Dogs everywhere, freaking him out. He hadn’t felt this way since bumping into the Monkey Man on Kings Heath High Street, Birmingham. Then, it was a deranged cabaret act at work: exhibitionism, British style, designed to rouse the masses from their torpor without succeeding, once again. Now, the surreal vision snarled at him with realistic intent.
George walked into his local wearing his Superman outfit, the ‘S’ undulating over his man-boobs and beer-gut, and ordered a pint of his favourite brew.
“Fancy dress party?” asked the barman, who was new to the job.
“Na,” replied George. “Just saved a lass from drowning in the lake and blew out a fire at a warehouse all on me own. Got a fight with some aliens who’ve come down to destroy the earth in a bit.”