Chapter 1

Bon Mot and Polygon (who had not used their real names, whatever those might be, in years) sat on the latter’s somewhat untidy couch playing Ms. Pac-Man, downloaded from Xbox Live earlier that day, in co-op mode and with the absolute concentration of people who accorded far too much importance to videogames. Consider them, if you will, dear reader. Bon Mot presented, there, a somewhat rounder figure, but brimming with energy. All things considered, he did not appear to be too dissimilar from a helium balloon tethered in a strong headwind- spherical but in a state of seemingly perpetual motion. Polygon, on the other hand, mostly appeared to be comprised of sharp angles and straight lines. Quite the opposite of Bon Mot, however, he reclined languidly on his couch, his controller held in his lap- a laconic liquorice bootlace with the hair of 1990’s Garage musician. Predictably, it was Bon Mot, not he, who broke the intent silence.

“Is this giving you an erection?” he asked- which, all things considered, was not a very usual way to start a conversation.

Polygon considered this for a minute, then nodded. “Yes. I can’t work out if it’s the undertones of feederism and excessive decadence in this game, or if I’ve just got the rumble function on the controller too close to my cajones.”

“Well, just so long as it’s not just me, really,” said Bon Mot, philosophically.

“Do you think we should move apart on the couch ever so slightly? It feels a bit weird that our legs were touching now that that’s out there.”

“Good point,” Bon Mot concurred, and scooted over a couple of inches away from Polygon.

At some point, one of the two of them was going to have to write up their opinion on Ms. Pac-Man for the online gaming magazine they worked for. Polygon pondered the possibility that perhaps he should do it- left to his own devices, there was every possibility that Bon Mot would tap out a review that included a warning about possible sexual content and get them both fired. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Polygon could recall quite clearly losing the first job they had had together out of university, working for a local newspaper, because Bon Mot had been allowed to write the weekly advice column while in a peculiar mood. As Polygon recalled, he had advised readers to break up with neo-nazi partners by yelling “Primo Levi!” at the point of climax. The resultant injuries when a few people had tried it and incurred the annoyance of their thuggish mates had been enough to ensure that the two of them would never work anywhere outside the internet again. Yes, Polygon would have to write this week’s column.

***

While all this was going on, and across the other side of London, another, alarmingly forward conversation was going on.

“David Tennant?”

“Shag. Then Marry.”

“Immanuel Kant?”

“Marry.”

“King Henry VIII?”

“Oh, er, kill. No Shag, then kill!”

“Okay, er... David Beckham?”

“Kill.”

“ David Cameron?”

“Oh kill! kill with acid!”

“Okay, so let’s recap,” said Entré, brushing her hair out her eyes and looking glancing at a clipboard. “You’d bang the tenth Doctor and possibly also marry him, but you’d only marry, not shag a renowned moral philosopher...”

“I admire him for his intellect,” replied Egress, taking a bit out of a slice of pizza from her prone position on the hotel bed the two were reclined, and letting the grease drip down her chin and onto her bosom.

“Okay... now, you’d shag, then kill one of the most infamous Kings England’s ever had...”

“Well, it would be a bit weird if was the other way round,” Egress reasoned.

“... But you’d just kill a conventionally attractive footballer, and you’d drown the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland in a vat of acid. That right?”

“Well, I kind of pictured him dissolving rather than drowning, but yeah- pretty much,” Egress said, as she stuffed the remains of the pizza into her mouth. “Right, I’m going to go see if we’ve got any Mars Bars- you want one?” She stood up and stretched, displaying an impossibly curvaceous and well-proportioned hour-glass figure. Despite the development of a slight, but increasingly round belly at the centre of her physique, Egress’s body was known to still draw stares from almost every man she passed.

“Do you ever stop thinking about food?” Entré asked, shaking her head and smiling a little at Egress’ excesses.

“Sure,” Egress called over her shoulder as she wondered out to the kitchen, “when I’m asleep or fucking!”

Presenting a strange parallel to Bon Mot and Polygon, Egress and Entré had known each other since university. The main difference was that in their friendship, one could detect the smooth running of a workable dynamic: the more grounded, competent Entré supporting but also drawing strength from the self-confident, though somewhat unfocussed Egress. Entré paid the bills, Egress provided a sense of lightness and fun. If we return to our two male protagonists, however...