Clutchworthy

(This is part 3 of a 3 part installment. If you haven't read Part 1 and Part 2 please do so, as otherwise none of the following will make sense!)

None of these facts explained why the three were deep in conversation and frankly, Clutchworthy didn't really care. It was a sad statement of his tired mental state that his mind was now pondering the significance of trivial matters. He made a solid effort to channel his thoughts into some mind control exercises instead, but realised after a few minutes that this was futile. Finally, he was forced to restrict his activities to some toe tapping and lustful admiration of Twila Lane's buttocks.

(This is part 2 of a 3 part installment. If you haven't read Part 1 please do so, as otherwise none of the following will make sense!)

One of the women was stuffing chips from a soggy bag into her mouth and trying to talk (futile over the music) at the same time, while the other was clutching the arm of someone who looked remarkably like Angus Blackhurst. Hedwig immediately headed for the bar in a hurried fashion, trailing chips, whilst Helga sashayed her way through the audience towards the stage, bashing into people, stepping on toes and losing Angus Blackhurst on the way. Parting the crowd with her arms, she began to sway as though listening to a Val Doonican ballad, despite the fact the band had moved onto a fast paced funk metal number called This Gun is Your Gun.

As usual, Nofaith was jumping on a Friday night and it was a chore to navigate through the mass of teenagers and other riff-raff, as Dr Keith Kuntz made his way along the tunnel passage. He hated crowds almost as much as he hated the Labour Party and he found that the tedious process of navigation was making him sweat. Still, he persevered until at last he stood in front of the entrance to The Other Forum, where throngs of people were piling in the doors, anxious to numb their paltry brains with drugs and loud music. Scowling, Kuntz scanned the area for maximum pamphleteering position and quickly moved to place himself in between the two entrances. As he was nearly there, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

Peter Clutchworthy was out of control! He knew that it was true, but couldn't quite figure out how it had happened. A few hours ago he had been respectful and sophisticated. Now he was hunched over a surgical table, his trousers around his ankles with the still quivering form of Molly Fippersnitch panting beneath him. And he didn't quite know how he'd got here. The melting snake-like things that had been obscuring his vision for an eternity, seemed to be clearing, but he could still see the figure of Heinrich Himmler doing the charleston out of the corner of his eye. Just how much Seraphim had he taken? Even though he couldn't remember, there was no doubt that he had, because he always hallucinated high ranking Nazi officers when high on the stuff.