GEORGE AND CHARLTON

That phone call left Mr. Heston in a daze. What did George say? Charlton could not quite remember. He sharpened his axe and flicked through his black book, during which he got confused and sharpened his finger instead. Multi-tasking was clearly not Charlton's thing. He needed tuna to concentrate. But not to party hard.

He searched high and low for his cowboy boots, but realised he left them at Shania Twain's house last Friday night. He agonised no more for there was serious singing to be done. "My, my, my, Shania! Why, why, why, Shania?" he sang to raucous applause in his mind.

Meanwhile, Tom Jones turned in his grave. Grabbing his Nunchucks, Charlton leaped into his bath, which was filled with beetles and corpses at various stages of decomposition. He flayed with all his might as innocent beetles, human flesh and bones sprayed onto walls like coagulating wallpaper.

"Decorating again?" asked George Bush, who had let himself in through the back door.

"Naw", said Charlton, "Just sorting.."

BANG! Before he could answer, George had shot him dead with one of Charlton's own beloved guns.

"Shit", George mumbled as he looked at his bloodstained shoes. He had a press conference in an hour. As he reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, he saw Shania walking up the driveway, the summer breeze gently tossing her hair.

She was carrying Charlton's boots.