Heightened Fear of Leaving the House Mints
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"Heightened Fear of Leaving the House" Mints are terror-tablets designed to beat down the self-esteem of the public at large, plunging them into a cavity of dread; it is the personal remarks and messages of doom printed on the mints specifically that seek to bring about this expressed purpose. With the ultimate aim of creating a nation of agoraphobics the manufacturers dream of a day when they can clack down the [completely empty] streets without accidentally scuffing their feet on a small child or accidentally scuffing their genitals in a small prostitute. In England this day has come.
edit 1st Edition
Sold in a pack of fourteen and always stacked in the same order, the original mints were distributed to children so they would bloody well shove off, and stay shoved.
edit Special Editions
Several special edition "Heightened Fear of Leaving the House" Mints have been released with the expressed purpose of pummelling the purchaser's ego about the face and neck until mush-like.
Diet Heightened Fear of Leaving the House Mints, developed with The Society for the Promotion of Widespread Bulimia.
edit Diary of an Empty England
12th November 2009 The blind and the illiterate; the respective special needs of these two spectacularly uninteresting subgroups have for once propelled them ahead of their better equals (apart from me). It is out of ignorance that they don't stay at home, but click click and mong mong about the nations municipal buildings, stunning in their complete obliviousness even to a non-violent partial-apocalypse. It burns my bones to see such UnterMensch at liberty, unsterilised and nobody sneering down their nose at them (apart from mr). Christ, fucking kill me!!!
13th November 2009 Tried to take the train to work, but no toffs, and no train, but quite a lot of illiterates asking directions. One touched my forearm, I suppose in an off-hand hands-on gently pleading with me sort of way; but I suppose supposing isn't what I did, I went the other way and out right knew it was an sheer deference and adoration. I pursed my lips glancing down into his milky saucers, twits eyes, and told them to "Faark offffuh, pleeese"; elongating the words so any ambiguity as to their intention was ironed flat out into a nice plain plane. Water off a fucking ducks back, or rather submerge a dead drake in a vat of lard and fire a hose at the oily surface, my words bounced off his watery discs of blankness and not a hint of comprehension flickered across them. My communication had been totally internally reflected, and I thought to my self this is some new world order genetically modified idiot, just brought out. "Daddy?" he said at length, mooning up at me, small-smiling through saliva, an adult obviously but with baby teeth and a mosquito's brain. Touched, I sent my free elbow down like a precision javelin upon the top of his head repeatedly, slowly eroding him downwards until his eyes were fixed upon my chin. One more crack upon the twit-skull and his grasp slipped away accompanied by a pleasant gurgling. I quietly wedged the man, unchanged in his disposition, behind a bin, then continued waiting for my train. But there were none.
I knew where a train driver lived do I went round to scream about there being no trains. Arriving at his letter box I peered through, I knew the reason for the hold up of course, it was I who had caused him to fear the outdoors, but what I wasn't prepared for were the symptoms of this affliction. Shuffling about he was, like an old-style vaudeville squatting pinhead, a frog man with deformed legs, bug-eyed, bug-brained, emaciated too; he must have eaten through the "food wants to rape you from the inside out" edition of mints. His wife was hoovering, looking through the keyhole I could only see her legs like in Tom & Jerry, but he never left her side, and when she sat down to watch the idiot box he leapt straight into her lap, like a good idiot. She seems unaffected by my impropaganda, I'd place her in the class of the "voluntarily illiterate", her pet man on the other hand has an imagination, or had one before it's darker corners were amplified to cover the whole and then shot to pieces by my genius. I suppose it's a relationship that works.
14th November 2009 Woke up to a serious sexual assault today, my own. It appears I am one of the most desirable objects in the country now mankind is confined to the indoors, the illiterates are writing poetry I hear (mostly gurgling) and the blinds are licking plaster casts of my face. Anyway, it was the dead of night and I was dreaming about making love to a mermaid, which is almost exactly what was happening except I couldn't work out how I could be breathing down my own neck, and both hands weren't caressing anything occupied as they were by being tied to a lampost, and come to think of it I didn't have an erection, the happy smooth faced downs-kid behind me did though and he was using it to launch shooting pains up my spine- teacher always did say "they're very affectionate". In an attempt to forget the incident I drew a mermaid on my hand, the tail fins running down my forefinger and thumb. I also did all of her internal organs on my palm but I've no bloody way of checking their accuracy, frankly it looks a mess. once more, not arousing.