Written by Jesus Budda
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Monday, 2 August 2010

image for Mark Lowton is staring at me

I sit here writing, and all the while I fear for my life.

Mark Lowton stares at me.

I try to concentrate on something other than his gaze but it is impossible not to be unnerved by his demonic eyes.

Those cold, emotionless peepers focused on me.
Those same cold emotionless eyes with their almost non-existent eyebrows.

Those high cheekbones. High as a soaring eagle. Don Henley in a glider.

His round face is the very epitome of eerie, dark and threatening menace.
If I squint really hard, he has a look of that Ashley from Coronation Street.
Fred Elliot would not approve of this type of intimidation.

Suffocation.

As I type a bead of sweat develops upon my brow, but I am too afraid to wipe it away for fear that the sudden movement may incur his wrath.

What does he want?

Why me?

My thoughts are clouded. My hand are sticky....I cannot focus on the matter in hand (wanking, possibly).

Damn you, Lowton. Damn you to hell.

Leave me alone, you nightmarish hell-hound!

Be gone, you terror of the night!

Yet still he stares.

He never blinks, does Mark Lowton.

Occasionally I fumble upon the keyboard buttons and offer excuses in a low, trembling voice.

"Pity me, Master Lowton".

"Not tonight, Marky-poo"

The truth is this: I am scared of him.

I am scared of what he is capable of.
In one fell swoop he can erase every last word.
Or maybe just the odd word here and there for legal reasons.

Should I sing him a song?

I haven't much of a voice but perhaps that may work.

Oh God, I'm almost at the end yet I haven't written anything remotely funny or clever.

I haven't even called him a prick.
Or a bollox.

Ya big bollox.

Is it me or is he ever so slightly cock-eyed?

And why is he in black and white?
Or am I colour blind?

He's toying with me now. Making me think I'm losing my vision.

What do you want from me, Mark Lowton?
Do you want me to write about cats?

Name your price, man.

Oh no!

He seems to be getting larger and larger. Like Billy Bunter.

Put down that toilet brush.

Stay away from me, you fiend.

Noooooooooo!

Leave me be.

Is there no one to save me?


Somebody? Anybody?


Why am I writing this shit?


............help...............

God, I'd love a cup of tea and some biscuits.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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