05/09/2013 - I'LL NEVER RETURN TO THE BUNCH

            I'll never return to the bunch, The Scored Wallet said, I have thirty thousand pleasantries to dispense among the witch doctors of the world and not just the ones with the creative wooden masks. I have a duty to be duly noted in every theology of the world or science fiction if that's not possible. It's time to be shown appreciation from the holy hurly zeitgeists that insist on washing any given pair of funky feet. So kindly get off my back. So just plain old get the fuck out of my just and jolted sight. You sicken my day.

            But it's time to be exclusive, The Masochistic Author muttered, Who are you kidding? I'm the executive in this biz and you are merely taming for time, you are like the remnants of a little snack on a limpet mine's uvula. I cast you like an aspersion, make you straight with the keys, bind you with replacement sexuality. I'll sic the bloody Bengal Tiger on you, that tall bastard in the hanky suspenders and the playing card bowtie. He'll make you into a series of increasingly unlikely chronicles from the perspective a deodorant salesman that's having the worth month of his easiest year. He'll decimate you. He'll mark you for other men, make you shudder homewards in your ill-gotten shame. And I shan't be there to bless your journey, I shall be somewhere parting grains of sand with nothing more than tiddlywinks and the awesome thrust and pinch of my mind!

            Oh dear, The Scored Wallet said, The fizzy wordsmith has shot off his frontal lobes again. And out of jealousy too! Who would have seen the day? Who would have paid attention in class to determine its wing span and the faintest odour on its breath? I suppose you have some power over me but I shall simply have to muster up the courage to lock you in the aforementioned tower and place you in some sort of placid condition from now until the end of the era. Of course I will see about sending up a shotgun to you so that you can pick off the rotting bookshelves but it certainly won't be a musket. I know exactly what you can do with muskets and I'm not paying for another van load of wall paper. It comes right out of my mouth, don't you know?

            You can't do owt, The Masochistic Author grumbled, I made you to fit comfortably in the aerial pocket that has been promised by Erasmus from the Future whilst also incorporating some features so that Mr Thank can find use for you. You are a receptacle and nothing better, I slip cards and paper in your mouth and you take it well enough, without even the tiniest wrinkle in your leather. The slices that run up and down your spine won't last when I patch them up, they seem to be the source of your bravado. I have just the right materials for it.