GEORGE NOVA, JUMPERS
Her gaze stems from her miserly little eyes. She looks down her velociraptorous nose at me. A nose that starts a fierce perspectival line that guides the viewer down to a vanishing point in the abyss between her withering breasts.
"You need to provide your student-tutor supervision sheet," she growls flatly. I can tell that it is obviously fast becoming a tiresome refrain for her, but still I make the deadly error of confessing that I have have lost mine, and I drive the last nail into my own coffin when I tell her that in any case, I didn't get it filled in properly.
She flicks through the pages and notices that I have fallen pathetically short of the word count. "You do realise also that this counts for a third of your marks for the whole year?"
"Yes." My eyes meet hers, and before we kiss I realise I am staring down the barrel of a third class degree, or worse, and she is licking her chapped lips as she hungrily fingers the trigger. Smoke rises on the horizon.