A Foamy Topic

Is drinking art?
There’s certainly an art to drinking – knowing which bourbon goes with mixer, when too much really is too much, the location of the nearest watertight vessel. It’s not too much to suggest that drink can oil the gears of art. But is something as distracting, pleasing and fluidly dangerous as drinking worthy of highbrow assessment?

In fact, here Zephyrtron sits scrawling next to a glass of over priced malt, the main reason these words are out and written in the first place.
Although the closest Zephyrtron can claim to have come to worthy art was behind an inch of smoked glass separating the Mona Lisa’s delicate features from a heaving mass of pushchairs and camera lenses pointed roughly in the painting’s direction.

And I Feel Fine

The nukes punch into their target with an eerie silence. Bright neon outlines of atomic payloads are replaced by mutely simulated explosive bursts. Pulsing hazard symbols clinically mark the unremitting march of billions of radioactive particles across a blazing pile of rubble that used to be New York.

The terminal arc of a hundred counterattacks launched in frenetic retaliation crosses the Atlantic, a digital rainbow linking two nuclear nations engaged in Earth’s final show of power. Counter-measures streak from desert silos, moments too late. Predicted casualties rise and rise. Mutually assured destruction. 

This isn’t World War III – it’s The End Of War. The End Of The World As We Know It. Although, admittedly, neither sound quite as snappy. In fact, this is Defcon, Introversion’s disturbingly successful attempt at envisioning the nuclear solution at full tilt, with leaders of men poised over bright red buttons and missles blossoming from hair-trigger silos. Your aim?

Lose the least.

It’s a discussion, not an argument

Zephyrtron jumps the low fence of the park, and goes looking for the Rant Tramp.

His shoes squelch through the wet autumn grass. A quiet voice mumbles nearby.

“What are you looking for?”

Ducking down, he peers under a bush to see the Tramp huddled underneath, slowly eating an old banana.

“I want an argument,” he says.