Back to non-reality.

So, I'm back home. You know, with my mother, and the French Secret Service - who are still looking for Max. And Mr. Potato and Bigfoot, for some inexplicable reason.
 Actually, I have no idea where this is going. Could Bigfoot be Peruvian on his mother's side? Let's just scrap this entire storyline, start something new... But wait, you people crave continuity. You're always telling me that... Well, ok then.

 The house was on fire. No two ways about it - flames licked my my veranda, hot embers filled my bath, tongues of fire hotter than the whores of hell ascended my staircase. My mother, unimpressed, got out of the boot and left town. I'll probably never hear from her again. No loss, she was a useless literary tool. The French Secret Servicemen, smug looks on their faces, stood ankle-deep in my duck pond.
 "Ha, monsieur. We warned you zis woul 'appen!" They shouted happily, "Where iz 'ee?"
To be honest, they hadn't warned me about this at all. And I still wasn't giving them Max. Sure, I wanted revenge on them for destroying my home, but I didn't hate the French enough to unleash Max on them again.

I thought trainstation and carpark were words, but my spellcheck begs to differ...

The train drew to a stop. As such, I also stopped moving. Because I was on the train. There, I've said it.
 Bigfoot had long since departed, leaving me to sit next to an elderly woman who bore more than a passing resemblance to Don King. I was going to pick up my mother, you see. After Le French Secret Service started squatting in my house, I'd managed to phone my mother and convince her to put off her visit for a few days, which she'd spent living out of bins and hunting elk.
 To continue my longstanding lie that I was successful, I stole a BMW from the train-station car-park, setting off to pick her up from her hotel... Alley... Whatever. Bundling her in the boot, I began the journey home.
 Sorry, this blog doesn't have a real beginning or end, it's kind of a filler in the long-running narrative that is my insanity. And I'm still not sure what Mr. Potato the racist potato had to do with anything...

Bigfoot and Me

Image via Wikipedia That should be "Bigfoot and I". I care not for your conventions...
 The train sped on through the tunnel, darkness hiding the man next to me. Trapped, afraid, I prepared for the spread of light that would signal his departure. Such was always the way of mythical figures on trains.
 But no! Light snaked up the train carriage, and he was still sat next to me. Dressed in a double-breasted pinstriped grey suit and fedora, Bigfoot looked every bit like a particularly hairy 1950s businessman.
 But, behind the dazzling joy of the 50s man was a sadness as deep as the ocean and as wide as a whale. His brown eyes, as deep as a whale and wide as a dolphin, cast down with the hint of a tear, as wet as a dolphin and as edible as tuna.
 His carpeted paws lifted as his whole body shook out a sigh, descending onto each leg. Reaching out, I patted him sympathetically on the left paw. He smiled slightly, sadly, a smile as deep as tuna. Then we parted ways.