Behemoth death match apocalypse
Two men are sitting at a table. On the shoulder of one of the men sits a yellow macaw which twitches and skits, listening intently to their conversation. The table was manufactured in the 1970′s as it proudly boasts a marble chess board built into its surface. Tired super-tan fingers scrape the pieces back and forth across the board, and the game creeps asymptotically towards a stalemate. Stalemate. Just beneath the cuff links a fake Rolex peeks out and winks in the sunshine. The two participants appear to be old friends and whilst opposing views are exchanged the levels of interest or consequence never reach any further than that of a salmon and broccoli quiche. They are drinking Pinot Grigio. Pinot Grigio. There is nothing remarkable about their appearance. They are a montage of every person you’ve ever seen, in every shopping center, in every town and every place that exists outside of zone 3. They are pine. They are I-stock.
‘Tweet tweet’ says the Macaw. It is happy , it likes being at the table.
The table is positioned on a vast concrete plain, that stretches as far as the eye can see.
Far, far away on the horizon, a battle rages. Bones are crushed and buildings mangled. Technicolour death rays pitch and swing, to the rumble and crunch of megaton footwork. Godzilla grabs a nameless wretch by the throat, and it’s G-force slammed into a multi story carpark. F-16′s are flying in, and nuclear options are being considered- (again). A Range Rover crumples like tin foil and, shortly before their demise, its occupants are forced to consider that driving to ‘Habitat’ might have been pointless.
Back at the table, the distant hum of the behemoth death match apocalypse is barely audible.
“Of course…of course, well you would say that wouldn’t you?!…I mean its always “
“Oh come on, you lot are exactly the same aren’t you? Becuase..”
“Yes but under the previous government…”