by P. Murgatroyd, UK.
A Belsen-thin spectre in a wrecked Lexus, towed whole inches along through the keening dust by four horsemen. This is the last human on the last day, the day of rage. To him who sits on the red horse it was granted to take truth from the earth. He is Rhetoric, brown-mouthed and viper-tongued, son of strut and spin, emitting a smog of success, ‘making significant strides’ (while still in the saddle). He who sits on the coal-black horse holds an extinct Visa Gold in his tight-fisted, Rolex-wristed hand, and his name is Greed. Behold his cloven hooves, kicking a rusty Coke can far ahead, the billowing privateer belly, his ravenous Fenrir fangs and slavering lips which have sucked off their last oil well. Stupidity, criminal, terminal Stupidity, on a pale pantomime horse with no-one inside, dribbles and drools and drivels, ‘Duh, it’s not dat bad really,’ as the sky catches fire. Self-interest admires himself in the wing-mirror on his hamstrung donkey, pictures to himself his re-election (with a massive majority of corpses) and carries on pleasuring himself, in a wank without end for ever and ever amen. As they look down on the cremated earth, unquenchable laughter arises among the blessed gods.