First student of Mr. Gerry Holland's 4th Class '03/'04, St. Emer's N.S. to fill up his 2004 F.A. Premier League sticker book.
Staring contest 1000m relay world champion.
Can operate camera.
There exists a parasite that exercises control over your brain in a very non-invasive way. You say to yourself "okay, let's see where this takes me. I can do whatever I like, apart from what would be barred to me normally. I can still think about whatever I choose, although some subjects that I have are new to me, because this being has only whispered certain things in my ear." You worry about the greater cogs of existence in this new way. Engren, the parasite, reckons that he knows how to help humanity come to some sort of comfortable situation. Some ideas come through the cracks in the wall of understanding. Some take a vibrating hammer to the blocks. Others wait until you're standing behind it wondering how best to overcome the thing and then push the fucker over on you. Engren wants you to take an idea to the men who matter. Public and ceremonial self-immolation, for every human to witness. The mattering men were easily convinced, they reasoned for themselves that a return to tribal ritual would have a sort of binding effect on modern civilisation. So at the last possible moment, when the petrol is burning your eyes and nose and running rainbows down the golden steps to the feet of the mattering men and gaping and screaming and cheering denizens of this shining city and a druid stands offering a ceremonial engraved Zippo and boys hold gold catching plates under it, Engren releases the total and absolute control that you and the men and the people and the druids and the boys had blissfully enjoyed your entire lives. Your pupils constrict as you snap open the lighter.