“Ladies and gentlemen, though I use that term loosely,” the pub laughed, and the MC smiled. Laughter signalled the crowd was well lubricated. The publican would be happy. “It’s the final of tonight’s Lagermind,” the MC continued. “Calling Thommo and Moley back to the stage. Or should I say, stagger back?”
The group trekked for several weeks over rough terrain to reach the border town. On the way, they pooled their meagre resources and precious reserves of e-credits and cash to buy food and water and begged when these ran low. Finally, they arrived exhausted and hungry at the border and found no queue for visas.
The golden glow of Norman's youth was a distant memory. The passing years had added aches and pains and padding, and his soft and doughy love handles had long since served no purpose with Alice. But when he looked in the mirror, Norman recognised the man he had once been. Just wiser and more wizened.
The shitstorm hit the Twitter fan overnight. Deeman had thought his followers would laugh at his sarcastic late-night tweet. He’d watched a news clip about refugees from a COVID ravaged continent. And he’d retweeted it with a tongue-out emoji, "Let them eat COVID. In their own country. LOL!"
The queue for visas at the border was not orderly. Just a desperate mob of refugees, clawing at the razor wire-topped fencing, pleading with armed guards to be let through the padlocked gates. The smuggler had warned the group this would be the case and showed them the alternative on his map.
The sky-blue swell pounded the breakwater at Borthel on Sea in a steady rhythm. John gazed out at the mountains across the broad bay and drew a deep calming breath. The anxiety that had built up and wracked him in recent months and on his spontaneous long drive from the city eased its intensity.