Late last night, I was sitting in my library, enjoying a nice cup of earl grey tea, a pipe, and the day's copy of The Times. It was the first night of autumn cool enough for a fire and I’d brought one to a crackling burn in my home’s blackened hearth. The evening was a picture of utter tranquility, the sort of convalescence one scoffs at in youth and longs for later in life when a day’s labors start to take their toll. But it was around 10pm when this harmony was shattered! My lover, Bionic Commando, burst into the room wailing, tears streaming from its eyes, its heavenly façade twisted and mangled by anguish!
“My love, what ever is the matter?” I asked, alarmed.
“It’s that awful man from the Sunburnt Country! He called me such terrible things!”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, dearest. Who is this rogue who dared question your honor?”
“You know. Benjamin Croshaw. Yahtzee. The videogame critic from the island of convicts who walks about in a Justin Timberlake hat. He makes his trade nattering on about obese fellows being silly for liking terrible entertainments. Like me! Oh!” Bionic Commando swooned, its clawed hand against its forehead.
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