The tussle-headed beast staggers towards me. Huge and clumsy, rigid and graceless, as uncoordinated as a drunken robot, more terrifying than a delinquent child of Frankenstein.

Its arms hang loose, muscular yet conspicuously useless, as if they are more accessory than functional appendage, the end-effectors limp and floppy, a pointless existence if you ask me.

Still, it carries on towards me, determined and decidedly furious. Unfortunately its legs still function, albeit awkwardly. It rocks about unsteadily, like a seasick granny on a sloping deck.

Lost? Drunk? Not at this time, surely not, and this is his home, there is no way he is lost. He’s closer now, dangerously close, heaving those floppy arms in my direction, making huge gyroscopic swings as he grunts and mutters evil nothings. And then the inevitable happens. I’m crushed by a great clunking fist, the fight is over.

It’s a tough life being an alarm clock. Looks like Mo slept funny. When I woke him up he had two “dead” arms.





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