|This is not a test!
||Sat, 17 January 2009 20:58
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THIS IS NOT A TEST!
This is not a test.
It all started 14 years ago when a young woman named Susan Crimps found a frog on the back seat of her car. She named the frog Fred. And off she drove.
Ms Crimps had only intended to visit the bakery for some bloomers. It was nearly nine and she needed bloomers. But having found the frog she was off, gone, long to drive aimlessly about.
Fred was pleased with this arrangement, as well a frog should be. Until, that is, he became hungry. And thirsty. And hot. And tired. And dry. And dead. Ms Crimps was awfully upset - a dead frog on the back seat of her car!
No longer inspired by the call of the open road, Ms Crimps nevertheless made best use of her random surroundings and found a suitable spot to bury Fred. For Fred was dead, and the least Ms Crimps could do was see him to his final resting place.
And that she duly did. And then she shot herself.
Blood splattered the bonnet of Ms Crimps' car, Ms Crimps' blood. And her brain, sloppy chunks of Ms Crimps' brain. And the left front wheel, blood and brains and a portion of face, recognisable as a face, if not that of Susan Crimps, lay seperately beside. And the car, all of it still, save the dripping of the drops. And the bits of Susan Crimps, all of them goo, gristle and residue, save the skin, some of it still pale, but all of it still, if glistening, unlike the body of the corpse which still lay pulsating. And dull.
It was as though the life-force of this redundant relic had exploded out into vapour, its breached parts having parted and torn apart its purpose, spat spitting away. Indeed, this is precisely what had happened. And still hooked between loose fingers was the still warm gun, some blood and prints probably upon it.
And what resembled a human heart heaved upon the pavement, Ms Crimps' blood its scantily clad camouflage. And the frog hopped away.
For the rest.