Tracey Emin

Sour-mugged, art termagant Tracey Emin quaffed an exquisite cocktail of absinthe, cough syrup and white cider from one of the Knight’s tainted chalices at what she thought was an ancient gallery opening.

“Great exhibit,” she chewed as the goblet’s curse encrusted her larynx with nodules, “shits on Cornelia’s Thirty Pieces of Silver.”

“Have you thought about crushing them with a steamroller?” she added, her face imploding like a paper bag in a vacuum chamber.

Guest Contribution: Peter Cribley

Emin: In Greek


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