Night out at Scids did not go well. In hindsight, it was a mistake to bring up the subject of my previous evening’s dream in a town that once narrowly survived being totally ripped apart by an army of possessed kittens. Were Thakbor not on hand to stare down two angry looking off-duty security guards who looked as though they were ready to dispense more than harsh words, I fear for what might have happened.

Sometimes I really do know how to put my foot in it.

ChatterFox© Client
Participants: RealityProf [RP], AneristArchivist [AA]

[RP] so I’ve just woken from a dream
[RP] where everything was run by cats.
[AA] …
[AA] We talking shadowy cabal, or legitimate system of governance here
[RP] Politicians, law enforcement, all authenticated twitter celebrities
[RP] Everything was cats
[AA] I can’t imagine much was getting done
[AA] Cats are not known for their long-term agendas and administrative savvy
[RP] That was the thing
[RP] All seemed to function smoothly
[RP] No chaos or protests or suspicious killings involving scratches and the occasional playbite
[RP] I fear I have seen a glimpse of the future and it is whiskers in shoes.
[AA] We must inform the Internet. This could be a game changer, people should be warned.
[RP] I feel I would have trouble getting the word out
[RP] For a number of reasons

Awoken in the small hours by the sound of angry shotgun blasts being fired into the night sky, punctuated by various drug-fueled epithets and proclamations to the effect that a number of high ranking British government officials are in fact “carnivorous lizard people whose liquid piss is pure ebola”.

The UK General Election is imminent, and it seems our resident Gonzo Blogger is getting back into the required mindset…

Quiet evening at Scids tonight. It hasn’t taken long for the refurbishment to attract the levels of grime and general seediness people in the town remember. The beer taps in particular were installed less than four years ago, yet have already accumulated a patina than most pubs take decades of dedicated squalor to achieve. When it comes to building an ambience, the greatest writers of D’ni itself can’t hold a candle to George Watstatt and his oily rag.

Mayor Gower popped in for his usual gin and tonic. I’ve never asked what happens to anything he drinks, given he no longer possesses a working digestive system, and I don’t think I ever will. I strongly suspect it’s for show, though if so he has little reason to worry. Most of the town have put the Mayor’s undead condition behind them long ago, to the point where I suspect if someone ever sounds the alarm in City Hall about a crazed zombie on the loose, the staff’s first thought would be to find the Mayor and ensure he was unharmed.

We spoke briefly. Asked after myself, Thakbor and Edward, which I appreciated. Even bought me a fresh scotch after a small mishap involving one of his fingers. Decent fellow, not many like him running things these days, more’s the pity.

Decided to begin a new journal, this time on the newfangled interweb thing that seems to be doing the rounds these days.

Feels strange. Not wrong, per se, but… different. Without the feel and smell of the paper beneath the pen it’s almost as if an essential part of the process is missing somehow.

This will require some time to adjust.

Unsure as to where my previous handwritten journals are. Haven’t seen them for months. Will take a stab at transcribing them if they turn up, assuming of course I was functioning in a state of recognizable lucidity at the time.

Thinking back, it’s a little difficult to be sure. Of this, and many number of things.

As always, we shall see what we shall see.