Last night I killed John Lydon. →[More:]He and I were hanging out and decided to put to use an old deep sea divers helmet that was laying around. I sent him down in the large body of water under my house. Only problem was I used a crappy old extention cord for the power and light. After awhile I noticed it had severed. I panicked. There was nothing I could do – it was night and the water was too murky to find him. I’d killed the singer of The Sex Pistols and PIL. I cried and cried, for him and myself. How angry he would be at me if he were alive.

It was only a matter of time before the press would find out. It was not unlike an Edgar Allen Poe story, knowing there was a dead body somewhere below my floorboards. I noticed some newspaper plastered face-down on my hall floor and peeled it up. It was The Washington Times (which was more a combination of The New York Times and The Washington Post than The Washington Times itself), in big letters the front page read “Arsehole Calling”.