Yesterday's tomorrow

A word on time zones:

In some parts of the world, today has been tomorrow, and yesterday is today, whilst in others today will have been yesterday's tomorrow, tomorrow had a yesterday which is now going to have once been called today, and in still others yesterday was tomorrow and today's the day you worried about tomorrow, and yesterday there would sometimes have been throughout caused by, for and not excluding the fundamental future past of the tomorrow. Is that clear now?

{Speech bubble:} TOMORROW NEVER COMES

{Speech bubble:} BUGGERED IF I KNOW

The beginning of the end of the end of the beginning of the end.

Is a trace.

{Speech bubble:} What?

This will not (therefore) have been today. Thank you.

Imploding bastard

When he arrived, the house seemed strangely familiar. "Băstard!" Arthur thought. "He's stolen my garden!" The regular cops must have had a tip-off – there were fifteen or twenty cars, scores of uniformed and plain clothes men, marksmen, armoured vehicles, insurance salesmen, professional golfers.

"Make way, I'm a doctor," said Arthur, shooting a pathway through the crowd. He burst into the house – and realised he was up against a psychotic. "Băstard! He's stolen my living-room!" From outside the bungling uniforms apostrophized over a loud-hailer, "Throw down your weapons – and come out with your hands up!"

    What?
    Not plot?
    Squat
    Parrot.

{Negative space, boxed in}

"What's it all about?" thought Arthur. And imploded.

[Simon: "Nothing but four upturned theodolites"]

(?) theologies!

Both guns blazing

Arthur dashed across the driveway, both guns blazing – at least 25 hoods dropped under the heavy fire. Next he entered the house, battering down the door, shot the man who had come to see what all the fuss was about, and rushed upstairs. He knew the mass-murderer was up here somewhere.

Out of nowhere he heard a noise behind him. In a flash he had turned round and hurled his combat knife. It was the mass-murderer's wife. "Try the bathroom," he thought. And lo – there, as he approached it, he thought he caught a glimpse of a bulky savage man, armed to the teeth. "That must be him," he thought.

He entered the bathroom, and there was the vicious man himself. But a rude shock awaited him – he was looking into the mirror. "What a cruel trick," he thought, "that camouflage paint really doesn't do me justice. I'll have to go for something more stylish next time."

A slight doubt remained in his mind – "am I the mass-murderer: surely not?" He barely noticed the dead bodies and wreckage as he left the house. "Perhaps I was given a false tip-off," he mused. He looked at the number of the house – 1257, 35^th street (East, sunnyside up). "Of course," he realised, "I got the wrong street – it's 33rd street where he lives." And he set off at once.