Clothing bagged, tagged and removed. Urine sample taken. Scrapings made from beneath fingernails and sealed inside a small, labelled jar. I'm trussed into a polyurethane suit the colour of rusty straw, and then I'm up over the table, grabbing the grey-skinned motherfucker by the throat and screaming hot greedy lungfuls of his own esoteric cop-talk gibberish back into his skull. An arm reaches for the alarm and in the resulting commotion I'm struck, the club connecting with hair, head, skull. As I slump to the ground I swear I can hear the whine of a theramin. As I slump: I am not a violent man.

Or rather, this doesn’t begin here. Later I’ll head-throb awake on some cop-doctor’s couch. Later still, under the too bright strip-lights, they’ll reconvene the interview. Picture me spiked with intravenous diazepam and cuffed to the table. The identikit detectives - I’ll rubberneck their flapping tongues with a distant incomprehension, furbishing their questions, insinuations, insults with a grunt or two, a giggle. And it won’t commence there either, these bit-part players reciting their lines in subsequent scenes already written. Me? I’m at twenty-eight o'clock, drunk on H20, on M&Ms and motor oil. Springs clink, my head coyly pulses. Cold air seeps out of the radio's casing and the fridge broadcasts nothing but static. A plane floods, another Bangladeshi village crashes on take-off, and I’ve already been guided down towards the sub-zero. All of this, it’s memory hacked at, spliced and spliced again into images all quick-flick and porno, my own private peek-a-boo. There exists a version of me, pharmaceutically marginalised and pummelled by the authorities to the cusp of confession, but inside all I feel is summer, a stolen embrace, the splaying, the spurting, her, her, her…

Then: "Tell me about The Insect House".