3 Old ladies sit at a cafe table. Armed with wet wipes they scrub away at the contours of their withered white hands. Margaret begins to recount a dream:
In a corporate convention that smells like semen it is decreed by Tricky-dicky Nixon and Genghis Khan that from now on all monsters shall get along with other monsters. An economic boom orgy follows, refined petroleum is guzzled at dinner parties and everyone is fucking loaded on drugs and cash. Yet with no blessed wars, population spirals out of control, gas chambers appear on every corner, the proletariat are hit first, when only a few toilet cleaners remain the miserable middling classes get theirs too. But that it is the future. Back at the convention now and champagne flows, hand shakes turn in to hand jobs and the canopy squad hold silver trays of narcotics under eager noses. One man snorts a line of a thousand microscopic daggers painted white to look like cocaine. He takes the joke well, laughing as his freshly detached nose slides down his face. In another room the evening's performance has started. One girl screws the other with a plutonium strap on wrapped in a christ coloured condom. Men adhere to the unspoken no-wank policy, instead observing with loaded erections stretching the fabric of their trousers. Family men. Company men. Good people. the fucking continues until her radioactive orgasm goes off, sending out a signal for all shorts in the room to be sprayed. Erections pop and erupt, so begins our Tsunami of seminar, giving the beginning of the dream its odor, and bringing it to an end.
Oh dear Margaret, says one of the women, that sounds very disturbing.
Oh I rather liked it, says Margaret, it reminds me of when I was young.
