Derren Brown

The more one becomes famous, the more one is recognisable. That is a pretty simple way of putting it. With my work, I am bound to attract your typical religious nutters at one point. Usually, it is an old pensioner sitting on a seat in the back row proclaiming the Word of "God" and strangely speaking in tongues. I denounce their faith so they denounce my work.

After an interesting yet rowdy night at the Shaftesbury theatre in London, I settled down for my routine cup of tea and a read of the wonderful publication, The Guardian newspaper. Another fine nights' work was completed as a master mentalist and magician. The early hours of the morning are now as the ordinary Derren: laid-back and extremely self-conscious.

As I read the whimsical debate on the events in Libya discussed vibrantly in the text, I felt the presence of another in the room. I am not psychic; the door must be opened slightly because the room became somewhat chilly. The page of the paper was lowered by an eccentric looking gentleman with a walking stick.

"Mr Brown?" he enquired softly.

I simply nodded my head and at that same moment, a sharp pain hit the back of my head. From there on was darkness until I recovered in a stereotypical London gangster hideout, a factory. The most unfortunate thing about this whole affair is that this particular chap was not a London gangster, he was a fanatic.

Times were going to be very bad. Very bad, indeed.

The End

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