The Inconclusive Adventures of

"The setting is Transilvania circa 1993. The hero is one Elbridge Epicurus, a disgraced travelling salesman fleeing his murderous gold-digger wife, Edema, and her kick-boxing instructor cum lover, Anton Gallop. Driving along the Autostrada Transilvania one dark and stormy night--"

Ian rang the bell, which was actually an old shortbread box full of foreign coins, which he actually kicked across the room. "Wait, wait...what's the word? Pleonasm. It's pleonastic: a night is dark by definition. You're out." He grabbed Lenk's ankle and yanked, pulling his flat mate off the bed and on to the sheep-skin rug.

"Fuck you, you grammar Stasi," replied the floored storyteller. "I know what a pleonasm is. I was using quotation to--"

"To prove that you're an idiot?" Ian, now seated on the bed, began to rock back and forth in excitement. "You are unworthy. You bring shame to this once distinguished enterprise." He turned his attention to his other flat mate, who was sitting on a chair by the window, gazing out at the brick wall opposite. "Doesn't he bring shame to this once distinguished enterprise?"

Clioul sighed meaningfully.

"So, Elbridge Epicurus," said Ian, continuing the story, "was driving along the Autostrada Transilvania one freakishly bright night in the pouring rain, which rain was actually the cause of the unnatural illumination, because it was radioactive and glowed radium green, when he lost control of his car and skidded off the road into a herd of cows."

Lenk blew a raspberry of disgust. "None of this lost-in-the-wilderness-after-dark shit," he said. "This is late-20th-century Transilvania. Things have changed. They spell it with an 'i'."

"Oh my God," said Ian. "Are you the president of the National Tourism Board of Late-20th-Century Transilvania, or what?" He planted his slippered feet on Lenk's jumpered chest, menacingly.

"Political correctness," said a quiet voice originating in the vicinity of Clioul's mouth, "gone mad."

"Political correctness gone indeed mad," echoed Ian. He tried to stand on his fallen flat mate, who whimpered in pain. He sat back down again. "It's time for a recess. I want to eat chocolate biscuits."

Clioul abruptly pivoted 180° in his chair, revealing a long, bony face dissected by a broad orange moustache. "Ooh, chocolate biscuits," he said.