The Sphinx sat, as it had done for centuries, eying the horizon with a jaundiced eye. Which, he thought was rather appropriate given the puss-yellow cloud of sand that anyone with half a brain could see massing on the far horizon.
He’d been around long enough to know that anthropomorphising the weather would get him the square root of nowhere but, bloody hell, if this didn’t happen again and a-bloody-gain. He’d just recovered from the last scouring, been dug out of the resulting dune by willing if less than thoughtful archaeologists and wouldn’t you know it a bit of low pressure and another bugger of a blast was readying itself to repeat the punishment. It wasn’t as if he needed to exfoliate, was it? So could you blame him for ascribing a malevolent intention to each recurring sand storm?
As always happened he began to feel the urge to turn slowly and imperceptibly so that the smallest part of him faced the on-rushing tumult. He knew from countless other batterings that he’d just have lined himself up when the first psychotic granules would pummel his nethers wearing down his resistance and filling his rear orifice with yet more sharp custard-coloured dust.
Maybe, he pondered with a misanthropic sigh, he was called the Sphinx because the part of his form that needed the most restoration was his serially abused sphincter.
Or maybe he wondered as tonnes of microscopic stone shrapnel ripped across his bows, his name came from the moronic team who’d thought it such a good idea to put one such as he in an effing desert in the first place. After all they had to be a bunch of complete arseholes, didn’t they?
The Sphinx folded his front paws, tucked in his chin and closed his eyes. Who’d be famous, eh?