*FOR A REAL PECKHAM VIBE IMAGINE FLASHERS ROUND EVERY CORNER — YES FULL FRONTAL EXPOSÉ (URINATION OPTIONAL)*

**Fuck, I need headspace! Arrrrgh!**

As of this moment, everything seemed fucked online.
5G is obviously as real as C19, therefore…
They’ve just phased out 3G and rolled out 6G, but it’s in the clutches of numerous glitches.
Mr Àboo was not in seventh heaven about the promised internet speed improvements.
He wasn’t thinking any faster, and the viruses had acquired almost unlimited quantum proliferation capabilities—commencing penetration into the human zoo realm as *something else*.

Fuck knows what that “something else” was, but biological life, caught with pants down—erm, by surprise—wasn’t able to keep up, breeding extra brain cells to deal with the threat of the hitherto invisible enemy onslaught.
Visions of something bigger fleshed out, persisted.

Unusually for him, Mr Àboo was getting confused with his third-eye gambling algorithm prophecies.
“Things” with eyes and ears were slithering out from underneath the keys…

And the wifey wanted shopping done *right now*, this minute.
Mr Àboo popped one of the keyboard worms and another fizzy aspirin into his glass—the headache was immense.
No way he could manage any troubleshooting in this state.
But it’s OK. Fuck it.

Lose the focus on the confusion, and the clusterfuck tends to unfuck itself—as if it needed the stress to persist fucking the man’s brain.
No stress then. Forget the money.

With the third dose of the effervescent painkiller he just self-administered, somehow the materialistic pursuit’s motivation fizzled away…
He needed a chaser.

**Round four?**
From the cellar—Mr Àboo opted for a glass of something dark, strong, and vintage, to confuse the system.

Everyone is confused about Mr Àboo, including himself today—hence all the pills and screaming.

And then the wifey:

“Honey, I’m out of blue cheese, kosher snails, and purple chanterelles for Hanukkah!”

The expression on his face was dark and stormy:

“Since when do we celebrate Hanukkah!?”

He questioned his sanity silently, and asked the wife to add those items to the already long list she’d handed him earlier on.

“No pink champignons this year, darling?” he asked sarcastically.

“Oh yes! The finest rose-coloured ones, please, honey—and make sure the mycelium is attached.”

“With or without the horseshit, dear?”

“Buckingham Palace is five miles away. Dear, I cannot wait that long,” retorted the Missus.

Mrs Àboo, however, insisted that her Honey stop by the Rye Lane Chapel for the local preacher to bless their mouldy fungus and slugs—for a prosperous New Year to come into the Àboo household.

#safeguardforce #apes #strongtogether

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