Walking On Eggshells


Guernsey. I’m trying to get home. There’s a civil war. A disturbance at least. Protestors interrupted a war memorial celebration. The traditionalists, supporters of war, started shooting people. The war supporters confused violent protest with them being offended. I guide people home. On the street, pig men, dressed in dayglo Orange with proboscis masks, clean the streets of blood, and remove bodies. 

I see a friend, a patriot. I’m wary. He invites me to his home, offering to repair my shoes. They are made from cardboard egg box materials. I’ve been walking on egg shells. He takes a shoe away. Then he reappears with a plane ticket. He thinks he’s disabled me. I hobble after him, to a marketplace. He meets running mates from the other side, they changed their routes to avoid confrontation. He’s organising an arts festival. I’m not sure it’ll make money. 

I’m reading a paper. The results of a competition are in. Guitar fx circuits printed onto paper. They work. I try wiring them up to a contact mic. A friend brings me a sitar. I’m short of a lead. I retrieve one from an angry Donald Trump who is arranging wet towels on the floor. He is my patron. He’s a very lonely man, and tries to use money to buy friendship. 

I’m in an army patrol. We have lost communications. We break into an office using Mint Linux, so we can re-establish communications. Inside, the office is a meeting room with sofas, and terrorist propaganda posters. We gather intelligence and leave. O strays onto a balcony. The terrorists are returning. We hide outside, in rocks below the balcony. 

They see me. I pretend I don’t speak English. They ask what I speak. I tell them it’s an obscure Spanish dialect. We run down the rocks, and escape. 

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