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In the bar at the end of the world

 ‘Uuuh!  My head hurts’  ‘Welcome back to the land of the living Alfie’ said the Nick Cave lookalike barman with a smile. ‘Just in time for breakfast’.  ‘Wha- … what’s going on here?  Why am I here?’ groaned Alfie.  ‘The eternal question my foppish friend, why indeed are we all here?  Is there an ultimate meaning to our existence?’  ‘Knock it off mate, not that.’ Alfie sits up and perches on the edge of the pool table, feet dangling, he winces as he rubs the back of his neck. ‘I’m sure your beer is getting stronger.’  Alfie screws his bleary eyes and peers through the dusty window.  ‘Bejeepers!’  He opens his eyes wide.  His mouth forms an ‘O’.  ‘What’s happened out there?’  ‘You’ve been out for three days Alfie.  Sit in that comfortable chair near the bar, eat this breakfast and we can talk’ said Nick Cave.  ‘You have a bit of catching up to do.’  Alfie climbs down off the pool table and shuffles acros...
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Foreboding

The sky is full of foreboding.  It augurs and it portends.  And what does it portend?  It portends bad things.  Like an omen of nefarious occurrences.  Oh yes. The locals of Yonnerville are dancing a hideous conga line, banging their pans with their big metal spoons, shouting and hollering.  And making a right racket.  And things of that nature generally. The hills in the distance behind Oldham glow red with the many fires lit by these prehistoric and superstitious people.  They are mightily afraid of THE RECKONING.    The words of Brother Hardcastle, an ancient hermit, echo in their ears:  "For when the sky doth grow dark and when things portendeth, this be the thyme of The Reckoning.  Your sins will be weighed against your virtues and woe betide ...".  That's where the ancient scroll ends, the last bit got wet back sometime in the 17th century and the ink got all runny and even those locals who could read could never dec...
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