Opiate Constipation and Malaysian Nazi Gove


I’m in occupied Malaysia. I’m escorting a scared chicken on a leash to my boss’s house for breakfast. I clamber amongst the ruins of temples, now being reclaimed by the jungle. I carry the chicken beneath my arm. 
I arrive at a clearing. A small town. A shortcut on the Camino de Santiago that leads straight to Pluto. Occupying forces are garrisoned here. Gove is their leader. They dress like Germans in WW2. 
Squirrel, my friend’s dog, speeds by in a stolen officers car. I wish me and the chicken were riding with her. I wonder how she can steer and reach the pedals. She’s got such little legs. 
There’s a row of shops. We enter a music shop. A guy inside recognises me. He asks how it’s going with my new singer. I tell him auto tune is a great thing. I strum a bandoneon on the way out. Here, it is misnamed. 
Outside there’s a yellow car, shaped like a fish. Free for Pisceans to use. Me and the scared chicken ride to my bosses house. On arrival, I’m offered a choice of things for breakfast. First I choose frozen vegetables and sweet corn, and consider making a curry. I hate using other peoples kitchens though, and give up when I can’t find the tools I need. Instead I have a bowl of muesli, like I would at home. 
I sit on the toilet, discussing opiated constipation with my boss. At the door, a death metal band with diarrhoea wait desperately to come in. 

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