Kitchen. I'm in one. There, you've got your setting. What else do you want, blood?

Kevin. If he was really little.

Image via Wikipedia

It's wet outside. Sitting in the kitchen, drinking some tea, I reflected on that. You may think it's boring, but they were my thoughts, and you have no claim over them. If you're so upset, why not fuck off, back to your fascist thought factories, you scum.
 "Anyway, now I've insulted my readers, I can move on at last." I quipped smugly.
 "Yes. That is often the way" Kevin the snail replied.
I wondered, briefly, why he was now living in my house. I wasn't surprised though - whenever I meet any character with certain odd traits, they seem to move into my house. I guess its the same for everyone, yes?
 "Do you have anything profound to say?" I asked Kevin over my refreshing peppermint tea.
 "No." He replied. "I'm feeling a little under the weather, to be honest."
I nodded.

Kevin was right, of course. High above him, the weather continued to do its thing. I was despondent though - between us, we had nothing intelligent to say. And that severely damaged my ability to be pretentious.

Am I on acid? I don't think I am...

Image via WikipediaThe disco continued to disco. I know, that isn't an verb, but I just don't care anymore. I was in a discotheque. Not a club, not a bar with music. A disco. Like you would see in documentaries about the past.
 There were Afros and shirts unbuttoned really low, men with hairy chests and women in heels and sequins. I was awash with fear.
 Near the middle of it, my prey. The person I'd been following for some time. I realise that actually sounds pretty suspicious, but once again, I can assure you I'm not a rapist.

 In fact, my prey was a middle-aged man, his face still contorted in sullenicity. Sullenness? He still looked sullen anyway. He was dancing, slowly, mesmerised by his partner.
 His partner, slime trailing behind him, held the middle of the dance floor. It was his domain, no-one dared enter it. His eye-stalks turned and twisted, fixing on the other occupants of the discotheque, then fleeting away. Clearly, he possessed dangerous, hypnotic powers. Also, he was a giant snail.

 I approached him. Years of psychological training and a botched frontal lobotomy granted me immunity to all eye-based hypnoses.
 "What's going on here?" I asked him. Mainly, I imagine, because I was interested.
 "I." He replied, "Am A giant snail, and this is my disco. As you can tell, it is the 80s every night here. Please, have a drink."
 Gesturing with a small snail arm, he pointed to a drinks tray brought towards me by quintessential 80s robots.
 "Incidentally" he added without incident, flourishing his small, unnatural snail-arm in front of my face, "These are not the droids you're looking for."
 "Your snail mind-tricks don't work on me." I replied, "But seriously? What the fuck?"
 "Ah, well." He replied. "I used to be a bin-man. My name was Kevin, I wasn't happy really. One morning, I woke up and found I was a giant snail with hypnotic powers. What else could I do?"

 I stood and pondered Kevin's question for a few moments. He had a point, there seemed little else a giant, mind-controlling snail could do.
 Except, perhaps, create a more satisfying conclusion.