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Front page news in SCORCHIO
A Local Paper for Local People
He’s Dead, Jim, Dead!
El Señor ZoQuerido, portly old proprietor of the Hotel ZoCher and La Isla Barbelita’s Joe Grundy, has gone to meet his maker (Dr Louis Zimmerman).
Mine host was reported to been overcome this morning, whilst supping a pint of espresso on the terrace and discussing the Van Allen Belt with Mordant. Apparently Lurid Archive’s antics with the cold coke can caused palpitations. A doctor was summoned but, being a shrink and eager to get back online, only had time to arrange a few Strelitzia blooms to cheer the old man up a bit.
According to garrulous and indiscreet visiting pathologist, Professor Gunter von Hagens, the cause of death cannot be determined. “It is a puzzlement,” said the Man in the Silly Hat.
“Could be all the drugs he took at Maominstoat’s Gibbous Moon Party on the beach.” Bishop Auckland and Señorita Rage have turned down the banging house music as a mark of respect.
“Could be a rare case of beetroot poisoning or other toxin. Perhaps unwise of him to employ the Queen of the Underworld as a personal chef and a soggy Jade Emperor as a cocktail jockey.”
“Could be the shock of seeing the ancient stone idol of Ta'ahm Koatz open its eyes and swallow grant and Sir Jack Fearless. Or perhaps he died of pleasure, surrounded as he was by unrelenting Barbelite brilliance. He was ill with laughter at one point when he read Mr Illmatic’s His mouth feels like he’s been down on Nancy Reagan and oh god, his throbbing head.”
“Could be that he’s a bloody fictional character who runs out of steam and undergoes regular death and rebirth, in timelord manner, every now and then, as he has done since his early days as a third dynasty Pharaoh. If so, let’s hope he’s not Sylveste McCoy next time around.”
ZoCher is survived by a Hindu Love God and two cats, none of whom noticed he had shuffled off until nobody fed them in the evening. Ganesh is bearing up divinely and has gone shopping for something extravagantly grave, yet single breasted, for the funeral ceremonies.
As he hurried into the local branch of Selfridge’s, Ganesh said, “Please don’t waste your hard earned money on a cheap bunch of flowers. There are lots of deserving charities who could really use that money for good causes.”
“Oh, bugger that, buy huge, fuck-off bouquets of lilies and throw them onto the funeral bier at the sky burial. Think “Diana” and be lachrymose. And would mourners please try to look a bit faraway and sad, like Professor Deva, as the vultures circle.”
Our Lady of the Flowers has been misguidedly put in charge of security and poorly dressed mourners will not be admitted (apart from Rothkoid, who is unable to dress himself due to recent yogic flying attempts and will be as naked as a Betazoid bride.)
Ring through my ears and sting my eyes
Your Spanish lullaby… |
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