I have 5 minutes to describe a conquering army:
5 minutes until the chariots get here, and my wife's bread is burning in the oven. Just as well - I wouldn't have them eating something tasty - bad enough that they'll come between her thighs. I offered to kill her with my sword, but she didn't seem to keen on the idea. Johnny and Al have already been sent away from the castle.
Fucking dustclouds. The beating of hoofs is like the stomping of my thighs, and I wish that I could lay with her for a thousand nights. Funny thing to regret, I suppose, but why not? And why dwell on philosophy, with four minutes left, and counting?
2 now. Damn, that took a while to type. Fingers - stange things, aren't they? I never thought about it really: Is this the part where I'm supposed to say that every breath is a miracle? I open my mouth and wait for a prayer.
"No" is the only word that comes out. There's one minute left, and I want a drink of water. One minute to describe the swords, spear-tips that thrust -
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