More erotic dreams.

I have a daily ritual before I submit myself to sleep - during which I shut my eyes and think very hard about what I want to dream of, in the hope of imbuing it onto my subconscious. Unfortunately, this method rarely, if ever, works. For example, last night, whilst mentally focusing on a crowded seal-pool perfect for invading, I dreamt I had an out-of-body experience.

I was in a sterile hospital room that smelt strongly of lemon-scented disinfectant. A closer examination revealed the shocking identity of the single bed's ill occupant. It was myself. Wan being an understatement, my normally mottled complexion was bloodless, as if I had been assaulted by a thousand hungry vampires who'd gnawed upon me in various unspeakable places. I had also been ruthlessly intubated, my formless shape bound tightly to the side of the metal frame. Even my whiskers were flaccid beyond recovery.

At last, karma had bitten me in my lumpy walrus arse.

By my side was Walrus Mastur, decked out in a spotless doctor's coat about three sizes too small. It accentuated every magnificent fold of blubber I used to admire so. Looking at my best-walrus-friend, I felt a sharp pang. Gone were our wholesome summer days of youth. Gone were our days of bouncing energetically on seals and the infrequent Eskimo (Walrus Mastur always collapsed on our victims triumphantly and inconsiderately; I often stopped to worry if I'd squashed them right).

Sadly, I wondered how Walrus Mastur would cope without me. Lacking my esteemed guidance, advice and occasional blockage, that fat fucker would probably end up in prison for indecent behaviour. Or kneeling pathetically at the flippers of some cheap, shiny ho abducted from the nearest zoo.

In a corner of the room were members of my old pod. I was surprised they'd bothered to turn up. I had never been part of the family, but more of the gay uncle in exile. Useless fucks probably just wanted a significant share of my inheritance. To my astonishment, some of them were weeping visibly. To be fair, they did belong to a critically acclaimed drama troupe.

"I'm afraid it'll have to be done," Walrus Mastur was saying, regretfully. It was the grave tone of regret Walrus Mastur used while suggesting that touching those pups had, in truth, been a bad idea. Insincere to the very last syllable.

My cousin raised his tear-stained face. "Are you so sure? The doctors told me it was a mere head cold -"

"It is undoubtedly imperative," Walrus Mastur said firmly.

Pause. A choked sob. "Well, if we absolutely have to..."

"Very well!" Walrus Mastur said enthusiastically. "My Euthanasia Kit has been prepared, and without further ado, I must request everyone to leave the room." With a flourish, Walrus Mastur threw aside a curtain, revealing a systematically-arranged series of tools and colourless chemicals.

My relatives looked taken aback. My knees buckled and I took a few steps backwards. "Oh no," I said weakly. "Not the Euthanasia Kit. Please, no." Walrus Mastur swiftly pulled on a pair of rubber gloves.

My body stirred in its comatose state, as if in mild protest. In equal parts invisible and mute, I was powerless to alter the course of my fate. As Walrus Mastur administered the last drops of the fatal injection, I fell to my knees.

Walrus Mastur gently took my limp flipper and gazed thoughtfully at my corpse. Any onlooker would have been touched at the sight of an ageing walrus mourning their dearest, lost friend. But I knew, deep down, that Walrus Mastur was critically checking my pulse to confirm I was completely dead. It was understandable. Neither of us liked loose ends.

Suddenly, I heard a cough. Walrus Mastur swivelled round threateningly.

At the door were four lawyers, all of whom looked almost identical. They were bespectacled with slicked-back hair, and carried black leather suitcases.

"Excuse me, sir - "

"Can't you tell I'm saying my last goodbyes?" Walrus Mastur snarled impatiently.

"Sorry to bother you, sir, but we've been instructed to inform you of a legally binding clause in the deceased's will."

"What clause?" Walrus Mastur asked suspiciously, whiskers twitching slightly. "Don't tell me my late snuddy had a few illegitimate little children that I now have full custody of. Haw haw!"

"On cremation, the deceased has instructed every family and friend to drink a measured quantity of the resulting ashes. The required amounts are directly related to the amount of affection the deceased had for these individuals." The lawyer coughed again, this time ominously, and from his suitcase, whipped out the biggest jug I had ever seen. It was baby blue with yellow sunflowers and butterflies printed garishly on it.

"This, sir, is your portion."

I saw genuine horror in Walrus Mastur's eyes. A long, drawn-out silence followed.

"Is it absolutely necessary?" Walrus Mastur asked feebly. "Can't I just - pour them into the ocean, or something?"

The lawyer shook his head. "We're afraid, sir, that it is imperative. Bear in mind that we will be present at the funeral to ensure the deceased's final wishes are duly fulfilled. With the necessary ropes, chains and sedatives, of course."

"No," Walrus Mastur protested, trembling vigorously. "NO!"

I woke up at that precise moment, Walrus Mastur's last despairing cries still ringing in my ears. In the background, I heard the same voice shouting that I was a stupid lazy walrus, they were starving to death, and it was now my turn to make breakfast.

Damn, I wish I had more erotic dreams.