14/06/2013 - THE COSSACK WAS HARDY

The Cossack was hardy in his goodnight sleep. He was a Cossack with kitchen spray, spreading out from even surfaces to bumpy ones with only loyalty in spades and hankering in toilet rolls. They told him to lie in, lie about the place, lie about political intrigue on the Southern front the next time he approached his superiors with an esoteric update. He had a hard back did the Cossack, the spine of a Monaco thunderstruck eel. He was asthmatic and churlish and drank chloride by the dozen. It kept him sterile and that wasn't nearly so bad for the rest of us as you'd imagine.

            Nevertheless we were rubes, we were Scottish howls in the dead of clam chowder, the last remnants of evidence on a dying planet with a creamy filling. Why study? Why continue studying when the whirlpool is becoming an electrified source of amusement? Watch the clouds crumble and the shades dance around the bare windows. Please don't assume the Cossack has no time to be loud or seen. He spends his time dominating smaller versions of humanity in copious dimensions, grassy and alive. Canes become bears when species curdle over highland centuries, particularly as the ashes visit themselves in natural parallelograms. It's a tether, an ankle bracelet that keeps one of the Cossack's feet in an offshore bank account in China.

            He has escaped before though. One time we tracked him down, having split into five hundred and sixty priceless electrons, having scattered his very essence to decadent time capsules. Let's all go outside and see the dung heap take responsibility and control over a litter of dilemmas. Support is so hard to make malignant, so fussy to make benign. The blood is it's very own wilderness, supervised by reconstructive specks that we know as Remembrance. Thisisisitandfinancialintheiceageforsmileyfacestocomeandatlastthelongmanislonginschlongagainhearkenhissmithyandbeunprecedentedinabusyunarmedairportehehehehehlive!

            That sort of man made me say those things, the Cossack and his chattering false teeth. It's Monday night and his chosen cocktail bar has just updated to become HD compatible and home is in a blanket of masterful camcorders. Inertia, fructose, electrolysis, marigold, vestigial, japejapejape. Jake is a cheep multi-grained man of mystery, he is pay dirt for the Cossack and his slaked threat collection. If we told him to push all he would need to do is continue until the bodily fluids crystallised behind his iris. Turns out that corn beef is the only thing capable of slowing him down and buttering him up. Leopards birth his spare limbs and shoot it straight out of their claw hole like so much tang.

            We'll make proper war with the man one day but not until our homunculus wanks itself into proper consciousness. It's not a filthy habit so why does it take so long to make the sciences understand? This is quality time we're wasting here, hours of ticktickticking and botulism. Then again Carol has been looking rather guilty for the past fortnight or so. The Cossack caught her thigh probably and won't let go until he's finished nibbling it.