The Walled Garden...

The poetic Nightmares of Nudds

Frame One
The Storm Breaks…



Hi. Forgive my narrative interjection. I know the story’s been cantering along at a rare old pace, but things are about to get…well…a bit messy, and it’s only right I bring you up to speed with what’s been going on, and then maybe get round to telling you how this meandering spiel of claptrap comes to a close, but I still have four client responses to input before five, and I really want to get out on time so I get to watch Hollyoaks. Sarah died in a parachuting accident last week – her cords were cut in error by her jealous, lesbian lover, Lydia – and it’s all getting a bit too spicy to miss.
Allow me to introduce myself: my name is the Chronicler. Since this tale began, way back in the annals of CMS, I have been observing the ludicrous events that are somehow glued together by your part in them to form what will later be looked back on as your life. I hate to say this but so far it’s a dull read.
For a while I toyed with the idea of remaining completely omniscient – a detached third-person narrator – but the temptation, nay, need to inject myself into this tale in whose ending even I have a part to play, was too great, and I indulged myself towards the end of book two, as you may, if you’ve been paying attention, remember.
So who am I? Am I God? Yes. For the time being at least, let’s say that I am God. But even God’s got to earn a crust and the recession has made jobs scarce. With that in mind, I‘m sure you’ll appreciate my reasons for taking a job in a local custodian for a measly seventeen thou per year. My job title is Corporate Actions Support Clerk. I’m still not entirely sure what that means, but I haven’t been fired yet. Though that might have a lot to do with the fact that no one knows what my job is supposed to entail…I’m God…I’m just kind of…there. Despite the ambiguity of my responsibilities, work’s an alright craic because of the other Support Clerks. We formed a workers union so we had a reason to take five tea-breaks a day. It’s called Support Clerks – Rescuing Our Tattered Economy, or SCROTE for short.
Yeah, the other SCROTEs are pretty cool. On CAT-Z we’ve got Vishnu; Rama handles DERIK; and my best pal, Jesus, well – he’s on BFGDONE, which is a ball ache because of HSBC. We have a lot of fun chats with Ganesh who works for JP Morgan, and occasionally we get a really badly written e-mail from Hercules who works in the mailroom of Goldman Sachs, but he only got the job because Zeus founded the company in 500 BC, and daddy’s special little boy must have the best of everything – jumped up, ‘roid-fuelled, prick of a demi-god that he is.
So now you know who I am, let me bring you up to speed. After Xandor’s deposition, and Andrew and Jo’s return to the world of man, Nudds assumed the throne and started bonking Xandor’s ex-bit-of-crumpet, Amy Galveston. After she let slip that Nudds’s kinfolk weren’t actually extinct, rather imprisoned in a far-off network of caves – constructed in much the same fashion as Amsterdam’s concentric dam system, which is really rather amazing (check it out on Google. You won’t believe it), the young and easily exited king set off to free them.
Eventually, after an unnecessarily protracted account of what happened along the way, he succeeded and returned home triumphant. But while in the caves he was overcome by the noxious fumes of desire that had fuelled the Lepracorns almost non-stop horn-banter over twenty years of imprisonment, and found himself up to his root in young, nubile Lepraqueens. He was subsequently infected with a virulent strain of horn-rot, which, when mixed with the prevalent oxygen of the outside world, became super-aggressive and mutated all of the horny little toss-pots into stony-faced gargoyles with gnarly wings and fearsome fangs.
So Nudds, smacked off his little bee-sting-tits on his newfound powers of flight and super-strength decided it’d be a jolly good romp to declare war on humanity – the very race of his saviours from book one – Jo and Andrew.
And what of these two human heroes who have, perhaps, faded from focus? Well, they are alive and Jo is well, now managing Sharpie International and engaging in a mentally un-stimulating, but extremely colourful affair with David Beckham. Andrew, on the other hand, is less than content with his lot.
Upon returning to our world, he jacked in his crappy job as a Bank Clerk and went back to University to study football management. One whirlwind year later, during which he used a time-turner borrowed from Hermione Granger whom he met while she was shooting for Burberry in Manchester town centre in order to cram three years worth of classes into one and dabble in prostitutes without anyone finding out, he was appointed manager of Premiership side Everton, after David Moyes was savagely raped to death by a rabid Sam Allardyce who has gone a little funny in the head since leaving Bolton.
And it is with Andrew that this final instalment begins. While the enthusiastic hoards of Nudds’s horny minions lay to waste the maidenhoods of many languid students and homeless folk who were, as usual, basking in the faint Mancunian sun instead of working, Andrew was biting his nails on the sideline of the FA cup final, which was being contested by Everton and his boyhood team, Blackburn. Andrew was desperately trying to throw the game and as we enter the present moment, things are going his way. The score is 1-0 Blackburn…the time is now…


Frame Two



Andrew has supported Blackburn since he was a little man-boy. In the darkest days of the CMS, nothing kept his spirits up quite like the image of Colin Hendry and Alan Shearer toasting their Premiership success in the showers. Hendry’s powerful, long-range balls; Shearer’s gentle touch; his sudden and remarkable finishes; his dribbling prowess… Those things were the stuff of wet and dry dreams, internet previews and legend.
As we join him, he is on the verge of writing a new page in the history books of Blackburn by losing to them in the final of the cup that most epitomises the motto of the club; Arte et Labore. Gritty football, toughed out in the trenches and moments of dazzling artistry make the FA cup what it is: a true celebration of English stubbornness. And the ability to make a shitty, two-footed tackle while the ref isn’t looking. But that, like Paul Scholes, is quintessentially English anyhow.
So this is how things stand: Everton are playing woefully. With the forward partnership of Oldham and Arteta, they have shined all season long. The on- and off-field chemistry of the two blue-clad bum-bandits has been consigned to Mark Lawrenson’s personal wank-bank, which contains little other than bare-torso-shots of Gary Linekar on the beach. So it came as quite a surprise to the toffee fans to see their manager play both attackers in defence, with the overweight Phil Jagielka filling in up front. Nico Kalinic, Premiership Golden Boot winner four seasons on the trot, put Blackburn in the lead after 17 minutes with a spectacular 70 yard bicycle kick that he timed to perfection to ricochet off a passing seagull into the top corner. In fairness to Tim Howard, it was un-saveable and exactly what the world has come to expect from the young Croatian superstar who most certainly wasn’t a flop or a waste of money.
Suddenly, a Sapphic opening tears through the skies above the centre-circle halting the players in their tracks. The gaggle of millionaire idiots point to the heavens and leap around like baboons in an eclipse, fondling each other for comfort. The fans too are incensed. Taken by a primal fear that society had tried, but failed to extinguish thanks to the ever-present additives in Pukka Pies.
Of all the many people in the stadium, Andrew stands out from the bustling milieu – a figure of contemplative stoicism. He had been places in his life. Places no one else but Jo had been. He had seen things there. Horrible and wonderful things that made him the man he is today. He feels in his pocket for a small, black box branded with the Sharpie logo and squeezes it between his thumb and forefinger. Now it was a matter of time. Rather than panicking, he just stands there – his eyes fixed on the sky. As well you know, Andrew’s not the kind of guy to get flustered. Not even when a thirty foot vagina interrupts the FA Cup final and starts spewing out nasty little gargoyles, all of which are hell-bent on engaging his heralded European signings in furious bouts of horn-stabbing.
That much, Andrew could take. But there was one sight he hadn’t been prepared for – that of his old drinking buddy Nudds, sticking his gnarled walnut whip of a horn into Louis Saha’s back-facing-belly-button.
Gargoyles? Fine. Nudds waving his ding-a-ling around the place? Not cool. Something had to be done. With the referee, linesmen and fourth official incapacitated the clock continues to tick away to Blackburn’s historic victory. Andrew storms the field, ripping his shirt off as he strides towards the rampant little fudge-packer.
“NUDDS!” he yells, cracking his hirsute knuckles, “YOUR ASS IS MINE!”


Frame Three
Something’s got to give



“Nudds, you little SLAG!” hollers Andrew. “Get over here and fight like a man!”
“But I’m not a man,” grins Nudds, as he skips around on his pointy shoes that are dangling listlessly at the end of his freakishly long legs, which are attached to an oddly stumpy body, atop which is perched a lunaresque noggin. “I’m a monstrous little bitch. I’ve got all sorts of diseases and I’ll give you the sneezes.”
“What happened to you?”
“I got Dorian Grayed.”
“?”
“I went too far into sin and I couldn’t come back out again. Jeez, Andrew, don’t you read classic literature?”
“I used work in a custodian. Any kind of mental activity was strongly discouraged by my superiors and now I’m a football manager. Ever since Graham Le Saux retired there’s been no-one worth talking to in the premiership. And what with Norwich’s slide to league one, you can’t even rut Delia at halftime. I’ve gone back to orange segments and shouting at the boys. I much preferred gut-scraping ol’ Delia.”
“Aye, she’s on my hit-list,” says Nudds as he lowers his horn and lunges at Andrew. Our hero dodges the strike, but Nudds’s horn catches his clean, pressed shirt (DKNY) and rips it almost in half.
“You little shit ‘ouse,” grumbles the Nigel Mansell look-alike as he tears the rest of his shirt away to reveal a rippling torso that clearly borrowed its colourway from the personal sample-library of Johnoldham. On his right pectoral the tattooed logo of Blackburn Rovers quivers as his boyhood team close in on footballing glory.
As Kalinic clears the ball from his own goal line to the rapturous applause of the Blackburn fans, Nudds charges at Andrew again, but this time Andrew pre-empts the attack and skips to the side, placing both hands at the sweating base of Nudds’s mighty forehead-totem as he runs past.
“Now I’ve got you, you little squirt!” He swings the king round and round and, as his long, spindly legs cut through the air, they become a blur in the attacking third of the field. Suddenly and without warning, one of Mikel Arteta’s searching long balls bounces at the feet of John Oldham who had, against Andrew’s wishes, strayed forward. John lines up the most blistering shot you can imagine but spoons it left, despite the ball being almost impossible to miss. The ball flies towards Nudds’s flailing feet and, by some freakish twist of providence, connects perfectly with his Lepracorny laces and sores into the top corner. Paul Robinson is beaten with ease – he was, after all, more concerned with stuffing as many pies as possible into his fatty, fat, fat gob.
Andrew stares in disbelief as his players dance around with joy, hugging him and trying to fondle his enormous testicles. All he can do is stand there and weep on the inside. The final whistle blows and, as Andrew stands there gripping Nudds’s horn with both hands, the match goes to penalties.


Frame Four
Peace at last



The crowd is deathly quiet as the players approach the spot. Paul Robinson stops eating pies for a second and attempts to save the first Everton penalty but…NO NEED! The ball whizzes over the bar and Andrew risks a sly grin. Nudds – the goal scorer – wriggles under his old friend’s vice-like grip.
“Hold still you little arse,” whispers Andrew. “We might just get out of this one yet!”
Next to step up is Blackburn striker Nico Kalinic. With the cool, clinical air that has been his season-long trademark, Kalinic slots the ball into the bottom corner. Blackburn lead 1-0. Everton’s second man approaches the penalty spot, his knees are trembling. He puts the ball down, breaths deeply for a moment and then pounds the ball towards the bottom left hand corner. Paul Robinson is nowhere near, but a stash of his pies – meat and potato – block the shot and the ball bounces harmlessly away from goal. Andrew lets out a chuckle. But the next two Blackburn players miss, mirroring their Evertonian counterparts. With two from each side left to take penalties the score remains 1-0.
The simply gorgeous Mikel Arteta strides to the spot with all the confidence of a Viagra-fuelled not-so-dangle bit. He waves to the crowd, does three forward flips, an arabesque, 25 one-handed push-ups and then strikes – all in one fluid motion. The ball seems to travel in slow motion towards the top right corner, but Paul Robinson – who is, at this moment in time, crying into his bib (fatty, fatty, fat, fat) – is moving in even-slower motion and his limp dive fails to reach the pinpoint shot. It’s one all. Andrew starts to sweat. Blackburn’s next striker steps up and the shot is…SAVED! by Tim Howard doing a brilliant octopus impression. But wait! As the American keeper falls to the ground he lands awkwardly and the crowd is stunned into silence by the sickening splintering of bone and the accompanying howl of agony. Andrew does a little jig for joy – although the scores are all square Blackburn must be the favourites now! So with each team having one shot remaining, the hopes of all toffee fans the world over are placed in the sweaty, knob-grabbing hands of John Oldham. The golden-haired, bareback riding ring-tickler squares the ball and tightens the hot-pink laces of his pristine white boots which, along with the rest of his immaculately preened form, hadn’t even entertained the notion of, let alone actually seen mud, all season long. The crowd is silent. He snaps his fingers. ‘Single Ladies,’ by Beyoncé starts playing as he runs towards to ball and scuffs an awfully contacted ball into the bottom right, sending the hideously fat mess (Paul Robinson, former England keeper) the wrong way. The crowd erupts. Andrew swallows.
So the score stands at 2-1 to Everton and Blackburn must score or lose at the very last. The crowd noise evaporates and the ground is wrapped in a blanket of hush. There is much debate going on amongst the Everton players as to who should take the keeper gloves. Eventually, second-goal-hero, John Oldham pulls them on and walks towards the goalmouth. He turns to face Blackburn’s final striker – Pascal Chimbonda – upon whose shoulders the fate of the Northern town’s dreams rest. Oldham cracks his knuckles and blows a kiss towards Mikel as the ref blows his whistle and Chimbonda sends a shot hurtling towards goal. Oldham dives! It’s to the left! It’s perfect! He’s not going to make it!
And then, from somewhere on his person, a pair of corded GHDs appear. He hurls them towards the rocketing ball, swinging the super-hot ceramic straighteners like a lasso. The ball clips the inside of the post and the tip of the straighteners at the same moment and stops dead mid-air. As the ball falls to the ground, millimetres short of the goal line, and John Oldham picks himself up from the dirt, the crowd explode in joyful exaltation of their new hero. Andrew sobs quietly to himself as he is handed the FA cup. He kisses it like you would kiss your mother-in-law’s boobs (with reluctance for any of you who found that ambiguous), while still holding Nudds by the horn. The Blackburn players are disconsolate; the Evertonians are manic.
Suddenly, the celebrations are interrupted by the roar of a jet engine. The ground falls into curious silence and every head present turns skyward as a bright yellow Harrier Jump-jet descends.


Frame Five
All’s well that end’s well

“You’re a little late,” shouts Andrew above the snarl of the dying jet-engine.
“We missed the shoot-out?” says Jo in disbelief as she hops down from her Sharpie-mobile, helped on her way by David Beckham who follows her out dutifully.
“Yeah…we won.”
“Oh God, I’m so sorry!”
“Don’t worry about it,” sighs Andrew, “There’s always next year.”
“I don’t fink so mate,” chuckles Beckham who, to everyone’s surprise, is not above a good hiding, which Andrew coolly administers with his free hand.
“Hush your noise, wide-boy. I’m the gaffer ‘round here.”
“What’s that…that thing you’ve got there, Andrew?” Jo points at Nudds.
“Don’t you recognise him?” asks Andrew with a malicious grin, as he hoists Nudds up to her eye level by the seat of his pants.
“By the Chronicler’s curly shoes! It’s Nudds!” she exclaims. “What happened to you?”
“Hmm…My horn…I dipped it in some…sour milk. Got me some horn-rot!”
“I called you in to see if you could cure the little bitch,” says Andrew.
“Have you…dipped your horn since you were infected, Nudds?” asks Jo, as she strokes the deformed king’s jagged shoulder.
“Yup. My Queen. Ol’ Amy Galveston.” Andrew shudders at the remembrance of the now fit ho’s grotesque disguise, which, by mounting him, had led to his first involvements with the CMS.
“Oh dear,” Jo muses, stroking her chin. “These Lepracorns? I can cure, but Amy…I don’t think there’s any saving her.”
“No!” cries Nudds.
“She was a two-faced, cock-hungry bitch anyway, Nudds,” says Andrew, patting him on the back. “There’s plenty more dirt bags in Manchester.”
“Yay!” the little king wriggles with excitement.
“So how to cure these filthy horn-doggies?” asks Andrew.
“Well first things first – you’ve gotta tear off that horn! Then David and I will sort out their odd colouring and deformities with the new Sharpie © skin tone range!”
“You get way too excited over those pens, you know.”
“Ha! You’ve not even seen the peach!” she sings with glee as she hops from foot to foot, waving a flesh coloured phallus above her head.
“Right!” says Andrew, gathering his celebrating players around with a wave of his hairy arm. “Let’s get ripping.”
One by one the Lepracorns are captured in what will be looked back on as the single greatest game of British Bulldog in the history of man. They are handed to Andrew, who systematically rips their horns from their heads before Jo and David Beckham (who keeps looking at Countess Magicbox with pathetic ‘come-to-bed’ eyes) colour them in. Soon all the Lepracorns are healed and it is the team and their hornless compadres begin a victory lap. Even Andrew gets into it.
As they run past my seat, I hop over the barriers, dodging the lame security on my way to give Andrew a big hug.
“What the?” splutters my old work mate, “Wally? What are you doing here?”
“My Wally N. Whip at your service, old pal,” I grin and slap him on the back. “Bad luck on the shoot-out. There’s always next year.”
“God, not you as well! But thank you. I suppose its not all bad. At least John Oldham and Mikel Arteta have got something other than their eternal love to celebrate.”
“Wonderful. There’s nothing quite like two supposedly heterosexual men snogging that gives me a warm feeling inside.”
“Can’t say I feel that, but I think I know what you mean.”
“So what’s next for you, Andrew?”
“Back to the grind, I suppose. My heroing days are behind me.”
“Rubbish,” I cry, “You’re never too old! And besides, the CMS may need you yet.”
“I doubt it,” he moaned, “I heard they were trying to transfer it all to a paperless, STP environment.”
I look at him incredulously.
“Andrew. You and I both know that’ll never happen! And hey, they’re without a king now: Nudds can’t go back like that. He’s lost his horny goodness!”
“Amy will take care of it, I’m sure. She’s always had her eye on the throne. I saw through her manipulative ruse from the start!”
“But Andrew, haven’t you heard about her? Or for everyone else, for that matter?”
“No. I don’t have much contact with alternate dimensions these days.”
“You need to get yourself the next generation I-Phone,” Jo shouts above the noise.
“She’s right,” I beam, waggling my new handset in front of his widening eyes. “It has a constantly updating mini-feed of CMS related events. Wanna hear how everyone is doing?”
Although Andrew clearly doesn’t want to know, I proceed to give him one anyway.
Enjoy:

Although Daniel Charles is dead, his memory lives on. Every year the buffalos migrate to a shrine maintained by Slug who is trying to educate his hairy followers in the ways of ‘ruv’.

Rog returned to the mountains with the rest of the Titans and forgot all about the war. Emmareena no longer resides in his pants which causes him great sadness (if you’d met her, you’d understand). She instead spends her time ruling the fairy kingdom, which has recently been relocated to Castlefield. From her headquarters she is guiding her successor Evie Mae along the path to sparkly wonderfulness.

Johnoldham. Everyone’s favourite ball-buster has a new haircut! An impressive achievement for a man whose physical substance evaporated the day that Xandor fell. He still loves Everton FC and has somehow managed to possess an almost identical host in the real world known as John Oldham. Under his spectral influence he has guided John to FA Cup glory with Everton and entered into a publicly applauded homosexual relationship with Mikel Arteta.

Xandor was interred in London. He works for a custodian in the afterlife, which he obstreperously proclaims to be 23 trillion times as shit as being an evil overlord. I am inclined to agree.

Captain Amandip Blackbeard Singh and Omar Io sailed to Canadia land as promised. Whilst there, The Wylde One escaped over the border and ran for election in the 2000 election as the Republican candidate. He subsequently won by threatening the people of California to fix the vote in his favour or endure a horrendous disembowelling. His presidency is widely considered the worst yet and because of him, America is viewed as a joke and responsible for much of the veil in the world. Omar Io returned to work for BNP Paribas in Glasgow, while Captain Singh enjoyed a prosperous trade in Canadia, peddling the buxom wares of his two ladies of spicy-repute, Cheryline and Dawn. Both women earned fortunes on the back of their industriousness. Cheryline is now teaching young harlots how best to run a man in circles and Dawn is pursuing a watercolour course.

Dr Nudds & Mrs Nudds were also affected by the oxygenated effects of horn-rot, but were so consumed with the act of coitus, they hardly noticed.

The Corrigan Twins choked to death on their superiors. No one – literally no one – gave a flying fuck.

Barnanaman is still ‘avin it large. Apples ‘n’ pears.

Italian Manface still works on the fifth floor, dresses inappropriately for work in those slinky body-socks and is still orientation-challengingly fit. I want her and her broad, boulder shoulders, her full, mountainesque breasts, her jutting, fearsome jaw, her svelte curves, her sturdy, face-hugging thighs and above all, that gloriously mannish face. I would endure years of abuse for one night of abuse at her hands/face. Shudders with glee.

Betsy’s a fucking sheep. Who cares?

The Highlander’s fiancé Fun-Bags, still visits his memorial; adorning it with polling slips and other liberal symbolism. She has, since his death, taken up bingo and claims to have gotten pretty good at it (is that even possible?).

The Purple Akis are now extinct in the CMS, but their larger, angrier, more sordid descendant can be found roaming the streets of Merseyside.

Nightrider found himself out of work after Xandor’s deposition. So he gathered up the remaining Creepy Creelys, loaded up his car (Kitt) and drove down to Australia where he’s been selling the little critters for five bob a pop. Bargain.

Shelly went travelling around the world to ‘find herself’. This is amusing for two reasons: 1) It is painfully obvious that there is nothing about her worth finding and 2) It is hilariously sad that she thinks this ‘spiritual journey’ will result in her cripplingly low social status being raised or, in effect, her getting laid. Neither of which look likely to happen any time soon.

Kimberli is no longer working with The Porter – they split up over his frequent and massive infidelities. The Porter – now single after dumping Daniel Charles who attempted un-suicide as a result – has written several java scripts to remind himself of how many days he has spent in the ether. This is a depressing and ultimately pointless exercise, but it keeps him from actually acting on his discontent and going back to the real world.

Jeremy Kyle died. In his tireless search for people less articulate than him, he was finally forced to rent zoo-creatures for his half-hour show in order to make himself feel/appear more intelligent than he actually was. This eventually backfired when a large, semi-wild gorilla named Brutus, didn’t take kindly to being told that he – king of the jungle as he was – needed to get off his backside and hold down a job. Brutus got on Jeremy’s backside and raped him to death in front of a live audience who thought it was fucking mint.

Discofish discovered that God is indeed a DJ, and likes to spin mad-real-discs 24-7. Cream!

The Nokia N95 and Magicbox have a seaside cottage on the Isle of Skye. It’s really picturesque and peaceful. They have recently opened a B&B and are taking bookings for next summer. Get it quick to avoid disappointment!

Le Snake Enorme (LSE) has been tunnelling towards the centre of the Earth, heading south since the end of book one. We expect him to resurface sometime in the next 2-4 years. Well – that’s what the politicians tell us anyway.

Patrick Porter. Rest assured, whatever you’re doing, whenever you’re doing it, somewhere in the world, Patrick Porter is smoking a cigarette.

Amy Galveston fell ill with internal horn-rot and, after a long, painful, totally deserved illness, died alone in Nudds’s castle leaving the reins of the CMS to be handed to Sean Coalborn who forged a new government, employing his friends as department heads. Driscollus was put in charge of admin as his many sappy unions resulted in a never-ending supply of trees and thus paper. LIO was made Chancellor of the Exchequer – a job he took believing it had something to do with the interviewing of ex-girlfriends and a limitless supply of ‘sloppy-seconds’. Cliff became foreign minister; a role that allowed him to return to Brighton where he rents a small place by the sea and lives with his girlfriend Ana and their dog called Bertie. Ana never vacuums and it really pisses him off.

Claude Bastian has, this very second, reached a roaring climax inside the mouth of a seventeen-year old Italian waitress. He does not leave a tip.

“So what happens now? I ask, as Andrew makes his way off the field, cradling the exhausted, though cured, Nudds.
“To me? Guess I’ll go home to Michelle. Not seen her much lately – been hanging around with those bum-boys.” He jabs a thumb in the direction of John Oldham and Mikel Arteta who are furiously making out.
“What about Nudds?” I say, stroking the little guy’s hair. “He can’t go back to the CMS. He’s lost everything.”
“I’ll take care of him,” smiles Andrew, looking down at the bundle of perversion in his arms. “He can live with us until he’s totally better and after that…well – I know a place where…oddballs, like him can be at peace. It’s a valley not far from here. You may have heard of it? Glossop I believe its called. He will be safe there and can live out his days in peace, far away from the CMS and all the horrors of his past.”
I smiled as I watched the hero walk away with his new charge. They had escaped the CMS and learned a valuable lesson along the way: life is too short and too precious to waste, and that to be happy we must cast off the chains with which life restrains us, leave the drudgery behind and chase that pot of gold that awaits us all at the end of our own personal rainbows.




THE END


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