I Thwart the Robotically Imminent

I've been overrun, the Parisian's been overrun, but Ben, being Ben (and, by rights, Yodo), is still holding them off gallantly with his marble-substitute trophy and his girly wits. A harrowing wind collapses me and I feel like a meek slice of butter and grease — and then you realise that you have wasted your opportunity to say anything — and I, me, him (to you), wonder about things and other things.

And now we've been viciously ex-patted from our homes and are both forced to seek refuge at Ben's hill, where we help out as best we can by making dinner and doing housework while our saviour fends off our foes (and his). Mother Stephan, meanwhile, looming like a God over the hillside, gazes down upon us — me in particular: his runaway son — and tempts fate and the mechanical onslaught with a dangling line of vulnerability.

Cries of cartoon creatures and dieting success stories rise from the unoiled cogs like kettle-drum-o-parking-lots and are picked up by the clever ears of our three overexposed but underdeveloped protagonists (me included), who were hitherto busying themselves with needlework; now, after I realise I just spent two and a half grand on that joke, we make a stand outside our adopted home (in the two's case) and almost succeed in failing.

While all this rubbishy stuff is steadily going on, The Tu, locked up in an unnamed state, bemoans the state of his previous full-colour starring-role rendering, and heaves a sigh into his belly as he makes his way here. Wondering where my long hair went, and where is the me he used to know, he diverts himself innocently and taps metal keys in the dark. When at last the lights return, he discovers that the inked paper result reveals undesirable dark shades in personkind, which he previously thought nonexistent, having been raised on a diet of life-affirmation.

The dreadful chunder still remains in the form of a deeply unsettling and awful smelling stain across the face, which obscures all but the letters S, T, O and X. And it was his favourite T-shaped shirt.

In a small bedroom sits Harry. His eyes are fixed with intense concentration upon his human-sized canine, who in turn has her eyes fixed upon an enticing little bin hiding in the shadows and expelling a delightful odour.

Mr. Bee breathes easy by a safe man with head in hands.

And the three have finished their (our) stand, and now they (we) stood and watched our wrinkles become more and more prominent. It was fun to say the least, but I, being the race I am, prefer to say the most: it was an enlightening, bold, brash, humbling, beautiful and long experience.

And now we chew through the heavenly stairs and gates and clouds and angels until we may stumble upon our better halves and produce better thirds or quarters — if our seeds haven't dried up, that is; and if they really are the sunshines of our lust; and if Ben really hasn't paired-off with the bloodsucking machine of yesterday.