Thus Spake Zar... Charles Buttercup

Charles Buttercup sauntered about daringly, contemptuously facing the omni- deluded rabble. The mindless throng thrived thriftily all about him in contortions of ant-like gyrations.

Hatred fogged the cognition, a swirling maelstrom storming merrily in the phenomenological madness. The booming buzz of presentness poured itself mercilessly into his stream of consciousness, gouging out the eyes of tranquillity.

Colours-shapes-noises-smells raping his sensibilia not stopping all about coming here it is go away all around stop it stop it! STOP IT!

Charles Buttercup seized upon the private property of tax paying citizen who the f#$k are you?, ravaging upon open flesh. Feast. Girl boy? Doesn't matter.

Screaming. Shuddup! Shock crowds. stunned. Blood streams down his cheeks.

"You don't... it's... not here..."

Voices tempestuous. Legion. Was he talking?

"He's..."

Coughing. Where am I?

"HE'S DEAD! GOD IS DEAD! This is a..."

What?

"... it's not real. YOU! YOU'RE JUST DREAM VAPOUR!"

Charles Buttercup flailed about, preaching the NOT-real. The road loomed menacingly ahead, the buzzing shape-fluff cars ZOOM!

"There's no f&%*ing real!"

The truck driver. Then Charles.

Connection.

Death.

Judgement.