Angry Robot

You Think You Can Take Me Down?

You think you can take me down, bitch? You think you got what it takes? snaps aggressively Here’s what I’m gonna do, bitch: I’m going to raise the roof. I’m committed to excellence, let victory be my ashtray or may death wear me as a cravat! I descend from the ionosphere, tour the facilities, stoke the flames. The team’s in place, the goals will be achieved, obstacles overcome, enemies vanquished, doubters dismissed. The foundations of your barren thinking will be torn down, the House of Sankey will rise in their place. Your rivers will run purple with my prose. Your sweaters will shrink and itch vexingly; like my dope science, they will be too tight. My many tentacles – reason, wit, argument, appeal to emotion – will throttle you and your extended family. Your crops will lie down and die in the fields. Bartenders will no longer serve you. Restaurants will point at you and laugh menacingly, rabbits will rape you, happiness will run from you grinning with its tongue flapping in the wind. Your own thoughts will desert you, your brain will be as empty as my fridge, voided like a bowel in shitstown, vacant like the SARSville Sheraton – and then I’ll move in. I’ll rent out the whole place, I’m in your head looking out. Guesswho? Sankey. Sankey in every room, and I’m like an army of brat rockstars, I’m trashing the place. Can you feel me piss on your floors? Can you hear me toss your minifridges out the window? How you like me now, bitch?