Drange Sport, the Dangerous

Mackerel wins, 80-1!

The announcer’s tinny cry filtered over the crowds of tin foil hats, and clothes and undies.

This was baseball-whack-a-mole, in 17,790.

The pitcher wound up, balancing a giant beaver on his head.

The mole ducked, just in time to avoid a home-base culling. The crowd went wild, cheering despite the radioactive snow. Internal heaters hummed.

The piping continued, of the pipers in the far stands, ostracised – and the sound of the commentator through their base-line radio headmasks.

The win meant nothing, but the atmosphere was electric.


Drange Sport the janitor pottered around the lavatories, unable to afford a hazmat suit, and hence able to watch the game freely. He saw fools earning their name on the blackened pitch.

He fingered the switch in his hand. It was about to light the world on fire.


The snow kept falling, with simpering softness, as though nihilism itself settled on the world of sensations, desires and emotions, reducing sound, and definition in a show of beguiling beauty… (I don’t know what I just said XD. It just had to come out.)


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