There lies in this land a leviathan, a brutally blood-thirsty beast as old as the oak trees. And every night it devours its subjects' sacrifices and every morning it screams at its own dismal suffering.
It sends its minions far and wide, searching in squadron formation as they scour the desolate land for scraps and salvage. But herein lies no salvation, for they will never escape their bondage, forever lying at the bottom of the pecking order. The only species beneath them are the dullard people of South Glamorganshire, who busy themselves hording anything that cannot be eaten, muttering all the while to themselves and drinking spirits that would sell their soul to be called moonshine.
I may be mad, I may stand alone, but I will not pay homage to the King of the Seagulls!
