THE CINNAMON BRIOCHE WERE BURNT TO A CRISP.
It’s perfectly rational behaviour, this, despite what they tell me on the megaphone. I’m only here to wait and shove all the burnt brioche down his filthy gullet.
Getting in was easy. I just lured his little cat with a prawn on a stick and then trained her to open the door. I didn’t expect his flatmate to call the police when he couldn’t get in because of the barricade. It’s only for a day or so. He’s back soon from his dirty festival. I’ll show him.
They’re offering me all sorts. “Let the cat go and we can negotiate,” said the skinny one that talks like a schoolteacher. But I know the cat is my bargaining chip here. I didn’t think it would escalate so fast. It’s because I made a baguette in the shape of a rifle. I thought it would make me look powerful. I think it might have been a mistake. Still. Hi by the way. It’s Jay. I used to cover that fucking actor’s blog for free when he went off to festivals. Can you imagine? “It’ll be good experience.” Lies. It was just thankless time. But good flour costs money and when he offered me £50 for 3 I didn’t break it down properly. Thruppence a word. Of course he plays Scrooge. Penny pinching weasel. Spending all that money on a stolen car and then only trickling down a measly 50 quid to the cake eating masses.
Well the masses have got his login now. And have broken into his flat. And have seized the means of cat.
Also my mate badger says that he’s got a van full of angry bees and he’s going to drive to Northamptonshire and find Al’s tent and fill it with bees. Thousands of the hairy little fucks. That’ll give him something to think about after all the crying his hippy friends’ll be doing at the festival about bees dying because of pesticide or whatever the fuck.
Here are my demands:
1: More flour
2: Not having to write about hippy crap
3: All my burnt brioche to be eaten by Al
4: Safe escort from the premises.
5: One million pounds.
I didn’t ask to have to break in. It’s not my fault I’m angry. It’s society.
Xxxxxhdh f ghjgh jff
Ghjv jbcgjkk hg
Helo. Iz PIkul. Cn I gett fissh? Noysy Jay tooo noysy so I dropt book on hed. Slep nwo. Likk arrs. Ssh. Nno move. Can I eet toez? RUNRUNRUNRUNNNNN O iz nuthing. Cudlez? STROK MY BELY.
Good day. I understand my little Jay has been contributing to this fanzine. Jay asked me to finish. “Write any old shit, mum, so long as there’s 500 words of it and a picture of a cake. It’s worth £50 to me. Turn the oven down to 60 at 4pm.” That was the text. So that is what I shall do, and never let it be said I’m not a good mother, despite the murders. Dear Jay. Never have children my friends begged me. But Jay is my little blessing and the cakes are lovely.