Loathing never slept.
At night it would climb out of the skylight in the loft and sit on the roof. If it was feeling playful, and the weather wasn’t too dreadful, it would climb down the drainpipe to gather a pouch of stones then sit on the chimney and use a catapult to knock the neighbour’s satellite dishes out of alignment.
If it was in a melancholy mood, or if it had run out of stones and the ground was too nauseating to contemplate, it would pull out an ocarina made from the pelvic bone of a fairy child and send mournful songs into the velvet darkness.
They invariably induced bad dreams among the local sleepers.
Loathing didn’t care. All their neighbours were offensive with their little company cars and flowery curtains and greenhouses and garden sheds and detached garages.
It looked down and spat. Detached Garages? That didn’t sound like