Lamborghini Tractor, 23 years ago.

The spitting image song (deckchairs up the nose, snorted, imbibed) and a Lamborghini tractor in a stone walled field are synomonous to Lloyd. But he couldn’t quite think the memory out. He was having a panic attack. Not that the others on the bus would notice. Unless they were inspecting him closely, for his breathing had become deliberate rather then involuntary. He held a hand casually across his mouth, elbow rested on sill of bus window. The hand covered his rhythmic fish gaping slit, protected it from infectious observation. Lloyd placed his imaginary dick in the cleavage of a viewed woman, but it was gore, it was a huge sticky maggot scything through frontal lobes, and didn’t take his mind off the stirring stomach. He tried to throw thought away from this ill feeling, into the horses in the field, into reliable fantasies and the heavy trod mind paths. If only some couple were behind him, chatting so he could drift into their words, their lives, meanings and trivialities. But there was no one, no one talking, just the buses drone, fit and start, and the gut churning roads of East Yorkshire, where flags of Confederacy are duh rigour.

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