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Dream.

We somehow manage to capture the demonic zombie immortal by putting a plastic bag over its head and promptly chopping it off. So, we have it's head in a Sainsbury's bag, shouting obscenities and threats at us. It's off-putting as the demon has chosen to manifest itself as a middle-aged woman with permed blonde hair. After some discussion we stuff the head under a kitchen cabinet, push some newspaper in to stop it banging around, and then hammer a strip of wood over it. 'That should do it.' says the man. 'Really?' I ask. 'Sure, no one will ever think to go under there.' At this point I look at him for what seems to be the first time, he has a bent copper pipe where his neck should be, which, about four feet later, ends in a metal flower out of which his face sticks. He's chalking numbers on the cupboard door now in 5 bar notation. I count 25. Outside through the window I see his son digging what looks suspiciously like a grave, in the bright, bright sunshine.