When the Aliens landed and enslaved the human race, myself included, it really put the brakes on the affair I was having with the luscious Mr Palmer.
They were rubbery with spaghetti limbs and skin-tight skulls. They demanded tribute without respite. I prayed to God, not them, for the first time. I prayed for something, anything, which would save us from their hard-nosed captivity.
Soon an answer came.
Magnificent beings, Angels, in clean white robes and knee-length boots, floated through the clouds. They channelled lightning and skewered the Aliens’ hearts with their tridents. The festering rot of lungs, kidneys and spleens permeated our skin; the streets ran red.
The King of the Angels, twelve feet tall, spoke to us of devotion and piety, of justice and chastity. I wondered how he knew English.
It was then that Unicorns arrived: incomprehensible and vicious. Upon their horns the Angels were impaled and they screamed as they crumbled to dust.
When the Beings of Pure Fire descended, I caved in and told my husband about the affair.