Bee Wee and the Death Rattle Hum

Good Friday was spent comatose on a beach... 

TOWIE screams through consciousness. Magical pagans. An explorer turned dull. 

I've been sleeping with Henry, my ventriloquist's dummy. He sees my eyes half open and whispers to me: "Nigel. I want to die."

The wind replies: Bee Wee and the Death Rattle Hum. A new act, appearing at a haunted basement near you. An erotic puppet show of manners.

Made out of wood, Henry plays a prick. But he does well with women on account of his perpetual hardon.

Henry recites to me a line: "I'd shag her, but angrily. I'd marry her, but hate it. I'd push the fat one off a cliff." To bring it home, he does that thing with his eyebrows. 

Bravo. 

Opening night. In the audience, more otiose than a slug, I dream of orange girls and God. Stretching and stumbling through eternity, they have always been the stuff of the universe. 

Consensus deems the play weird. At the after party, I make eyes with a pagan and pull her passionately into a closet. She pulls down my trousers and starts sucking. We are disrupted by a click. 

Henry cocks his Baretta. A buxom puppet screams.