent career as a porn actress. She'd dished her dirt to The Moon (that most venerable organ...not!) in return for a fix of morphine and a minor payment. It had become a major embarrassment to The Moon's editor when this side of Jane became know to the citizenry.
Bloody tabloids, thought Todd, and then paid heed once more to the mass at hand.

The editors advised deletion.

Without wishing to dull your senses, reader, I will outline to you the contents of a doomed convict's last meal: fried chicken, two BLT sandwiches, enchiladas, ground beef, pork chops, tortillas, eggs, greenolives, butter beans and cabbage, broccoli with cheese sauce, fried onion rings, french fries, tomato, lettuce, cheese, a picante sauce, onions and jalapenos.
Whilst I'm not privy to a description of dessert, I'd imagine it's quite appetizing to judge from the main course.

'These are just the measures needed to tackle this fishy fraternity, this new McMafia.' offered officer Patch (a descendant of the selfsame Mr Patch of 1917).

A splash of colour...

It's whatever it is to whosoever's looking at it.

A lot going on

Two members of the congregation

Fancy that, said Todd to himself, celebrity/notoriety allows one to take over entire church pews (along with all the other benefits fame/obloquy brings). Zak and Gaynor, their profile could not be any higher. Pictures of them flooded the internet. And offers to dish the latest dirt on Z an G were being spammed to web users from country to country. As Todd appraised it, the couple were about seven minutes into their fifteen of fame (or rather infamy). If the tales were to be believed, Zak spent more time in female clothing than in manly attire; and not merely sitting round watching TV in his girly glad rags, Mr Levi became quite active in drag.

View from the pew

And, despite his crashing sense of guilt, Todd, too, was anticipating with eagerness the padre's impending 'few words'; anyone speaking well of the dead always lifted his mood.

Working it out

But, he reasoned, I was compelled to come here. A force beyond me drove me (and he wasn't referring to El Wheels, the cabdriver).

How did he look?

He wore the pained expression of a man who's just learned that his holiday home in Courtown has gone into negative equity.

Evaporation

Also, a cloud that had been above his head since hailing his cab - since Angela's death in fact - now vanished.

Yogic Flying

As Pilate said to his instructor in Yogic Flying class: 'It's out of my hands now.'

The plan is...

We're hoping for mass emigration
to solve the economic situation.

Looking Heavenward

The eventide sky

Morning thoughts

It wouldn't surprise him if he heard that Seb was an alcoholic, judging by the amount of photo-ops he grabbed at bars; large close-up shots of his mouth salivating at the sight of a jar. Only this morning, whilst engaging in his ablutions, T had heard mayor Cody on LIE (and across the web) praising police for their seizure of 50,000 Delirium tablets
'It's another victory over the evil drug barons.'
the mayor had spouted the cliched soundbite and in the same breath had raised a litre of poteen to his lips and praised its purity.
A truly awful apparatchik who'd risen up the ranks to become mayor, reflected T, loyal and crawling of the worst kind. He had stopped for a moment brushing his teeth and gazed into the LIE newsreader's face. He often wished that he could spike the food or drink of a po-faced newsreader just prior to their going on air; watch them collapse into a stoned heap live (well it would beat all the endless war footage). But T knew he was bordering on Eric's concept of 'cogitative crookedness' and was also alienating himself from anti-drug humans everywhere by entertaining such ideas; however, he entertained them nonetheless.