I have a vision of his grey, almost transparent figure, sitting alone at night in front of his TV watching a rag game. His bony, trembling hand furiously pounding away at his ancient knob as his watery, insipid eyes try to focus on the events happening on the flickering screen. The rhythmic pummelling of his manhood suddenly escalates to a climactic orgasm, and a ribbon of tepid population paste squirts from his helmet and splatters grotesquely on to the carpet in front of him. And from there, he shuffles to the bathroom, with his pants and trousers scrunched up around his ankles, where he stands in front of the mirror and gazes forlornly at his wretched reflection, and it dawns on him that he has just masturbated to an image of a shirtless Luke Chadwick making his way down the tunnel at the swamp.
And as one final, languid micro-bubble of Tyler spunk makes itself apparent from his flaccid member, he realises just what an utterly futile existence he has led, and sheds a single solitary tear at the sheer wastefulness of his life.