[user104658]

I hear a distant rumble and wonder if a storm is coming; but casting my eyes to the horizon, I can see that the skies are clear and blue. Yet the rumble intensifies. My eyes widen. I can feel the vibrations... But they're not in the air, they're under my feet. I quickly drop prone, pressing my ear to the earth - it's dusty, and smells faintly of spilled petroleum. The rumbling continues, I can hear it more clearly now, what sounds like the mechanical, rhythmic drilling of ancient machinery. But what could be down there? What manner of long-forgotten relic? And why now? I spring back to my feet, as though the extra 6' between the sound and my head will offer some protection.

The earth cracks, and begins to split. Just a hair line at first, then widening to a few centimetres. I hold my breath, unsure of what to expect. The cold metal of drills? The untold horror of a claw? No... I see them now. Fingers. Human fingers, emerging from the dust. The rift opens further. A hand. An arm. It seems strange and yet, somehow, so familiar. The second arm appears, and both elbows press into the earth. Rippling biceps flex, a layer of sweat glistening in the sun... A primordial roar deafens me as the earth finally cracks open wide, and he appears. How did we forget? Where had he gone? But the most pressing question - WHY had Jet returned? Had I somehow missed it? Had someone, during my nightly rest, talked about Corbyn?

And then I heard it. The faintest of whisper in my ear. A small, tired voice.

"Not Corbyn, Sir..." came Marsh's whisper. "Someone made a thread about Megan Markle."