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You’re sitting in a bar, a real bar, drinking, perhaps listening to some over-loud, blokey rock music, perhaps wondering why the women in the room are fondling false moustaches.
One by one, four men emerge from among your fellow drinkers, each with a remarkable, terrible, awful, fabulous, grotesque tale, or part thereof; each in your face, like operatic soloists, each offering strange glimpses of and into secret men’s business.
First comes Mick: steely evangelist for the Norse gods, semi-derelict, drink taken and bludging for more, he preaches Odin’s part in bringing poetry to the world.
Then come the recollections of W.A.J.C “Twirler” Lingfield whose bloody and bizarre experiences in the service of our land bring strange engagements and satisfactions.
Malfunctioning Robbie is happy to spend his final hours quietly in your company but the odious Cec - henchman of corrupt media mogul Clewster Neuting - feels a form of justice snapping at his heels and doesn’t like than at all.
When you’ve met this quartet perhaps it will become clear why the blokes want these dark portraits and desolate landscapes kept to themselves.
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