Apocalypses are overrated, even at the best of times and Oldram Graham was quite tired of being turned into the plasma of the universe, sitting around in cosmic goo, a goo with little substance to it, a goo that didn’t have protons and electrons to be attracted to, sitting, waiting for billions of years to pass, waiting for another big bang to occur, waiting to become a solid sentient being again.
He shouted, “Not this time,” guzzled down his double scotch and washed the smoky taste away with a triple chug of dark foamy ale.
The blonde babe, a babe half-in-the-bag looked at him through blue, bloodshot owlish eyes, moved her obnoxious red-lipstick mouth two inches from his stern face and mumbled, “Wha’s that you shay? Rouged lips were planted on rough dry ones.
Oldram jerked away from the stale boozy breath, tried not to retch, fought to keep his supper of prawns and fried pickerel down.
She sniffed, “Wha’s the matter baby? Don’t you love your Mandy anymore?”
(stay tuned, more tomorrow)