‘Twas the night before Emperor’s Day, And all through the City, Ragnar sat with an ale, Lacking all pity. An applicant’s head hung from the mantle with care, A warning for all to beware. Build with no context or against the O-P, Ragnar will mount your skull for all to see!

With terrifying strength, Ragnar ripped the doors and roof from the cab, walked through it and exited the other side. The Cab Driver shrank back into his seat as he met the Space Wolf’s glare, “next time make sure you can clear the intersection before proceeding, dog!”

The smell of spent promethium permeated the air as Ragnar lowered his heavy flammer, the sidewalks and bike lanes finally clear, “Emperor’s beard! Must I do everything myself in this cursed city?!”

Excited for election night when Saunders and Furey split Mammoliti's share of Bradford's right flank and Olivia Chow loses a few points to Matlow while Bailão cynically claims right-of-centre-left votes and a baffled commentator on CP24 is declaring a golden retriever the winner.

Ragnar has found his candidate! I welcome the inevitable progress towards subsurface arcologies, the only true way to live in fortieth millennium, where the hunger of laughing gods haunts your very existence!

If there's any region in the US that needs a land value tax, it's the Rust Belt. Encouraging to see Detroit exploring it!

Ragnar sat back in his fur clad throne. “I had thought that proclamations proclaiming a future proclamation were useless but it appears we now have proclamations stating that proclamations can’t be made”. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, “fascinating”.

Ragnar yawned as he read his missives, “these anti-vax people still persist?!” He exclaimed, “in the grim dark future, much of the way science works has been forgotten and replaced by mysticism, perhaps the Cult of the Mechanicus has earlier roots than I thought?”

Ragnar woke to the sound of his alarm, usually a dismal dirge, now a clarion call to action! “Friday!” He shouted, leaping from his bed with a tight somersault. “A day for ale and a day for song! The sooner to work, the sooner to play!”

Ragnar saw the speeding car approaching as he disembarked the streetcar, his superhuman reflexes allowing him to leap into the air, turn a somersault and land on the sidewalk. “Jackal!” He roared, drawing his bolter, “and I catch you I will use your vehicle as a suppository!”

Fortunately, Ragnar is a nigh-immortal, genetically engineered, super-human, or I might not live to see the opening of this “Crosstown”!

Ragnar looked away from his pocket cogitator with a start: “By Russ! What cursed bit of scrap code from some ancient abominable intelligence conjured this nonsense?” He hastily anointed his instruments with scared oils and headed to the tavern.

Cask ran dry

Ragnar stood over the smouldering corpse of the desiccated demon, his bolter reeking of spent propellant, a primordial shriek fading into the air. “Well,” he growled, “if no one else was to kill that war criminal then I am glad to have been of use! Rot in the warp Kissinger!”

Ragnar exited City Hall, the sun shining on his upturned face. Friday at last! Still too cold for an ale outdoors, but the time was fast approaching, in the meanwhile he would drink to the soon to be distant memory of the cold!

Ragnar scratched his chin thoughtfully, “I don’t believe I have ever spent 190 minutes on such a meeting!” He returned to cleaning his bolter, mouthing the necessary benedictions under his breath.

Ragnar woke to the sound of his alarm, usually a dismal dirge, now a clarion call to action! “Friday!” He shouted, leaping from his bed with a tight somersault. “A day for ale and a day for song! The sooner to work, the sooner to play!”

Ragnar is fairly certain that in order to “run again” one must have first stopped.