Leonardo Da Vinci was murdered in the streets of Naples with a used napkin and a handful of broken nails. I read so on the internet. The church covered it up. Then the church covered itself up and all the people were free to pretend that they didn’t believe in anything anymore besides their own limitations. Shortly before any of that happened, I purchased a chaise lounge from IKEA. It was red white and blue and it cost approximately half the value of a McOz. Which, for those who don’t know, (and those who do) is a defunct hamburger. According to the mythology of McDonalds, the story is that the hamburglar stole the recipe for the McOz and poor Ronald was so distraught he tore the item off the menu, with his own clownish hands, weeping tears of thick paint at all 353 locations around Australia. It was never a very popular burger. Perhaps for this reason the funding allocated to the recipe security was insufficient. Perhaps the Hamburglar just got lucky. I am not sure. The chaise lounge was uncomfortable. And I accidentally soiled it. I drove it back to the store. Let me explain: IKEA is the same everywhere. Except in Sweden. In Sweden IKEA is a joke and rather than shop there, people go to laugh at the indecent stupidity of the western civilisation. Which as you know is spelt ‘civilization’ in the USA. At the return desk the woman said, ‘You cannot possibly expect us to take back this lounge, it is soiled.’ And I replied, ‘But you told me you’d always love me, even when the hard times came, you swore you’d love me then too!’ She gaped at me, her pale skin began to shudder as the light flickered above us. Her supervisor appeared from under the floorboards like a mist, his forked tongue darting spasmodically as he whispered, ‘You wanted the American dream, you wanted the American suitcase, you wanted repeats of Hey Hey its Saturday on your American television while you farted on your American chaise lounge and now you can never return!’ I clawed at my face until it didn’t help. They escorted me to my car and then burnt it, laughing. I walked the highway. The sun was caught high in the clouds, it was as gray as a Cormac McCarthy novel. Birds fell from the sky in flocks, suffocating on their own resignation. My shoes fell to pieces against the footpath. I came staggering upon an immense billboard. It was advertising ice-cream. It read, ‘You can’t have a Gaytime on your own.’ Then, with so much warning, the war began.
There once was a man from the end of times, and he died like everyone else. On the plus side, no one missed him much.