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UGGGHHHK...HOOOOOORRRR....GRRUuuttttrrrrrrrgleleee uuuuuuuu..
Simon's chest vaulted up, he jerked around frantically clutching at his chest!
Surely not a heart attack! Oh ****! So soon!
He thought to himself, as he panicked, gasping and clawing at the air, he wasn't due a heart attack until around the age of 36!
Rolling and thrashing around, he spilled the last of his beer cans over, he was relieved to see it was only a quarter full, but still somewhat disconcerted with the way everything...was...going...black.
THUMP, his head slammed into the ground, and Simon, his heart still, fell unconscious. What was to become of him now? Surely his drinking had finally caught up with him?
....
........
Deep. Deep inside of Simon, something stirred. His heart moved, not of it's own volition, something inside of it was assserting itself, something in his bloodstream.
The alcohol!
Simon had been drinking lots of beer that day, beer or different breweries, of different nations and different regions, some of a time long past. And now, in Simon's bloodstream, they began to show their individuality, forming militant hordes of angry danish Carlsberg men, the 70 man street football crew from that Carling advert, an angry mod of Budvar Czechs and a 10 strong army of ex-service men of the ale drinking variety.
They lined up and formed rank, ready to fight for Simon's life, while a small contingent of medics worked to massage Simon's heart back into life.
Meanwhile, a red light flickered into life under the red metallic casing of Simon's lobster arm. No one knew what it meant. |
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Bastard
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