Vincent van Gogh gingerly flirts with Amy Pond while Doc is chased by the space chicken in his godmother's rearview mirror
White-power walkers are too busy influencing to notice the epic slugfest around them
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In the immaculate city of Finetime, Lindy hops out of bed for another day of two hours’ work on substack processing, before spending the rest of the time hanging out with her Close Friends in her head-orbiting bubble, an arrangement she might call piss-easy if she ever had to urinate.
But the peppy Ms Pepper-Bean has been peppered with unsolicited requests from first a moustachioed rando, then some offensive Finetime Enterprises apparatchik asking her the most stupid and obvious questions, oh my gasp. It’s enough to make a bean-counter dyspeptic!
Turns out that Finetime’s gardeners have been slack about putting down pellets, because an invasion of giant slugs is slowly munching through Lindy’s friends list. And Doc can’t perform his trick of dropping a line of salt in front of the bad guys because of a pesky mono-sealed door.
Can Lindy direct her own legs without the aid of her personalised support drone, or will this orphan die in Plaza 55? Will Ricky September live to see October? Where were these slugs when Earth faced the Seeds of Doom? And will Ruby have to stand up at any point this week?
