I stared intently into the small fox’s face. It was wob-eyed. This may have been in some small part due to the fact it had been so recently run over by a truck. The fox hung in the ethereal point between pulpy recognition and a thin mix of blood and fur spread over a dozen feet of tarmac.

I reached down and scratched my left testicle through the fabric of my trousers. The sensation was hardly sensual. If anything it felt akin to the sensation of fucking after drinking a bottle and a half of red wine. I could tell there was contact… but it was so vague and inconsequential that I might as well have been itching someone else’s genitals with someone else’s arm.

Bang. A passing truck palpates the fox but instead of finally bursting it merely makes a little bit of brain matter shoot from an empty eye socket onto my trouser leg. I stare down and contemplate whether there is some deeper meaning in this strange meeting between I and the creature. Then I collect my thoughts and realise that all that has been proved is that foxes did not evolve with heavy goods vehicles in mind.

Doubtless there is someone out there who would be captivated by me waiting for a bus in the presence of roadkill… but all I see is that the bus hasn’t turned up yet and that flies are buzzing on the entrails poking out the animal’s former anus. People should hunt down and kill people who’d go “that’s so telling about the human experience” when faced with this scene. Just because David Lynch might do it doesn’t mean that every fucking student on Earth can do it.

I try to flick a penny into the right eye socket. This is not a tribute to the ferryman. I hate pennies. I usually throw them straight in the bin in the belief that it in some way fucks up the economy. I relish the prospect that at some point the bank of England will go “we have ninety-seven pence more gold than we should” and be forced to audit the entire country. By then the pennies will be buried in a landfill and thus I spark a bureaucratic spiral that will eventually lead to anarchy.

I like the concept of anarchy… the modern kind… the one with the circle round the “A” and dustbins through McDonalds’ windows. I don’t think it’s the solution to all our problems. I just think it’s the solution to a bunch of people who think they’re making a difference by wearing the cut-up remains of a T-shirt their mother bought them from C&A. I want true anarchy to finally be granted to them… just so I can wait for them to roll a shitty little joint while going “yeah, like, fuck the system” and embed a pickaxe in their soft, unnaturally pasty, skulls. That’s the joy of anarchy. It’s like Death Wish but with vegans.

Still, I think to myself as I try to subtly check the zip of my trousers, they’re easy targets and once they’ve all finished their design degrees they’ll grow bloated and non-threatening. They may remain a vegan… unlikely… but perhaps… which is a good thing because they’ll get osteoporosis at the age of thirty.

The bus grinds to a halt directly on top of the fox. Somehow it just inflates at one end like a half-inflated balloon wrestling the hands of a clown. Then some woman steps off the bus in stilettos and something that resembles liquid pate shoots up her leg. I take a step back and dodge the worst. As I get onto the bus I wonder if there’s a Japanese fetish so specific that women stepping off buses onto repeatedly run over foxes has its own conventions.

Time passes along with the old man in front of me. He may just be deep asleep and have bowel problems but I don’t intend to check. I’d probably be accused of murdering him. This is why you should never help anyone.

How many novelty crime-solvers can there be? It’s gotten to the point where the only unexplored options are a postman that solves crime and a man who works in a petrol station solving crime. The latter would probably be the most practical as the postman would always be delivering my parcels to the wrong crime scene.

Coming soon… 24:hr Garage. He can’t come to crime but crime comes to him. He think’s he’s bullet-proof but there’s a small slot you put the money through. He thinks that he’s met the girl of his dreams but someone stabs her with the jet-wash and the police think it’s him. Can he clear his name AND sell Rizlas to students at 3am?

You can get away with incorrect punctuation if it makes the title look clever. Like when people move the screws about on their number plate to make it say “fuck”. It’s a soulless world, I should write the script. At least then I’d look busy and have excuses for not standing up.

I get off the bus and I am immediately forced to decapitate the first samurai with a throat-level slash. The next is split in half like a pistachio shell leaving a kernel of organs rolling on the floor. I killed a bear next. With my penis.

back to duck.