Brian Fisk is a Missouri wannabe troubadour. Frankly his music (to my ears) is utter bum gravy. However he owns what is undoubtedly the coolest guitar on the planet.

That’s right, it’s a freaking Millennium Falcon! With hyperdrive lights at the bottom! And an R2-D2 head stock with working lights and sounds! Just ridiculously cool.

It’s going to be an impeccably researched novel about the friendship between Tom, a young white boy, and Jefferson, an old black gardener, set in turn-of-the-century Mississippi. It would possess an air of complete authenticity. The old gardener would have an encyclopaedic knowledge of herbs and their uses, but he would be an illiterate and solitary curmudgeon. He would heal the boy’s broken arm with a poultice and later save his little brother from dying of a fever. Young Tom would convince Mr. Bridges, his school headmaster, of the gardener’s gifts and together the three of them would start to write a herbal encyclopaedia. The three protagonists would come from very different worlds, so there would be a lot of conflict but also a lot of wry humour and wisdom.

For the first fifty pages the reader would be thinking , ‘What the fuck is this shit?’ After one hundred pages they would be completely drawn into the world of Tom, Jefferson and Mr. Bridges. After one hundred and fifty pages they would be nervously wondering whether Tom’s stepmother could really have been so spiteful as to burn the manuscript.

For the final fifty pages I would have a description of Old Jefferson surprising Tom in a hay barn and the two of them having brutal, unprotected consensual sex. As he fucked the boy, he would scream about how he didn’t give a shit about plants. Perhaps in modern words, because he was a time traveller or something. His cock would grow to a fantastical size within the boy, glowing and humming like a lightsaber. The boy’s arsehole would start to talk, “I clench and unclench just like a vagina” it would cheerfully note in poor French.

Perspective would shift jarringly to a microscopic civilisation that lived in the hay under Tom’s face. They would be a poetic, romantic people for whom time moved incalculably slowly. Tom’s face would have hung in their sky like the sun for millennia before Old Man Jefferson started fucking him. Its gradual change to a rictus of pain would excite and disturb the minds of their greatest philosophers. eventually, the glowing tip of a huge black cock emerging from his mouth would cause the whole society to commit mass suicide.

An unusual clash between a 6-foot alligator and a 13-foot python occurred back in 2006, leaving two of the deadliest predators dead in Florida’s swamps.

The Burmese python tried to swallow its fearsome rival whole but then exploded. The remains of the two giant reptiles were found by astonished rangers in the Everglades National Park. The python’s remains were found with the victim’s tail protruding from its burst midsection. The head of the python was missing. Its thought the alligator may have clawed at the python’s stomach, leading it to burst. Seen that picture hundreds of times but I still struggle to work out what the fucks what is :/

Ah… New York. You lover of stars, massive food portions, steaming manholes, good smells, bad smells, bedbugs, cockroaches, dingey bars (Mars Bar you know who you are), this is the the only bar you’ll ever experience where in the toilets you won’t want to touch anything including the toilet paper, ice is a luxury and drinks are served straight up hard as nails, you take what you’re given. Propping up the bar is a bunch of people who could only be described as a bag of broken biscuits, a jammy dodger with no jam, half a bourbon creme etc… and they have the Pogues on the jukebox.