16th April, 1990
Sailing his soup tureen across the azure waves, Arthur was surprised to be crushed to death under a huge descending foot. Alex watched sadly. The sunset was sienna stained cerulean above him, and a muddy shade of azure below and to the sides. The meteor missed him by mere litres, giving rise to an incorrect usage of the SI system of units. Fortunately by coercing with (metre *), the adjunct was correctly converted from furlongs per fortnight into curved spoons and statues of Queen Victoria which stood outside Sydney shopping complexes. This confused Alex, still bereft and despondent after the cruel death he had witnessed.
Witless, William wished wildly while willing whistles whither the whether of shit. Mostly though he didn't, and became the Prime Minister despite the fact. Queen Victoria's boot encrusted nose got wet as Arthur desperately threw it overboard to save weight. He ate the albatross whole, in the hope the bad luck would disappear. He was wrong. Azure faded to aquamarine as Alex died gruesomely.
Gangrene gorged gluttonously, gaining great gregarious green gorges and frogs. Piano the great Morte d'Arthur, but in syncopation belied the awesome lunacy of the underlying syncopation. Extraordinary lemming to the court of King Arthur from Katmandu, Anja the unkneed sank. The kneebrace followed. His fluoro pink cover blazed in the sunset, Alex weeping mournfully. The blast from the Israeli terrorists shotgun blew the top of his head off, spraying the kneebrace over the azure ocean. Penultimately, he began to simulate DNA, synthesize cocaine and music, and progressively move towards the more wistfully undefined style of the surrealist deconstructionists who always suicided in disgust. Impressionists were more hardy, and always hard.
Across the azure and penultimate ocean, Arthur didn't, due to a head cold. After putting his head in an oven, someone forgot to turn the gas on in the first place. Magnificent flames failed to appear. There would be no coffee tonight. Or bananas. Arthur was wet and cold after his rather long and azure swim. Sensibly, he had packed a spare set of pencils into his sporran and set off into the night, the flopping sounds of the raider's thongs behind him.
Then it happened! At 9-22pm Greater Central Northern Mountain Daylight Saving Time, in a disued wombat hanger, Arthur was resurrected, only to put his foot in a rabbit hole, fall down, break his neck, and consequently die once more. This was irrelevant. The ocean was still azure, and Patrick was still dead. Some ten million microseconds later, he died again, only to die one further time. Sick and tired of this, he committed suicide in a moment of bleak and wonderful sex. The knife slid between his ribs, bisecting several major address lines on the third EPROM chip from the right, and spoiling his sex life until the ocean became azure again.