Braque's My Homeboy

I am breathing now, through a miasma of loathing and self indulgence, my mind and body being fueled only by the two Tennents I ingested earlier. These propel me to new heights. I am an author. I am the man. I am the self-proclaimed King of Procrastination. I impress the laymen with my consumed and regurgitated knowledge of the cubist movement and their penchant for text based art.

Fear me. 

SuperCook

Arthur Herbert let out an explosive guffaw, the reverberations causing ripples to appear all over his corpulent mass. With William Pink by his side his face changed into a smirk, a small twinkle appearing in his eyes. He stared into Pink's very soul, before uttering something that all the contestants feared.

"Cooking, does not get tougher than this."

Several contestants had already been sent home. Brief flashes of those lost souls along with every dish they had created now appeared in Herbert's mind. Archaic lamentations. He still awaited the perfect dish. Pink, however, is tired. He merely wants the series to be over, he wants to move on. He no longer cared about the food.

The challenge of the day had the contestants create a dessert to seduce the judges palate.

The contestants slaved away. The judges patrolled the room.

"It looks like there is a lot of big flavours in the room today" muttered Pink, under the contractual obligation to mention the size of the flavours in every episode. 

Time was running out. The contestants were flustered. Sweating.

The first few dishes were acceptable. A myriad of favourable comments emanated from the judges.

The final contestant entered the judge's lair. He trembled with fear.

Presented with a croquembouche Herbert was flabbergasted. With the utmost precision and delicate handling, he manoeuvred his fork gently towards the seductive pastry.

Tiny beads of perspiration accumulated upon his naked brow.

He whimpered longingly as he brought the delectable treat to his gaping maw.

Overcome with delight Herbert began to gorge upon the offering. Casting his fork to one side. His shirt, tightly buttoned, began to strain under the new load being crammed down his gullet. Until finally the structural integrity of the cloth was breached; his naked flesh burst into view.

His feeble mind could only conjure a solitary thought.

The ganache is divine.

Carelessly forcing ever more of the dessert downwards, he paid little attention to the fearful, disgusted gazes of Pink and the meek contestant. It was as if the contestant were staring into the abyss. He descended into a Lovecraftian spiral of insanity; left an empty husk of aman.

The corners of Herbert's mouth were flecked with chocolate, meandering towards his chin, whilst cream landed on his chest. Now in a frothing frenzy he threw the plate across the room. He began to roll around in the remains of the croquembouche. Gyrating into the pastry.

Writhing.

Camera still rolling.

Herbert was eventually appeased.

Glesga

When I see people dressed in vibrant fluorescent hoodies I want to rip their fucking face off and scream into the muscular remains as their eyes fervently dart around and screams of anguish and pain echo around the streets of Glasgow. I rub their blood into my flesh and then fuck their girlfriends whilst wearing their face. 

I Really Fucking Loathe Frank

Wallowing in self-pity,

Misanthropy,

Misogyny,

Drinking warm Stella.

Monochrome Matter

I am drawn to a childlike state.

Absorbing the vibrancy.