This is an unpublished drabble that I wrote in July 1991. Like one of those published in 1993, it’s an acrostic. It’s a lot less subtle than I thought it was when I wrote it.
Sensor balls
Don’t expect any charitable contributions from us – we’re the guys in the black (and gold), and the only thing we’ll give you is trouble.
Asking us for favours, you’ll soon come to realise, is as productive as trying to squeeze the contents out of a sealed tin can.
Look us in the eye, and we’ll stare you down in unblinking, uncaring incomprehension.
Exterminate any hope you may entertain of a deal – and if you dare to take the plunge without prior permission, we’ll give you some stick.
Kindly don’t argue when we roll up again: we are Terry Nation’s muscle.
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