“And things were heating up at the championship. The scene: courtside. The crowd: mesmerised. The mood: tenser than a stolen guitar string, more expectant than a heavily pregnant elephant and suffused with that regrettable vibe you often get with defectively mixed metaphors. The weather: lovely day, rows of single-cell monsters catchin’ some rays, photosynthesising in the sun like ragged lines of deformed carrots. The smell: a mix of fear, stress, anticipation and B.O., because you’re standing t...oo close. Back off, whiffy. The players: Mick Living-Dead versus Frankie J. Mummy. The action: extreme. Fifteen rounds down with the sixteenth just finishing. We’ll let the Skull full of bull do the talking … ‘Bill, sixteenth round just ended amid mad controversy with Mick Living-Dead – normally a very lively player for a dead guy – beaten by Frankie J. Mummy, who’s rubbish. Dead serious.’ ‘You’re right, Sirius, though I should point out that F.J. Mummy isn’t made of rubbish; that’s the garbage monster, Anton Grunge-Debris, created by a mad professor living at the Horror dump with too much time on his hands.’ Skull nodded.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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