You are Zebedee Gonig, unemployed gibbet entrepreneur. You have just returned from Portling Lodge rest house for the "drank a bit too much a few too many times" clientele. A "9 month drying out vacation", so the Citizen's Sobriety brochure read.
You vaguely recall the tales of the "Olde days" Uncle Bullfitter told you. The golden age when a gibbet like yourself could have strange titles like "employed" "working" or "tax payer's elbow".
But today seemed so different from any other day, not just from the strange feeling of sobriety or the rumour of the elusive "Poll tax enforcer" tribe. A band of mercenary chartered accountants from the mystic land of Burnley. Their esoteric scattering ritual had turned many a man's heart to stone. Zebedee mused over this as he began his first day back at home.
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