Faster than the speed of light and many times brighter, Luna ran to Arkingham Asylum. Though she travelled too fast to be detected by the human eye, dozens of people walking along roads from London to Brummygum reported being swept to the ground by a force, which apparently emerged from nowhere leaving their hearts in their throats, like undigested lardy bread. Ambulances screamed to the aid of cardiac challenged foot soldiers, most of whom, were to live to tell the tale of the day they survived one of Britain’s rare cyclones.
Luna was magnificent; adorned in her favourite, menstrual red leather catsuit, sweat did not stain her silky skin or gasps emanate from her lungs. Even with the fate of the universe balanced on her shoulders, she remained light on her feet. On the motorway, ninety miles behind her, straddled on a cerise pink motorbike with a gold re-enforced…
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