There's no such thing as a normal religion, there's no such thing as a normal dream. Once, after drinking copious amounts of vodka, I had this nightmare where Terry Gilliam, The Doctor, Q, Moriarty, and Christopher Boone and some walking hammers played Tetris at the Apollo Theatre, while I watched, slowly turning into straw. But as I slept in my bath that night, I was enraptured by the most delightful fantasy…
A virus kills everyone except me. You get it from watching an infected person on television and then it spreads around the world really quickly. The infected sit on the sofa and do nothing and they don't eat or drink and so they die. Eventually there is no one left in the world. Other Muk Ho-Ohs survive, but like okapi we Muk Ho-Ohs are a rare breed. When I hear an ecstatic yodel reverberate through the midnight jungle, or a self-serving rationalization rattle the slaughtered city, or a smug confession of ignorance bore the empty mine, or a self-pitying whimper trouble the peaceful desert I shall know that another Muk Ho-Oh is near. We merge into a beauteous giant such as creation has never seen. With my second coming I shall impregnate the sun with ejaculate incandescent and father a new race of beings to devour. The Earth itself shall pass through my colon as I tighten a noose of nebulae around the solar system. Then I shall stitch together my writhing victims to write the following questions in the void where their home worlds once floated and when I set them ablaze my message shall blind the cosmos:
DOES THIS BOTHER YOU? DOES CHAPTER 229 BOTHER YOU?
After resurrecting every dead soul I shall crush the universe into a quark of eternal torture and their infinite agony shall inspire an orgasm that is deliciously euphoric and agonizingly permanent. As I volcanically ejaculate into consciousness, I take a brief moment to reflect how much I love this fantasy, but what the hell, it's just fiction – right?!