At breakfast I had a hangover, followed by cake. By noon I
had drawn up a non-aggression pact and presented it to my own liver. He refused
to sign, pouring scorn and bile over the olive branch. The stomach muscled in and cut a deal for
himself, promising to look into the ‘loose stool situation' in exchange for
more cake. I argued this would only fan
the flames and besides, “don't the intestines have a say in this?” He muttered “bureaucracy”
under his breath, which was good enough for me – I immediately began consuming
Battenberg in alarming quantities.
By the spring we had annexed the liver and remilitarised
weak areas of the spleen. By late June, and after bloody fighting in The Battle
of Little Sphincter, the empire had encompassed the whole body. Every limb,
every orifice. Every fibre, Every follicle. All of it within my control. I had
to celebrate. I reached for dram of whiskey…
