Invading armies have been laying siege to my stronghold for the past decade. It would be six full days since I was admitted to Ward 27. Six full days, the time it took the comic creator to devise a nice little set-up with a planet, stars, and creatures. He would have enjoyed adding time, that little ingredient that made the rest taste a little salted. To cap it all, he added man, and man had to be acclimatised to this new world through the Eden Project. Put simply, man ( in both genders) placed in a self-contained bubble in the middle of the rest of construction. Isn’t it funny that higher powers create whilst lower ones construct?
So, there is this big planet there, blinked into existence by a deity’s whimsy and all around it is nothing, nothingness, absolutely sod all. And on that planet are a bunch of sentient and none sentient creatures whose only immediate concern is to eat, to fuck, and to avoid going back into the nothingness. At the side, on a plate, in a garden, are the favourite creatures, the newly acquired icing that will sit at the top of all others yet below the Great Creator. But man is too precious, or too dangerous to set free, so The Creator takes away the immediacy of its sexual drive and blesses it with indifference. That way it defends the title and claim of The Great Creator; only he can summon forth life, only he has the power to bring forth into existence.
And, onto this ward was placed a broken cyclist who constantly disputed the existence of the Creator.
Death was stalking this world as the cyclist was brought into it. He was broken by the road that came crashing around him, and gashed by the surface that he fought not to be a part of. His pain was immense. He was stricken by his accident, confused by its repercussions. They stripped away from him his wife and daughter, whom he cleaved to and left him naked in the face of misfortune. The drugs were inserted into his being and he almost forgot who he was.
Only the dreams reminded him and they would be forever leading into the woods.