Good Times In Dystopia

The toilet is vomiting black shit. Toxic, vile, noxious –- the rejected bile of the City of London spuming back up from the gullet under the street. Three maniacs in white overalls are jigging around, ankle deep in filth, their hair a red, black and green tricolour fire flashing against shitsmears and white suits. I bring them four cans of beer, and they flick the crud off from their gloved hands to clutch and crack them, laughing amidst choking fumes like sewage tear-gas. The beer foams, clean and snowy, in contrast to the bubbling bilious blackness of the bog blowing black bubbles in the back of the Shitness School. It won't stop. We won't stop.