‘We are camped out in the Subway station.’ And with this I thanked my driver and climbed from his car, taking my pizzas and drinks and garlic breads. ‘Thanks for the ride,’ I said. ‘And if everything works out, I’m sure you’ll learn about it from an uncensored media broadcast.’

‘Good luck then,’ said the fellow and he drove off.

And I entered Mornington Crescent East (discontinued usage), whistling. And I entered, I noticed, by a rather larger opening than the one I had left by. And as I screwed up my eyes and wandered across the station concourse, I noticed that it was now a somewhat lighted concourse. There were flares all around and about, spitting sparks, dying.

‘Oh no!’ I cried, and I dropped my pizzas and drinks and garlic breads and took off down the stairway at the hurry-up.

And when I reached the platform I came upon a scene of doom and desolation. Torches still burned and the remnants of flares did also. And there was a bad smell in the air now, a bitter, acrid smell, and it was the smell of CS gas. And there on the platform lay bodies. Two bodies. One of them was a golden girlie. The other was the high priest. And he groaned in a fatally wounded kind of fashion.

And I approached his golden body and I gazed down upon it and all I could think to say was, ‘I am so sorry.’

And I kneeled low to catch a word. And touch the dying brow.

‘Men came,’ the high priest whispered. ‘Men from above. With magical weapons. We fought bravely, but they overwhelmed us. We failed you, sire, forgive us.’

‘I am so so sorry,’ I said. ‘And you didn’t fail me. You did your best. I am sorry that I brought you here to this evil place. Can you forgive me?’

The high priest reached out a bloodstained hand to me. It was clear that there was something important that he needed to say.

‘The P… The P…’

‘The “P”?’ I said. ‘The prophecy, do you mean?’

‘The p… The p… The pizza. What flavour did you get?’

And then he died.

I had moved to a point beyond anger.

Beyond rage and fury. Beyond all human feeling.

I raised my head upon that platform, threw it back and howled. An atavistic howl, it was. A fearsome howl, a midnight window-rattler. And I am sure that my eyes blazed fire and that I was an ugly sight to behold. But I was done now with everything but revenge. The red mist had descended. All that remained to be done now was for me to enter the high tower above, seek out Mr Papa Keith Crossbar and rend him limb from limb. The rending would be both slow and laboured, one little piece at a time.

And I arose and stood above the body of the high Priest, the golden being whose death was surely my fault. And I swore upon his corpse that I would finish the job I had started and that he would not have died in vain upon this dismal platform.

And then I strode from that dismal platform and up the stairway and across the concourse and out into that rancid New York night.

And suddenly bright lights shone upon me. And I heard a voice I recognised, it being that of the Jewish-looking fella with whom I had so recently shared a pizza. And this fella shouted, ‘That’s him, officers – the assassin who would threaten the life of our dear leader.’ Adding, ‘Can I have my reward in cash, please?’

And horrible hands were laid upon me. And I was brutally smitten down by truncheons of the electric persuasion. And I descended, once more, into that whirling black pit of oblivion.

Most angrily.

And I awoke from that whirling pit equally angry.

Or possibly just a bit more. Although I must admit that in my opinion I had plateaued, regarding the anger. I just couldn’t get any more riled up. It simply couldn’t be done.

And I was floating. Floating.

And not on some adrenalin high. But simply floating. Face up in something rather odd. Or was I face down? Or was my face anywhere? I couldn’t see, for it was black and I couldn’t smell or touch anything.

I did blinkings of the eyes and yes, my eyes were open. But I was in absolute blackness. Had I been blinded? And I opened my mouth to cry out, but no sound came from it. And it was as if all my senses had been shut down and that was a terrible feeling.

And I did panicking, I can tell you. All alone in the dark.

And then I didn’t panic quite so much. Instead, I did risings up. I projected. As I had done at The Stones in the Park gig after taking the Banbury Bloater. And later in my coma, when I found that I had somehow developed the ability to leave my body at will and float off abroad in my astral form. Just like Doctor Strange.

And I arose in that darkness and moved above my physical body and, looking down by means of astral vision, I could now see myself floating there, all hooked up to wires and whatnots all in the dark in a big floatation tank.

‘Oh,’ I said to my astral self. ‘A sensory-deprivation tank. Probably not the best place to be for a fellow such as myself, with rather a lot on my mind. My, a fellow could go mad in one of those if he awoke and didn’t know that he was in one.’ So to speak.

And no! I did not get any angrier at this thought. But only, I must stress, because there was no possible way that I could get any angrier.

I really had reached the cut-off point and I’ll say no more about it.

And so I floated up upon high, looking down at myself floating down upon low. And I was pleased to note that someone had given me a jolly good wash and a shave and a haircut. Although I did feel that they might have had the decency to slip a pair of swimming trunks onto my naked loins before they deposited me into the floatation tank and switched off the light.

But why was I in the floatation tank? Why hadn’t I simply been killed and conscripted into Papa Crossbar’s Army of the Dead? Or bunged straight into the incinerator for instant disposal?

And I did some more detective thinking and drew the conclusion that there had to be a very good reason for my captors to keep me alive. And that it probably wasn’t one that I was going to be too keen on. And would probably involve torture and torment, and things of that nature, grimly.

And so where was I? In the big CIA building? I really did hope that I was, because I had, prior to my truncheoning down, given a thought or two as to how I might gain entry to a building that would probably be rather big on security. So if I was in it, it was rather handy. Wasn’t it?

So, best have a look-see, eh? And I drifted upwards, and my weightless, invisible non-corporeal astral spirity-magical form passed through a ceiling and into a room above. And this was a locker room of some kind, smelling strongly of plimsolls and man-bits. And I drifted through an open doorway and into a big gym hall where chaps in ninja costumes were doing some working out. They were beating each other up and smashing lengths of four-by-two with their bare hands and generally carrying on in an overly macho manner. And I could hear their thoughts, and their thoughts were simple thoughts that encompassed complete dedication to their leader Papa Crossbar, violence and sex. And I made a mental note that once I had escaped from the floatation tank, I must keep clear of these violent zealots.

And I drifted onwards and upwards, through computer rooms manned by men in white coats, who wore thickly lensed spectacles and carried clipboards. The canteen and recreational areas. Offices, offices and more offices. And then rather elegant furnished apartments. And then to the very top floor, where I saw him.

And he sat there at a great Gothic desk of black basalt. On a great Gothic chair carved from similar stuff. And he had piled up a lot of silk cushions onto this chair to get him up to the level of the desk. Because, as well as being the most evil being alive on the planet, he was also something of a short-arsed little git. Although I might not have put too much emphasis before upon the matter of him being somewhat vertically challenged, it really can’t hurt to mention it now. All things considered.