In lill ole England during the terrible insurgency against democracy their prime minister and some of his aids were cut off and surrounded by drug crazed and heathen anarchists. Knowing that if they were captured they would be tortured horribly, in ways I cannot describe on television, they determined to take their own lives rather than be captured. As the screaming demons closed in yelling their blood curdling war cry and the English Gentlemen prepared to meet their end, the baying horde suddenly stopped, stunned into silence, and knelt in prayer. The astounded British ministers looked about – and in the sky above swam COD in Glory, glowing pink and gold.
And COD spake, “Let my people be!”
Needless to say, the terrorists fled.
Although the forces of Anarchy and Atheism are currently in the ascendant, COD and Democracy will one day prevail. The Army of COD is being assembled and we need your donations. For every $ we receive an amount will be put towards armbands, stickers and Tetrafin Delica Bloodworms (COD’s favourite). Contribute today. Support the cause.
“More trouble.” Mused Ginsbergbear.
“Don’t worry about them,” said Slasher, “They’re too busy fleecing their own to really bother us. The true danger lurks in the caves of Derbyshire.”
Phoebles was aghast. “You expect us to take on the Merovingian Lizard Kings, the Dark Lords of myth, the shades behind all that is twisted in the world? Isn’t that a bit ambitious?”
“Just a little nibble at the trouser cuffs of their ambition, a tentative toe into the custard bowl of Machiavellian malevolence. See what we can stir up.” McGoogs’ eyes blazed behind the mask.
Ginsbergbear had begun to pay attention and Boz swallowed, “We can’t just sit back and do nothing – the coleyfish.”
Downstairs, the lounge-bar was all but empty – two worn out Kittens of Chaos were recovering along a red plush chaise longue over hookahs and tiny cups of treacle-black Monsoon Malabar, Sam was mangling a boogie-woogie improv, flat fingered across the tobacco stained ivories of an aging upright, smoke-grey derby pushed to the back of his head, striped shirt with white collar and cuffs folded back from the bony wrists, breakfast stained flannel waistcoat ruckling as he played.
“Your usual, boys?”
Dark Flo was doing service behind the bar. She was slight and pallid with sunken eyes and raven hair that hung about her face like dead crows on barbed wire; waif-like, vulnerable and yet hard as black-iron nails. She could pull a perfect pint, Yorkshire head judged to the millimetre, with one hand tied behind her back and the other skewered to the bar by a Bowie knife. She might dispense or relish pain with equal measure, quell a riot with her contortions at the pole, or empty the bar with a single, gentle command. For now, she pulled pints of tawny London Porter and served them up with Talisker chasers. Before Slasher McGoogs she assembled a shot glass of Tres Amigos Anejos, saltcellar and a half lemon on a cracked white bone china saucer.