'That's just a rumour,' she said. 'So stop looking at me like that.'
  'Like what? How am I looking at you?'
  He put his hands in his pockets and an aeroplane roared overhead. He retrieved his treatise on the construction of a wooden penis. He sighed heavily, she looked on the verge of tears.
  'Look, I'll have this finished by next week, and we can meet your folks in Honolulu,' he said.
  'You never like my parents, you just lock yourself in that room working all night, you should've heard the noises!'
  'I can't hear your noises as well as mine, I'm going to the butchers for my meat.'
  Fortunately the butchers had closed and a taxidermist/taxicab firm had opened in its place. Mr Harris, the owner, was descended from the 13th Duke of Momfort.
  Mr Harris looked him over. 'I heard your wife was up to something down at the cemetery with Louis Armstrong.'
  He was painting his picture in a thousand shades of yellow, the ribald influence of Harris washed over him.
  Suddenly two gunshots rang out and Mr Harris hit the floor.
  'What was that?'
  Mr Harris got to his feet and took off his specs. 'It's the gun shop next door, they use my shop as a rifle range.'
  The rumour spread about the rifle range to Manilla, into the brown-envelope factory where Min Yang licked the gum eternally. She waited for her shift to end, nearly there now.
  The shift supervisor sidled up to Min Yang. 'When you're finished licking that, I have other licking-duties for you! Ha ha ha!
  'I see you are intrigued by the shape of my testicles. They are rather like potatoes, aren't they?'
  'They are potatoes!
  'My God,' she whispered as she noticed a small card attached to the last envelope which read in italics: Harris: Taxidermist/Taxicab "you're stuffed outside of the city limits". She picked up the phone which always irritated the supervisor, and put through a call to Abergavenny.
  'Hello?' he said, answering the phone.
  'Is this Abergavenny?'
  'Yes?'
  'Can I speak to Mr Harris?'
  'I'm afraid he's dead. I've killed him.'
  'Oh.'
  'The penguins laughed, some cried. It was strongly poignant.'
  'Right.' She hung up, her boss still stood there with two potatoes by his genitals, after a pause of half an hour he whispered, 'Lick my potatoes, damnit!'
  The strong odour of Chanel No5 wafted from the root vegetables, it reminded her of the fields of Phuket, the slow rising heat of the summer dawn and then the glitter of distant stars, distant worlds. On one such world aliens planned an attack upon Mr Harris' widow. She sat by the window awaiting annihilation.
  From the distant galaxy, a laser-beam of pure energy sped through the universe. It hit Mrs Harris' NHS spectacles and ricocheted out of the window. The beam bounced off a nearby lamppost and blasted our hero, all-but vaporizing him instantly.
  There was no blood spilled, and charred flesh. It smelled of barbecue. Clutched in the scorched fist of our dead brother, miraculously still intact, was the completed wooden penis, panting like an antennae towards the sun-god.
  She was the only one at the funeral, his parents being on a coach trip to Abergavenny. They burnt the body, but when she got the urn, inside amongst the ashes was the wooden penis staring her in the face.
  'Hmmmmmmm,' she murmured. 'Is this the future?' She sneezed into a paper tissue and dropped it into the open grave. It dissolved slowly, the maggot smiled and went on its intrepid way.
  Meanwhile, Min Yang looked over the card she had found. On the other side it read; The nature of reality is not the nature of yourself in reality but the existential conundrum relating from this being.
  'Oh, bollocks,' said Min Yang.
  The supervisor let out a low hum. 'I can get it if you want it you know, we've got lumps of it round the back.'
  The bell rang for the end of the shift, she ignored her boss, put the card into her pocket and wandered into the Manilla streets. 'I know who to see,' she thought. 'They call him the gangster of Manilla, alias....
  Peter Shilton!!!' 'How could he not have saved that penalty!' Gary cried as he stepped out of the taxi onto Times Square.
  He picked up the nearest phone, and dialled Abergavenny.
  'Hello?' Mrs Harris answered.
  'Is that Mr Harris?'
  'No, he's-'
  Gary interrupted her. 'Look, I've got the penis here, in my trousers. Just tell him that!'
  'I killed Peter Shilton with my big fucking wooden dick!!'
  There was no hope for Min Yang now Peter Shilton was dead. What should she do? Call Neville Southhall? Call Peter Shit? Someone whispered, 'No, follow me,' it was her boss from the envelope factory. (fantasy)
  They passed between the narrow alleyways that connected the edge of the city to the slums. Smoke stack lightning, she thought, shining just like gold! He switched off the radio and the car came to an abrupt halt outside a Porn Broker.
  'What are we doing here?' Min asked.
  The supervisor walked up to the counter.
  'You got anything with potatoes in it? And wooden cocks? I likes wooden cocks, I does.'
  'Fuck off, this is a delicatessen.'
  'Oh, then I'll have half a pound of Gouda then.'
  The man pulled a video from behind the counter. It was called Debbie Does Woodwork.
  'She is very practical, her father built the wooden horse of Troy... maybe not, I'm not sure, that's what it ways on the box,' he said breaking it open, the box was empty. 'Damn Arabs!' he cursed