I walked up to the village, only to discover that Domino’s pizza place had left their tractor-beam on.
Like the Death Star, the invisible field swerved my feet, and slowly started pulling me towards the bright lights of the hangar bay. I was helpless in its grip.
I arrived, and for some reason heard my voice, my own voice, ordering a veggie pizza.
“You can go medium for the same price,” said an imperial officer in a blue baseball cap.
Out-of-body-me simply said, “okay then.”
Treachery.
Out-of-body-me simply said, “okay then.”
Treachery.
So now I have to eat it. The circle is complete. Like a greasy disc of cheese, tomato, sweetcorn, onions and peppers, bringing a swift end to my pitiful little rebellion.
Clearly the part of my brain that operates on instinct (what was it, monkey or crocodile?) is working overtime, and the limbic and neo-cortex are taking a nap.
Well. Imperial Pizza eaten. There are alternatives to fighting, it seems.
Time to disengage the tractor beam and walk home.
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