�Hello, TileLand? Yes it�s Derrick. Could do with another retiling. Yes, another one, had another accident. Yeah. Real super strong tiles this time, military standard. Same address. Yep. Cheers, bye.�
He then stretched, winced, stretched more carefully this time, and tried desperately to remember what he had drunk the night before. He had a whole rack of hangover cures, but most were specialised dependent upon the cause of the hangover. Sighing (very gently) he carefully prodded certain specific areas of his scalp expertly, and from the pain responses deduced it must have been port the night before. About three pints, if the left temple was correct. He pulled the appropriate green gloop from his rack and downed it with the regulation two gags afterwards. Horrible stuff, but marvellous nonetheless.
Feeling capable of living now, Derrick decided he was up to working out what he had done the night before. He moved into the living room and was greeted across the hall by the sight of Ingledoon, his flat mate, obviously in the same stage of morning-afterness. Using a complicated series of eyebrow waggles to communicate noiselessly (they were experienced at hangovers) they both established that neither had the faintest idea as to what they had got up to the previous night, or indeed the previous day. With practiced efficiency, Ingledoon checked the local news on ceefax whilst Derrick scanned the flat, looking for evidence. Aside from a charming article on a squirrel, and three dirty socks, respectively, Messrs. Ingledoon and Derrick found nothing useful.
After a period of brinksmanship putting the Cuban Missile Crisis into the pale, Derrick was the first one to ask:
�Shall we go out and have a look then?�
Ingledoon nodded agreement.
They gingerly opened the door, expecting a horrific sight, but found none. There was still only one rail left on the banister, three ghastly stains on the carpet and one emergency tile repair van just outside in the drive.
�That yours then?� asked Ingledoon, indicating the tile van.
Derrick nodded.
They delicately threaded down the stairs, avoiding patches that creaked excessively, and opened the front door to greet the tile repairmen. As the painful twosome approached the van, the front door of the vehicle opened and a damn dirty great cockroach climbed out. Reality hit Derrick and Ingledoon simultaneously like a well-thrown pair of Haddock as they remembered the cause of their drunkenness. The world had been taken over by damn dirty great cockroaches.
Your morning never really recovers from a realisation like that, as Derrick and Ingledoon found out.
Their day then continued much as you would expect really, with some minor brutality, excessive slave labouring and bizarre heathen cockroach ritual cleaning. It wasn�t too bad a way of life, really, as long as you remembered to breath through your mouth. Ingledoon forgot this at one point, and over a hundred of his nasal hairs surrendered their existence. At least there was none of the stress of responsibility though � if a cockroach told you to rub dirt into a corner, you did it, no questions asked or expected.
That evening found Ingledoon and Derrick in a small bar near their flat, though it hadn�t really been looking. They had decided to get drunk, to forget the horrors of their tyrannical rulers.
�Hey, you, barperson, another couple of whiskeys please.� Called Ingledoon to the cockroach behind the bar.
Derrick frowned, then asked the question on his mind:
�What are you anyway? Are you a damn dirty great cockroach barmaid or a damn dirty great cockroach barman?�
The barman shook its thorax, rolled its mandibles and smiled indulgently before commenting with dubious English:
�You humans, so obsessed with reprocreation!�
It then turned and got the boys their umpteenth drinks.
The next day Derrick awoke rapidly and was rather relieved to do so. He hadn�t been dreaming a nice dream.