It had been a bad week. I'm a patient man, Rhymin'Simon thought to himself, a very patient man. But finding a dozen peeled bats in the freezer (yes, hygenically wrapped in snap lock bags, as Magenta had sweetly pointed out), well, you hadda draw the line somewhere. And it was a very long line.

yeh magenta was a cool ole lady, sang a good version of the Grisly Bride. But no more. Simon usually didnt agree with fascist concepts like deprogramming, motivation training or deportment and modelling classes. They were all subtle attempts by the interglobal capitalist multiglobular media monopoly to mold people to become more passive, socially engineered corporate citizens.

Now if magenta had been preserving those bats for science, or even caring for them in a box full of cotton wool for some wildlife enviro-group, it would be a different matter. But Simon was no fool. He saw the packet of sliced Jarlsburg cheese, the mild chili sauce, the tomato and the cos lettuce. And the tooothpicks... ugghh.

And Simon knew he took take it no more. Yes, there was only one person he could trust to freak Magenta back into her senses, only one person with the balls to confront her brain-dead carnivorous cravings, only one person whose efforts would not be in vein...

Micca Patterson, he of the memorable "Hash my Father Scored".

Simon had to do what a man had to do. He got on the phone.