Ratty had returned from the ale house stinking of Hobgoblins. He emptied himself of his denim jacket but kept on his black muscle T-shirt. He had great affection for his T-shirt stained as it was with the bloodied sauces of defeated kebabs. It also doubled as a good night shirt. Plonking his torso down on the settee Ratty readied himself for sleep awaiting his nightly nightmare with relish.
“There’s nothing better than a good nightmare.” he said to himself. “I wonder what devil Beelzebub has put aside for me tonight?” Continue reading “The War Journal: And The Bands Played On”