The horror... the horror..

Karl from the warehouse came round again today. He wasn’t invited, he had no reason to be here, and it took me more than two hours to get rid of him. It’s like his arse was clamped to the sofa, or some invisible carpet-weavers had popped out and stitched his socks to the floor. Why the hell did I ever tell him where I live? I should have carried the bike on the bus in bits and then cycle home from work when he’d built it. He never would have known my address and I wouldn’t now be thinking of horrible ways to offend him so he never comes round and plants himself in the living room again.
Karl is a fan of conspiracy theories, most of which he believes to be true. In the course of our time together today he told me that Man never landed on the Moon, that Kennedy was killed by an alien, that the Colonel’s secret sauce is ninety per cent heroin and that Katie ‘Jordan’ Price is Margaret Thatcher’s lovechild. He also says there is ‘photographic evidence’ that the country of Iraq only exists on a film set in California, although obviously he didn’t have the photographic evidence with him. He wondered if I might like to lend him £400 for a genuine video of an alien autopsy, or would like to accompany him to a conference in Brighton called SEEKTHETRUTH ’09 in September.
I think I have to kill him, or myself.

RC 13-6-09
2152 BST