The Day After Yesterday
I'm not sure what went down yesterday, but I have no doubt that some really diabolical act has taken place somewhere in the world. Either the antichrist was finally born, probably to a Muslim terrorist family or a secular liberal humanist newspaper editor. Or someone threw another rock over my wall with some demonic message written in blood. I wouldn't be surprised if both these satanic things have taken place, given The Beast's mark on the calendar. But it's over and a six has become a seven, God's perfect number.
Perfect timing, too -- we've successfully crossed the border. I have not allowed my young apprentice to sleep more than fifteen minutes the whole journey. He's a little delusional, so I've let him sleep for a while longer. He will awaken with a much shorter haircut, his ear ring will be a thing of the past, and I'm still working on removing his tattoo without having to amputate his arm.
STOP THE PRESS: I've just received an sms from my faithful warrior wife back home, who says she is sure a rock landed in the garden around midnight last night, but she couldn't find any trace of it this morning. Liberty is going to get his little black ass kicked when I get home. No doubt he found the cursed piece of masonry and buried it. He may think he's doing his master a favour, but now the entire garden is polluted with that foul satanic tool. He'll unbury it and I'll make sure he crushes the damned thing to dust with his bare fingers.
I've got to run. I hear my apprentice stirring and I don't want to miss the look on his face when he sees his reflection in the mirror, which I've suspended 30 centimetres from his face.
Fight the good fight.
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