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Next ad in the series:
Interior, night. Tight shot of KM checking his emails. A click of a mouse, a scan of a message and suddenly KM is jumping up and down on his great, galumphing clown's feet, making noises like Tom Baker at the fireworks. Voice from offscreen. It's the older woman.
OW: 'What all this fuss about, Kris? Have BT slashed their broadband rates again?'
KM: 'No, no, its...'
OW: 'Has that woman from the party accepted you as her friend on Facebook, despite your woeful attempts at flirtation?'
KM: 'No, not that Mum, er, I mean, darling, it's...'
OW: 'Have that online pharmacy in Lagos finally refunded you for those Cialis pills that caused your testes to reascend?'
KM: 'No!... They've, they've...'
OW: 'WHAT THEN!'
KM: 'They've finally accepted my membership application to Barbelith!'
Camera pans back, to reveal that the shelves of KM's computer room are stacked with row upon row of leather-bound Invisibles trades, Robert Anton Wilson novels, and the collected works of Jack Horsley. The floor is covered with used tissues and disgarded sigils. KM reaches up to his ginger hair, gives it a firm tug, and reveals that it's *gasp* a wig, beneath which he is as 'nice and smooth' as King Mob, with whom, of course, he shares his initials.
Breaking into a broad grin, KM signs in and heads straight to the Temple, where he invites board members to join his nascent cell of Situationist chaos majickians / freedom fighters (in which, of course, his emo stepson will play the role of Jack Frost), before flipping to Comics, where he suggests a radical rereading / re-annotating of the The Invisibles, with a new thread for each panel.
If only the older woman had insisted they stick to dial-up. |
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