bring me the head of heeler the peeler
It was morning at the Daily Star offices.
Editor Ger Colleran sat behind his desk.
He was a bearded porcine invidious decadent slatternly egg yolk of a man.
Around him cowering minions waited.
Ger Colleran's clenched fist thumped the table.
His voice rose to a veritable scream.
"I want this Heelers... dead. I want his budgies... dead. I want his hamsters... dead. I want his parrot... dead. I want that car he keeps reversing into gate posts... dead. I want his hydrangeas... dead. I want his orchids... dead. I want his sheepdog... dead. I want his prayer group... dead. I want his play Poets In Paradise which is due to open next Thursday in Kildare... dead. I want those sexy Russian women he meets for coffee... brought to my office at once."
Editor Ger Colleran sat behind his desk.
He was a bearded porcine invidious decadent slatternly egg yolk of a man.
Around him cowering minions waited.
Ger Colleran's clenched fist thumped the table.
His voice rose to a veritable scream.
"I want this Heelers... dead. I want his budgies... dead. I want his hamsters... dead. I want his parrot... dead. I want that car he keeps reversing into gate posts... dead. I want his hydrangeas... dead. I want his orchids... dead. I want his sheepdog... dead. I want his prayer group... dead. I want his play Poets In Paradise which is due to open next Thursday in Kildare... dead. I want those sexy Russian women he meets for coffee... brought to my office at once."
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