London, eh? Four a.m. I’m biking through that city, Camden down to Marble Arch, and just as the time I was desperately hunting Twixes in downtown LA all I can think is, this world is doomed. Oh, the poor people! What happened to them? What are they doing out here when they should be tucked up warm in bed sleeping soundly and smiling in their dreams? And why do they look like zombies, or retards, or retarded zombie retards? There’s something just not right about this. Once upon a time they were bright-eyed babes in their mothers’ arms, crouching in dirt and curiously nudging beetles and worms…and now this. Sadness is the word that springs to mind.
Elsewhere, however, I win another three Mercy matches – two mighty tussles that took all I had – and I’m starting to think my self-appointed unofficial world champion title isn’t entirely unjustified. I mean, who is there to challenge my might? You? Well, come on then. Oh, what’s that? You can’t – you’ve hurt your little finger, maybe next week, when it’s better? Well what about you then? You fancy it? You do? You’re gonna do what? Let’s get it on then. Ah, didn’t think so. And you? No? And you? And you?
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