Seahorse Design

My name is Mr. Conspiracy and nothing is real.

I’m taking a break from living underground and feeding on acorns for a moment to risk my life in an Internet Cafe (or at least that’s what they call it) just so that I can get this last desperate message out to the world.

Jesus. He didn’t die by accident. He was murdered.

Yes, I know it sounds unbelievable, and at first I thought it was too, but then I remembered the microwaves that cause people to think things that are not true.

Most people just go along with the idea that Jesus was betrayed in a garden, sold to the Romans and then crucified by accident by those same Romans. It’s by accident because, obviously, if the Romans had known he was Jesus they would never have crucified him. They would have just made him do tricks.

But Jesus was never crucified by the Romans. It was a lone nailman, working alone, with a nailgun, from the back of a hedge.

Look at the way he was nailed in. The nails are all over the place, at odd angles. There’s even a nail in his head, just at the back … and to the left - but they conveniently left that bit out of the bible. This is not the work of a professional army. Someone else was behind it. Maybe the Norwegian mafia, or maybe the RSPCA. Maybe we’ll never know

Got to go now, or they’ll trace the call. But think about this and tell the others.

I remember it was early. I was on my way to buy croissants with Ernest Hemingway. Or, rather, “hunt croissants”, as he put it.

“You’ve got to grab it firmly by the tongs”

said Hemingway as we turned into the Rue de Boulangerie.

“Get it into the bag quick. A croissant may look like an easy thing to get in a bag, but if you make a wrong move…”

The rest of his sentence was lost in the Parisian air. He was quiet for a while. Then he started again.

“I knew a guy once. Couldn’t get the croissant into the bag. He was careless. Got distracted by the eclairs. It only took a second. Slipped through his fingers and landed on the floor. Then he stepped on it. It was just there, on the floor. A dead thing. A flat pastry. Under his foot.”

We arrived at the bakery and went in. They’d sold out of croissants, so we just ate bread.

My name is I.C. Suckers and I’m here to help.

Live Your Story

What’s your story? Is it all about some poor little mouse with no money that’s too scared to get the cheese? Well, guess what, pal: WRITE A NEW GODDAM STORY!. This time make it about a mean motherfuckin’ mouse that goes out and kills all the other mice and then wins the cheese. Then live that story. It’s that easy.

I’m I.C. Suckers. If you want more of me, then send a cheque. I’m available for business functions, children’s parties and jumble sales.