When dreadful duty leads you to the place where you have stored it. And when walking dog and call the children "He won't bite", then see them run, deranged by what you're dragging round and have been since you found him eyeless, stiff and putrid after seven months of, "Oh, I wonder where he's got to?". Then welcome, mmm who born dead through your own arse, welcome. In Jam.
| Name | Type | Role | |
|---|---|---|---|
| Christopher Morris | Writer |