Mood Vibes, by Adrian Albert with the Adrian Albert Solo

 

On the Shelf:	Behind the Counter:
₵$38 Ghost Tobacco (20)	₵$215 Blue Angel Mushroom
₵$20 Bloody Mary	₵$150 Bux. Semp X Cannabis (One Plant)
₵$50 El Dorado Green (1/4)	₵$16 Shiraz of Maybe Electrical Damage
₵$12 Mugwump Jism (g)	₵$102 The Safe of What You Want for Dinner
₵$1 Slut Root (kg)	₵$125 Chocolate Bar
₵$25 Marital Aid Potion	₵$90 Bottled Emotions
₵$20 Quetzalcoatl Feathers (doz.)	₵$13 Beard Cobwebs
₵$5 Blue Roses (doz.)	₵$68 Tofu Which Pairs Perfectly with Your Wine (350g)
₵$72 Mythril (oz.)	₵$19 Cuck Chair
₵$9 BZTCN	₵$40 Self-Cooking Olive Oil (375 ml)

This Week's Special:

Amongst the local connoisseurs, those rare few with rare ears, locally, there is a name. That name is Adrian Albert and they know it because he told them. He has recently released a limited print of vinyls for his post-punk sound.

Atop the vinyl’s instrumentals is Adrian’s commentary on the instrumentals. It sounds like a lot of hot air because it is. Desperate people play this LP to warm their homes with the friction of this lubeless wank. A full playing will set the vinyl alight, so there is scarcity going for it.

The market for Mood Vibes, by Adrian Albert with the Adrian Albert Solo, is music fans. A secondary market is after the abovementioned heat, which is clean like gas or green hydrogen. When played over four speakers focused on same spot, the heat can be used to forge metal. This market wears all the PPE, especially noise-cancelling earmuffs.

This market is Caroline.

 

* I have a stockpile of these to go through whilst I spend some time off the booze.

Danger Bong

On the Shelf:	Behind the Counter:
₵$50 Ghost Tobacco (20)	₵$30 Christian Repellent
₵$20 Bloody Mary	₵$105 Anti-Flimflammatory
₵$50 El Dorado Green (1/4)	₵$6 Extrasolar Teas Box
₵$12 Black Meat (g)	₵$3 Rare Minerals (g)
₵$1 Slut Root (kg)	₵$16 Fine MRE Spice (g)
₵$30 Marital Aid Potion	₵$10 Magic Coat Hanger
₵$20 Quetzalcoatl Feathers (doz.)	₵$46 Cleansing Ale
₵$5 Blue Roses (doz.)	₵$292 The New Shampoo
₵$31 Mythril (oz.)	₵$410 Four Pack of Beer
₵$4 BZTCN	₵$20 Democracy Honey

This Week's Special:

Frankie is relatable. She likes babies because babies are cute. When she sees a 'baby on board' sticker on car ahead of her, Frankie wants to see the baby. She will lean on car's horn in long honks:

'Hiiiii baby. Hiiiii baby.'

When higher-ups sent her for drinkware to make good first impression, Frankie sourced the Curly Straw of Social Discombobulation. If a 'room' can be 'read', this artefact can start a fresh page. Drinking long neck with this straw is social equivalent of flash-bang. The magic really leans into the impact made by beer through curly straw.

This is not what the higher-ups wanted. The market for the Curly Straw of Social Discombobulation is someone who cannot be fucked assimilating motifs of plethora subcultures. There may also be application for those who fit long neck in cup holder and are liable to be pulled over.

That market is Fika.

In order to improve herself, Fika has become a weed dealer. She has been meeting new suppliers and, of course, testing their produce. Her latest contact provided disappointment: the buds were milder than bragged and the batch half-stemmy. Fika sold at discount and burnt the rest as incense pyre, tribute to the gods.

The relevant gods noticed but, for reasons, granted her a boon meant for somebody else. Lo, a Danger Bong. Smoking with fingertip on specific point of bong transfigures exhale into dense metre-wide smokescreen projected ten metres ahead. The magic is in the cone piece.

'Assuming I believe this exists,' which Fika's sister certainly does not, 'Who would be interested? Nobody is going to think "I need to defend myself, time to sink a cone".'

Fika scrubs dishes: 'Somebody who is already sinking cones'

'In which case, they're already high. What if they get the paranoids? Drugs and guns don't mix.'

'Which is why a non-lethal smokescreen is primo.'

'And what sort of stoner is going to remember a special, magic way of holding bong?' The sister dries bong. 'No, I don't see a market.'

That market is Adrian.

Adrian sold his soul for music virtuosity but not his ego for social media presence. This is like being a chef who makes really tasty burgers, in that people prefer McDonalds. The market does not want flavour, it wants background noise, comfort zone, screensaver instead of 'switching off'.

Adrian always was too proud to read the room and, instead of giving people what they want, made good music. So Adrian made the Attention Commanding Song, which commands the listener's full attention because the soul thing. He got chops and music does not need soul to make feels.

The market for the Attention Commanding Song is a peculiar one. It is weird few will let their soul rise if that means not scrolling. A daily rotation of Song on Fresh FM would put nationwide construction work, cumulatively, back years. There could also be deaths.

That market is Dr Woke.

Dr Woke funded the design and successful trial of a dual gender-reassignment and organ-transplant surgery.

He threatened world leaders over Skype: 'If you do not meet my demands, I will leak this information onto the straight-white-male network. Trans women are women and also cock donors. A lot of old, powerful men will become allies, or at least mercenaries, if that offers them a functioning member. No homo. Validation equals virility and interest in intersectionality will surge.'*

World leaders capitulated and paid Dr Woke's ransom: money and many things that money cannot buy. He wants an island but he knows that asking for one will get said island nuked. For now, Dr Woke strolls through his trophy chamber, amongst furniture removalists arranging his new collection. He stops in front of mannequin wearing the dress that Princess Diana died in:

'Oh shit. Oh no, I didn't, did I?'

Dr Woke was blotto on Serafino Wines' 'Orenji Project' 2022 Orange Wine when he added this item to his wish list. He is already planning to resell Princess Di's Death Dress and, more pressing, take a month off the booze. He wonders: who, exactly, appreciates the people's princess' timeless fashion sense yet can ignore this artefact's brazenly poor taste?

That market is Frankie.

 

* I feel like this whole idea has been done before.

Spasming Grandmas 2007 Concert Tour Merch T-Shirt

On the Shelf:	Behind the Counter:
₵$34 Ghost Tobacco (20)	₵$100 Mud Proof Boots
₵$15 Bloody Mary	₵$24 Fire Chicken Feathers (doz.)
₵$50 El Dorado Green (1/4)	₵$7 Fine MRE Spice (p/g)
₵$12 Black Meat (g)	₵$105 Four Pack of Beer
₵$1 Slut Root (kg)	₵$20 Sex Doll Goon Sack
₵$30 Marital Aid Potion	₵$116 Bux. Semp. X Cannabis
₵$40 Quetzalcoatl Feathers (doz.)	₵$28 Bottled Emotions (qt.)
₵$5 Blue Roses (doz.)	₵$20 Self-Cooking Olive Oil (375 ml)
₵$33 Mythril (oz.)	₵$125 Brick of Cocaine
₵$4 BZTCN	₵$74 Memory Coffee

This Week's Special:

Cost of living is a bitch but bitch has got to live, not merely survive. Emily thought she could keep her hands busy without spending money on cloth to tailor. One week in and her smoking had doubled. Two weeks in and she wrote list of her co-workers, ranked on wearability of their skin.

Emily decided to op-shop for cheap, recyclable fabrics. Looking for interesting patterns to repurpose, she found a men's t-shirt with green Day-Glo skull behind faceless rockers. She thought: that would be neat to fuck in.

The Spasming Grandmas 2007 Concert Tour Merch T-Shirt went into her drawers. It was one of the few articles randomly spared the scissors on a night, frustrated, drunk, with lack of inspiration. She needed asparagus the morning after, so Emily wore it (with pants!) to the supermarket. A passing gentleman cast gaze, slowly growing in worry, onto the green skull:

'Oh. You were there.'

The man one-eightied and fled. Tradies were dollying  a mirror into a cafe fit out, because this economy is weird like that. Emily saw: the regularly faceful man's reflection had no face. Nipples hardened, beady eyes bulging from empty sockets.

Seeking market deets, Emily wore the shirt whilst buying (sneaking) a round (flask) of drinks (moonshine) for musicians (snob wanks).

'We share fans.' Adrian obliged. 'They like me because I have no soul.'

'Mhm.' Less about yourself, please. 'You've seen them live?'

'No luck. They are out of this world, or dimension. The band, and fans, aren't human. They doppelgang good but will eat your healthcare without blinking.'

'Thank you.' Emily pours the last of her flask into Adrian's  glass. 'But I'll take my leave.'

'You wouldn't be looking to sell that shirt? I'd display social capital to soulless fans, and wear it better.'

Aghast: 'I was looking to sell but you, mister, better pay the right price.'

'I have crickets.'

One of which chirps into silence.

'Is that your best offer?'

'It's just a shirt, stranger. Merch is always overpriced.'

Very well, Emily decides to spend her shirt elsewhere. Dr Woke's lair is in an active volcano, because housing shortage. The road ascending the mountain is very smooth. Emily waits outside Dr Woke's office because he is in a Skype meeting:

'And so, gentlemen, if you do not meet my demands within forty-eight hours, I will teach pandas missionary position.'

On one of the eight screens, Keir Starmer raises curious hand: 'I'm new to... this. So, this is a woke-themed super-villain?'

'Oui!' Macron massages brow. 'Mais oui!'

Starmer continues: 'But he's a straight white man?'

Dr Woke affirms: 'And cis. And neuro-typical.'

'Uhhh.'

'He's the villain.' Biden's got better shit to do. 'He's woke, so he avoids queer-coding. It's obvious, even I understand it.'

Agreement: 'Da.'

Starmer continues: 'And he's one of yours?'

'I'll never live this down.' Anthony Albanese cries into second bottle of Tenuta 'Sassoregale' 2021 Sangiovese. 'I'm still getting shit about the shiny wool.'

'And why don't we just assassinate the pandas?'

Dr  Woke chuckles: 'And how would world peace fair without panda diplomacy?'

Xi Jinping laughs manic. The screens go blank. Dr Woke scratches his balls before noticing Emily.

'Oh hey you.'

'Hiii. Just popping in, seeing how you're doing.' They hug. They went to high school together, in adjacent groups. He was shy in those days but they kept crossing paths and, upon recollection: coulda shoulda woulda. It is a whole thing. 'Well, by the looks of it.'

'Yeah, got a reno done after the Sparkly Yarn campaign.'

She knows, but: 'That's right. How did that go, again?'

Flashbackery: Dr Woke heard on a podcast that times of economic pressure caused society to lean towards heteronormative heterodoxy, heterocetera. Correlation is not causation but Dr Woke looked into it. He discovered that four stripes* are inclined to figurative gay bash unless distracted by shiny things of economic prosperity.

With opportunity discovered, Dr Woke developed cheap technicolour wool that sparkled in light of moon or sun. He threatened world leaders with the release of Sparkly Yarn and they paid him a handsome ransom and then some. They feared a world where people had better shit to do than decide who or why other people fucked.

Emily smiles but her foot is tapping: 'So what did you do with the Sparkly Yarn? You made a prototype hundred balls?'

'This was not just a pop in.' His smile adopts a touch of smirk. 'And what were you willing to fork out?'

She points both hands at her torso but Dr Woke gets the wrong erection.

'She meant the shirt.' Iris is here now and gives Dr Woke a clipboard. 'Please sign the thing.'

Dr Woke does so: 'Iris, Emily. Emily, Iris. Iris has been managing a road project. Emily is trying to convince me to buy a shirt.'

'It was a nice drive up here.' Emily claps and holds hands. 'And the shirt makes extra-dimensional beings panic.'

'That does not sound inclusive.' Dr Woke declines. 'I do not want to have to wear a jumper carrying trigger warning for inner layers.'

Iris: 'Panic?'

'Yeah. They sprint off. One ran through a mirror, sliced open their throat. They don't bleed, funnily enough.'

'That is funny.' Iris claps and holds hands. 'If they're not human, do you reckon it's all right to murder them?'

Cost of living is a bitch but bitch has got to live, not merely survive. The dating scene is a bit thin at the moment so Iris sought other means of scratching itch. Her side of the phone call:

'Hi, this is Iris calling. I heard you organise people-hunts... Mhm, people hunting other people as blood sport, all very consenting... Yes, and how much do you charge?... The fuck, who can afford that?... So how much do you pay to be hunted?'

So Iris was flown to a private island off the coast of Victoria. In the hunting lodge, Iris shook hands with the dozen gentlemen who would be hunting her. They gave her five minutes head start. She found a humble cudgel, got bored, returned and smashed two hunter's heads into urinal wall. Hunters were hunted and, with fourteen bodies piled before her, post-blood-nut clarity set in.

Thinking out loud: 'They paid me... they're allowed to hunt me... I didn't pay them... I didn't give them my BSB. Fuck!'

Iris stripped the hunters' clothes and bundled those into two suitcases. There were larger suitcases but the two chosen had wheels. She hitchhiked a lift home from a passing narco sub.

Iris, in salesman mode: 'And they're rich people clothes. Cravats, scarves, the sweaters you only wear with arms tied around your shoulders to boat club. I'll give you a suitcase for that one shirt.'

Emily's scissors are ready, but: 'A small closet's worth of clothes stolen from upper-crust murder victims. I'd say I'd launder them, but the wordplay eats its own tail.'

Ooh, velociraptor.

Iris farts: 'Uh, both suitcases?'

'Mm. If you insist.'

Whilst Dr Woke hopes that this swapping of clothes happens in front of him.

 

*Types of straight.

Mamta's Granny Flat Speakeasy

'... these crickets be wild fed...'

            '...a Breyerhouse Pie like Lambas Bread...'

                        '... a voice, I get that, but to parliament?'

Sojourners beyond the technically real have braved the freeway to drink, this Friday night, at Mamta's granny-flat speakeasy. It is BYO if the drinker so chooses - many do, but exchange their boozes for something more to tonight's fancy, like a market-driven potluck. A cosy, if informally formal, atmosphere is courtesy of a dozen drinkers. A long wail of car horn and Dr. David Hasselfhoff makes the dozen a baker's:

'Ooooh, it's time. Hello, Mamta, what's good?'

'Butt stuff.'

'That's not, uh, I'm sure it is.' David places the Crazy Bones Blunderbuss on the bar. 'For your macaw.'

(Which, digging vibes atop its shotgun perch, bops its head.)

Mamta leans clasped hands on the bar, cleaves a little age and it shows: 'I heard that can only fire Crazy Bones.'

'And so it doesn't need gunpowder.'

Mamta gives David a bottle of 1945 Grand Paladin: 'I don't believe you scrapped with the Baby Born Centipede.'

'I'm a historian. I gave Giuseppe the lead. He didn't want to go back there, so I popped in and grabbed blunderbuss. Salvage law. It's not a toy, so the centipede ignored me. Felt good to be back in the field.'

Mamta gives David a wide glass and he takes wine to an unoccupied table. Mamta resumes drying a Perpetually Wet Pint Glass with an Always Dry Dish Cloth, becoming set dressing which drops eaves. Todd's arms are crossed but he smiles, Elise's cheeks are flushed with laughter, Carl tries a hand on Darrel's shoulder, Sinead gesticulates lit Ghost Tobacco whilst negotiating Quetzalcoatl Feathers with Alexander. This is how Mamta cops a feel of the market which, used to this foreplay, slaps hand away with coy smile.

Mamta tunes ears into: 'You say “wild" but you mean "not meant to be there".'

The voice is Dorothy's. Mamta has gathered that Adrian, pivoted towards Dorothy with elbow on front bar, is trying to sell her some live locusts which he netted during a tour of cropland.

He drinks Hunter Valley Sémillon: 'It's like kangaroo. They're hunted because one less kangaroo is one more sheep that a farm can run. The meat is a by-product, but it's still wild.'

Adrian is hangering after another or Dorothy's Musical Sandwiches. Inspiration had struck Dorothy and inspiration became madness, subconscious engineering genius layering precision strips of cheese, lettuce and ham like piano strings. Halfway through his set, opening for the K-Pop girl group known as Kev, Adrian had killed birds with stone and ate the sandwich from a harmonica neck holder. The sandwich was nourishing for Adrian's body and the audience's soul.

Adrian continues: 'We wouldn't even have to meet. Just leave a sandwich in an esky once a month and I'll swing by and replace it with a sack of crickets.'

Dorothy circles a finger along the rim of an empty glass: 'Yeah, but there's only so much I can do with insect protein. My friends have become adventurous eaters because of my dinner parties, but they've also become more creative with excuses to not attend. One time, their dog ate their child.'

'In other words, you don't think you can pull it off.'

'Your expecting audience would be the first to find out.'

Mamta returns to flicking through audio channels:

'... Tom counting his darts...'

            '... why PornHub doesn't have a dwarf category...'

                        '... NOT ATTEMPT TO USE WHAT YOU HAVE LEARNED...'

Alexander bows out to the bathroom. Sinead goes outside for a smoke. Foot in door and Yvette haggards towards the bar. The shot of monkey booze and schooner of dragonspring sake, a 'Long Spark', are ready on her arrival.

Yvette offers her goods: 'I brought the Plus-Point-Oh-Two Watering Can.'

'Which, for every litre carried, only weighs a respective 800 grams. It says it can only carry ten litres, but you seem to fit twelve.' Mamta rolls smiling eyes, song-and-dance. 'Your money isn't good here. Except, maybe, as collateral.'

'What'll it be?'

'Butt stuff. Better but less often.'

'A sex goddess needs inspiration.' The monkey booze makes Yvette wince and raise schooner. 'Another of these, perhaps?'

A long screech and thonk. Sinead calls and Mamta's customers rush outside to poke heads over fence. Someone has tried to cross the freeway and been hit by a car. Colin is dead.

Mamta is going to have to close this speakeasy. She sighs and pours herself a Long Spark. 

Richter vs. The Commonwealth of Australia

The minute and hour hands jointly tick onto twelve and Edward Soden, white shirt under suspenders, kicks open his office door, left hand holding Jamesons and right with tumbler of ice: 'Johannes White. Wants to plead guilty but his daddy's the heir to the Flat-White fortune, takes half of every cup ordered.' Pouring whiskey uno. 'Makes coffee damned expensive but I never touch the stuff, and the father is coked to the gills courtesy of Flat-White money. We need a defence. Who wants front row seats?'

Renee the paralegal stands from her desk: 'Me! Me me me me!'

Finishing whiskey uno: 'You? The only thing your stoner ass can do is pass piss tests.'

Renee slams hands on desk: 'CUUUUUUNT.'

Edward nods with clenched lips, pours whiskey dos: 'I like your moxie. Ok, find a precedent for tomorrow's not-guilty or you're out of here.'

Whiskey dos is flung over carpet as Edward spins towards the intern: 'Get. Me. Pictures. Of. Spiderman.'

Tomorrow. Huh. Renee scoops files into her arms and sprints through the door. A grandfather of seven toddles to the open door of the only taxi on rank. Renee sweeps the walking frame from beneath the elderly gentleman as she runs for and lands into the taxi with a shoulder-roll.

In the police station visitation room, Renee searches through the unrelated documents with which she has covered the table: 'So, uh, what did you do exactly?'

Johannes slouches with arm over chair back: 'I brought the lols. Lawman couldn't handle my lols.'

Renee actually finds the relevant police transcript: 'You, ah, this says you drove a bulldozer through the Mount Pleasant country show. They, aaah, found the produce pavilion in Springton.'

'I took shortcuts.'

A newspaper clipping is attached: 'Yes. Through quite a few farms. Quite a few fences. They're expecting quite a few lambs of mixed breed in five months.'

Johannes leans forward and points: 'That's racist.'

Renee throws a hand open: 'That's bad husbandry. And on your, um, getaway, you shouted, to the angry mob and police in slow pursuit, your name and, um, YouTube profile?'

'I livestreamed it.'

'I see.'

Soden & Underlings deals in contract law, not criminal. When Renee returns fruitless to the firm to make this point, two hours later, she finds Edward unconscious in his office, facedown in regurgitated whiskeys undici, dodici and tredici. The intern cosplays as Spiderman, sitting on the desk with right foot on left knee and taking a selfie. The intern sees Renee and shrugs.

Fuck. Renee clocks off and, in a city side-lane, shrieks with fists in the air. Woe betide the ambitious, for the whims of fortune dangle opportunity. I bit the bait and, now, may or may not struggle against this doom reeling me in.

Ok, ok, Renee knows someone who deals in last resorts. The cat cafe shuts at five but the remaining girl lets Renee in through the fire escape - $100. A table shared with Midnight the ragdoll, with ten minutes of privacy and the fire alarm removed - $50. Blueberry muffin and flat white - $25. For everything else, there is theft, murder, blackmail, extortion and the exchange of the aforementioned. MasterCard leaves a trail.

Renee downs overpriced coffee and removes plastic wrapping from a tube (length 10cm, diameter 1.4 cm). The latest Catnip Page is unrolled from around a brandless cigarette and unfolded, once vertically, once horizontally. Renee lights the cigarette and Midnight yowls long and happy.

Renee disapproves: 'Don't drop your game, cat. You're a professional.'

Tom, in orange puff hoody and discarding half a muffin, enters from the kitchen: 'Reneeeeee. Dee-tee-eff?'

Another drag on the catnip: 'You know I'm gay, right?'

'Didn't stop you last time.'

'I thought you were flat-chested and playing at butch.' Renee, straight faced. 'I was high off my tits.'

Tom spins on stool: 'And I got high on them.'

Renee points at the Catnip Page, at item 17#: 'Richter vs. The Commonwealth of Australia.'

'So you are going to get someone off.' Tom steeples fingers. 'A legal precedent capable of defending anyone for anything. At least once, because they will close this loophole once it is cited. Nobody has yet, because I hold the original transcript. A get out of jail free card, if you will.'

Sceptical: 'High court?'

A wide smile: 'The highest. It involved two kilos of El Dorado Green, back when they first diversified away from precious metals. Shit's so potent, the entire bench got buzzed just by being in the same room. Then they decided to sample Exhibit B. You think you were high during our sloppy fuck? That was nothing compared to this.'

Renee has thoughts: So El Dorado exists? How do I score their weed? Cunt calling me sloppy? Too many questions. Tom slides off the stool, left hand cradling his chin:

'In exchange, I need you to acquire the Paifurōtā, one of the Hakujin No Tabemono, forged in the bowels of Mount Chōkai by mercenary heretics that broke away from the Shugendō. An electric guitar that chews the player's soul and spits it back out a jazz, math-rock fusion that is an affront to all that is holy. Not that I mind, being something of a affront myself, but it's good marketing.'

So, for those of you playing at home, here is Renee's plan:

1.      Steal the 'pay fury, ta' or whatever.

2.      Exchange the guitar for Richter vs. Australia

3.      Use the legal precedent to defend Johannes from multiple counts of trespass, property damage and reckless endangerment of lives.

4.      Career progression? (Contingent on Edwards BAC.)

The Paifurōtā is in the possession of Adrian Albert, touring the country with his self-titled trio. The local venue hosting tonight's gig is a tucked away, heritage listed bar with empty vases in window sills. Two-to-four around tables with wine or craft beer, the patrons either have established careers in social sciences and niche media or aspire to such jobs via rubbed elbows. As such, the ambition to fit in, to imitate, is parallel to the ambition to stand out, to appear independent, so that the dictates of fashion are blurred and nobody knows who exactly is trend-setting. Five patrons have already imitated Renee's style by removing their left stocking and slipping it over their head.

The trio consists of a drummer, a pianist and Adrian on guitar. Two thirds through their set, the drummer notices Renee's beeline to the stage and smirks to the pianist:

'Hey man. Groupies.'

The pianist snap-freezes: 'We play jazz, math-rock fusion. We don't get groupies.'

The pianist knows to duck the first bar stool, aimed at Adrian but instead flying into the piano, to back up to the wall with hands in the air. Renee steps onto the stage, ready to swing another bar stool but, come to think of it, unsure as to where to strike Adrian without damaging the guitar. The audience is struck by Renee's modish panache and begins throwing furniture. The drummer continues his understated tisk-ta-ta-tisk.

Renee: 'I am a paralegal and that guitar  is a breach of the Quarantine Act 2015 subsection, uh, two.'

Adrian clutches the guitar to his chest: 'It's mine.'

'Gimme.'

Backing away: 'Damn it, what are you two waiting for?'

The pianist shrugs: 'Your comeuppance, mostly.'

Tisk-ta-ta-tisk: 'Same. Been six months.'

A magazine rack is thrown into the stage and Adrian falls. Renee grabs the guitar and attempts to wrest it from Adrian, on his back and pleading:

'You can't take this from me.'

Renee removes her right shoe, reckons she can drive the heel into Adrian's left eye. In those eyes: Woe betide the ambitious, for the whims of fortune dangle opportunity. I bit the bait and, now, may or may not struggle against this doom reeling me in. Renee lowers the shoe at her side, sighs:

'OK, I get it, you took one step too - '

'What else can I do as a straight white male with no soul?'

So that is how Johannes White accrued the legal representation of Renee Hodge, Edward Soden, Adrian Albert and a narcissistic Spiderman.

The judge: 'How do you plead?'

Johannes stands: 'Yeah, I'm going to plead guilty so you guys deport me to New Zealand.'

Renee slams hands on desk: 'CUUUUUUNT.'

Edward pours whiskey ventisai: 'Moxie.'