This guy might look friendly, but I can assure you it’s not. To be honest, I struggle to even look upon it, such is the fear it instills in me, but look I must. It is imperative that I muster the courage for, without my gaze, I cannot divine its story. And I know from my scalp down to my toes that I must protect you with my warnings. This guy, its name… its name is The Brutaliser. It thinks it’s doing the right thing, hence the seemingly innocuous smile on its face, but I assure you it’s not. It’s gone way over the top and has lost all sense of perspective. The Brutaliser is eternal. When it finds itself a victim, it kind of peels a layer off of itself and then goes on to torment that victim for as long as it sees fit. The more you react, the
Hugo was sad. I know he doesn’t look it as he hides it well, but he was sad. Sad from his head down to the space where his toes should be. Cindy was her name and Cindy was what Hugo called over and over: on the hour, like clockwork. In fact, forest creatures of a particular bent used his cries to mark time. ‘Let’s build this section of the nest within three Cindys’, they’d say. Or, ‘In five moons and fourteen Cindys, let’s meet on the old Silver Birch for a jamboree!’ In this way, Hugo became a part of the forest, even though he was a migrant brought in the mouth of a savage canine invader. It didn’t really console Hugo to be incorporated into the life of the forest. He didn’t want the forest, nor its inhabitants; he wanted Cindy and her warm bed near the fire. He wanted