The Sunday Papers

Sundays are for realising that he's coming. That he's inevitable. That, in a way, he's already here. You feel him in the back of your mind. Grinding his teeth. Picking his nose. Raking his nails across the palms of his hands. He hungers, a snarling hunk of robo-man-flesh yearning for the time his clarion call rings out through the space between each of our psyches.

Something terrible and insidious this way comes. He glues a cookie-cutter short back and sides hairdo to his usually bald bonce.