Gertie studies the ape-man for a long time before replying.
“Well, my car seems to be having some engine trouble, and I don’t know the first thing about how to fix it. I don’t suppose you know anything about car maintenance, do you?”
As she expects, the ape-man shakes his head sadly.
“Sorry miss, I just drive the things, don’t know shit about the way they work, pardon my French.”
“That’s quite alright, I’m used to it.” Gertie takes out another cigarillo, and attempts to light it with an expensive Zippo. Click, click, click. Nothing. How dreadfully embarrassing. Just then, the ape-man steps forward, proffering a cheap plastic lighter and wearing a grin as though he’d just discovered fire. Holding his hand to steady the flame, she gets a strong whiff of chips. She loves chips. She always used to have them before…sex.
She sure is looking at him oddly, Terry thought. Maybe he has something stuck in his teeth. He glides a tongue over them, which the woman raises an eyebrow at.
“So, where are you headed to, anyway?” Terry says, slipping the lighter back into his pocket.
“To a dinner party hosted by the Earl of Margate.”
Terry rocks back on his heels, whistling appreciatively. “Didn’t realise Margate had an Earl.”
“Better that you don’t, the man’s a fuckwit –
Terry glances up.
- pardon my French”, she adds, walking over to where his truck stands like a slumbering giant, ready to be awakened at the slightest touch.
She runs her manicured finger along the gleaming paintwork and flashes him a saucy little grin. It’s a lovely smile, the kind that works like emotional Viagra. She certainly reminded Terry of his mother.
“Is this your truck?” she breathes.
Terry puffs out his chest with pride.
“Certainly is. Do you like it?”
“Mmm. It’s awfully…big, isn’t it?”
He steps up behind her and whispers in her ear.
“I can handle it.”
She turns and their faces are mere inches apart. The threat of sex hangs in the air like a sticky mist, and they can both sense it.
“Can I see inside?” she says, looking up at the cab with wide eyes.
“Of course, let me help you.”
As she clambers up, Terry gets a sneak preview when she momentarily opens her legs. Wasting no time, he reaches forward and slips a workmanlike finger up the leaky valley, then whips it out and sniffs it guiltily. She squeals like a naughty schoolgirl and scrambles behind the wheel, pretending to drive the truck. Terry climbs in and, no sooner has he shut the door than their faces instantly seek one another out, like mouth-to-mouth missiles.
Thursday, 15 September 2011
Monday, 12 September 2011
The Duchess And The Truck Driver (Part 1 of 4).
Terry’s eyelids sag dangerously. He’d been at the wheel for the last 13 hours straight, and was getting tired. If he doesn’t find somewhere to stop soon, he’ll have to make do with a lay-by. Just then, something catches his eye. A flickering neon sign advertising ‘Foo N F el’ was beckoning to him just as surely as if it had been the ‘come hither’ gesture of a toothless prostitute. Terry flicks on the truck’s indicator and guides all 18 wheels of his vehicle into the muddy parking lot. He pulls up next to some fancy foreign-looking jalopy and aborts the engine’s lustful yet soothing voice. Sitting back in his seat, he imagines the burger he’s about to order. The supple buns, the yielding lettuce, the tender cheese, the moist meat, the huge breasted tomatoes. He rubs at the crotch of his leatherette driving breeches, which are becoming tighter by the second. God, he was lonely. He needed the love of a good woman sure as he needed oxygen, but commitment was like carbon dioxide to him. It sent him to sleep. He shakes his head and swings the door of his rig open. The instant he steps down from the cab, the cold night air descends on his exposed flesh like an army of sadistic schoolchildren wielding compasses.
Gertie watches from behind tinted glass at this ape lowering himself out of his truck. She takes a drag on her cigarillo and observes as he removes his filthy cap, scratches the thinning hair on his head, replaces the cap, scratches his crotch, yawns, scratches his rear end, and finally ambles off in the direction of the twinkling lights, obviously drawn by the prospect of food. It’s like being at a zoo, she notes with perverse delight, but a zoo where you can climb into the cages and fuck the animals. Even though she’d only eaten an hour ago, she was hungry. Hungry for his cock. And what Gertie wanted, Gertie generally got. One final puff and she ejects the flaccid dog-end out of the window, where it joins all the other flotsam and jetsam. Then she waits…
Terry saunters awkwardly back to his truck, his belt loosened and dangling limply, his stomach bloated with all manner of greasy meat products. He stops when he spies the door of the sports car wide open and a statuesque leg planted with caution on the grimy earth. A haze of smoke surrounding both vehicles completes the effect. As he approaches the open door, the leg is joined by another, and a figure eases itself out of the vehicle. As the owner of the legs turns her head to look at Terry, time stands still. He soaks in every detail of this magnificent beauty. Her golden hair flows in shimmering locks down her face, swaying sensually with every movement she makes. Her eyes smoulder with untapped sexual potential, and her mouth breathes out a seductive sigh on which you could hang the stars. But it's her cleavage to which Terry’s roving eye is immediately drawn. If he lived another 100 years, he’d be lucky to see a rack half as good. Christ, he muses, you could lose an army down there. He’d fallen arse over tit in love.
“Can I help you?” Gertie asks politely. The ape-man seems to be in a sort of trance, transfixed by her breasts. Great, he’s a monkey and a pervert. Still, it turns her on like a tap, this greasy slab of cholesterol and blubber. She always had had a thing for guys from the wrong side of the tracks.
“Sorry miss”, he manages, “I was just wondering why someone like you would be in a place like this?”
Gertie watches from behind tinted glass at this ape lowering himself out of his truck. She takes a drag on her cigarillo and observes as he removes his filthy cap, scratches the thinning hair on his head, replaces the cap, scratches his crotch, yawns, scratches his rear end, and finally ambles off in the direction of the twinkling lights, obviously drawn by the prospect of food. It’s like being at a zoo, she notes with perverse delight, but a zoo where you can climb into the cages and fuck the animals. Even though she’d only eaten an hour ago, she was hungry. Hungry for his cock. And what Gertie wanted, Gertie generally got. One final puff and she ejects the flaccid dog-end out of the window, where it joins all the other flotsam and jetsam. Then she waits…
Terry saunters awkwardly back to his truck, his belt loosened and dangling limply, his stomach bloated with all manner of greasy meat products. He stops when he spies the door of the sports car wide open and a statuesque leg planted with caution on the grimy earth. A haze of smoke surrounding both vehicles completes the effect. As he approaches the open door, the leg is joined by another, and a figure eases itself out of the vehicle. As the owner of the legs turns her head to look at Terry, time stands still. He soaks in every detail of this magnificent beauty. Her golden hair flows in shimmering locks down her face, swaying sensually with every movement she makes. Her eyes smoulder with untapped sexual potential, and her mouth breathes out a seductive sigh on which you could hang the stars. But it's her cleavage to which Terry’s roving eye is immediately drawn. If he lived another 100 years, he’d be lucky to see a rack half as good. Christ, he muses, you could lose an army down there. He’d fallen arse over tit in love.
“Can I help you?” Gertie asks politely. The ape-man seems to be in a sort of trance, transfixed by her breasts. Great, he’s a monkey and a pervert. Still, it turns her on like a tap, this greasy slab of cholesterol and blubber. She always had had a thing for guys from the wrong side of the tracks.
“Sorry miss”, he manages, “I was just wondering why someone like you would be in a place like this?”
Monday, 5 September 2011
Bad Poetry, Vol. 1
The View From My Window
What do I see when I look out of my window?
A car, another car, and another,
3 cars, 3 cars! And a van,
A branch swaying in the breeze,
As if to say, 'Alright?'
A bus stop, cold and empty,
Because it's Sunday, and there aren't any buses on a Sunday,
A man shaking his fist at the sky,
As though cursing the gods themselves,
Because it's Sunday, and there aren't any buses on a Sunday,
We've just been over this.
A cloud shaped like a human heart,
Could it be a metaphor? I don't know,
I was away when we did that in English,
Another cloud shaped like a bear,
That's not a metaphor, I just really like bears.
And then, a face looking back at me,
A familiar face, a friendly face,
I smile and he smiles,
Then I pick up the phone and call the police,
Because it's a peeping tom, and he's not wearing any trousers.
Untitled 1
She broke my heart into so many pieces,
That even now I'm finding bits months later,
Stuck in the soles of my feet,
I must've hoovered about 10 times since,
It's really irritating,
And has cost me at least 3 pairs of socks.
Untitled 2
I remember his funeral as though it were yesterday,
It seems like a lifetime ago,
Ironic really, the one time he wears a suit,
And he's not alive to enjoy it.
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
I think his first sentence went to my head...
A genuine email I recieved not too long ago, and my sincere and heartfelt reply...
Hello
Pardon me for not having the pleasure of knowing your mindset before making you this offer and it is utterly
confidential and genuine by virtue of its nature.
I write to solicit your assistance in a funds transfer deal involving US$3.5M.This fund has been stashed out of the
excess profit made last 2years by my branch office of the International Commercial Bank of Ghana which I am the manager.
I have already submitted an approved end-of-the-year report for the year 2007 to my head office here in Accra-Ghana and they will never know of this excess.
I have since then, placed this amount on a Non-Investment Account without a beneficiary. Upon your response, I will
configure your name on our database as holder of the Non-Investment Account. I will then guide you on how to
apply to my head office for the Account Closure/bank-to-bank remittance of the funds to your designated bank
account.
If you concur with this proposal, I intend for you to retain 30% of the funds while 70% shall be for me. Kindly forward
your response to me immediately
With Regards,
George Nduka
+233 24 888 6531
Dear George,
Your foremost apology is inherently appreciated and understood as such. By the merit of your kindness and the generosity of your heart, I can tell you are a beneficiary of the greatest endeavour.
However, further to my previous bestowing of candour on your part, it pains me deep within my soul to bear truth to your words and honesty before your remittance. I do not, as of this time, possess a bank account with which to incur such monetary forbearances.
However, in light of these economical revelations, I have since given birth to a notion of the highest order. I will come to you and collect these funds, at no greater a cost to you yourself of, say, £1500. Being an individual of the most sought after integrity and virtue, I of course would require a first class aeroplane ticket, away from the scurrilous vices and masturbatory pestilence of the diseased vermin that infests 'economy class'.
Once in the blessed and bountiful land of Ghana, I would then require accommodation of the fittest possible standard for someone of my bearing and loyal kinship. 5 stars, no less. And throw in a safari, too. Uh, a safari that conveys all the majesty and nobility of the animal lineage which thereupon plays such a transcendent role.
Oh, and make it 60/40 in my favour. My...benevolent and valorous favour. Is valorous even a word? There's no red squiggly line underneath it, so I guess it's a word. Uhh, salutations and fare-thee-wells, my resplendent brother and egregious friend. Do I mean egregious? Whatever...
Yours sincerely,
Sam Smith.
Hello
Pardon me for not having the pleasure of knowing your mindset before making you this offer and it is utterly
confidential and genuine by virtue of its nature.
I write to solicit your assistance in a funds transfer deal involving US$3.5M.This fund has been stashed out of the
excess profit made last 2years by my branch office of the International Commercial Bank of Ghana which I am the manager.
I have already submitted an approved end-of-the-year report for the year 2007 to my head office here in Accra-Ghana and they will never know of this excess.
I have since then, placed this amount on a Non-Investment Account without a beneficiary. Upon your response, I will
configure your name on our database as holder of the Non-Investment Account. I will then guide you on how to
apply to my head office for the Account Closure/bank-to-bank remittance of the funds to your designated bank
account.
If you concur with this proposal, I intend for you to retain 30% of the funds while 70% shall be for me. Kindly forward
your response to me immediately
With Regards,
George Nduka
+233 24 888 6531
Dear George,
Your foremost apology is inherently appreciated and understood as such. By the merit of your kindness and the generosity of your heart, I can tell you are a beneficiary of the greatest endeavour.
However, further to my previous bestowing of candour on your part, it pains me deep within my soul to bear truth to your words and honesty before your remittance. I do not, as of this time, possess a bank account with which to incur such monetary forbearances.
However, in light of these economical revelations, I have since given birth to a notion of the highest order. I will come to you and collect these funds, at no greater a cost to you yourself of, say, £1500. Being an individual of the most sought after integrity and virtue, I of course would require a first class aeroplane ticket, away from the scurrilous vices and masturbatory pestilence of the diseased vermin that infests 'economy class'.
Once in the blessed and bountiful land of Ghana, I would then require accommodation of the fittest possible standard for someone of my bearing and loyal kinship. 5 stars, no less. And throw in a safari, too. Uh, a safari that conveys all the majesty and nobility of the animal lineage which thereupon plays such a transcendent role.
Oh, and make it 60/40 in my favour. My...benevolent and valorous favour. Is valorous even a word? There's no red squiggly line underneath it, so I guess it's a word. Uhh, salutations and fare-thee-wells, my resplendent brother and egregious friend. Do I mean egregious? Whatever...
Yours sincerely,
Sam Smith.
Sunday, 14 August 2011
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
The Curious Case of the Swollen Organ, part 5 (of 5).
The continuing continuation comes to a conclusion. Conclusively.
"Come on then, let's see what you've got" Haversham chuckled, feinting to his left, and attempting to land a blow to Holmes' face. Holmes dodged this easily, manoeuvred himself behind Haversham and connected with a right hook to his kidneys. Haversham whirled around unsteadily, and tried an uppercut. Holmes ducked with the grace of a ballerina, causing his hat to dislodge itself, leant forward on one foot and punched Haversham squarely on the nose. He stumbled backwards, slipped on the chrysalis that had somehow found its way onto the floor, and tumbled over, his head cracking audibly against the hardwood floor as he went. I stepped over to his prone form and quickly checked his vitals, expecting the worst. Fortunately he was merely unconscious. I glanced over to see Holmes dusting off his deerstalker and replacing it atop his head. He then walked over to where Mrs Haversham lay, and, ever the gentleman, sat her up gently as she came to, explaining what had just happened.
“Oh Mr Holmes, I simply must apologise for my husband’s beastly behaviour. I just hope he won’t bear any grudge towards you.”
Holmes laughed at this. “Madam, if he so wishes, he may challenge me to a rematch, although I would attempt to dissuade him from this particular course of action!”
Finally, he bent down and kissed her outstretched hand, then shook it and stood up to face me. We left the building without a word between us, and it wasn’t until we were journeying homewards in a cab that Holmes turned to me and spoke.
"Watson, my friend, what I told that man was a lie. He wasn't the victim of a dastardly plot dreamt up by a vengeful tailor. He was the victim of something far worse."
I gasped, and swivelled to face Watson. In all my years of knowing him, I'd never been witness to him lying.
"It turns out, Watson, that there is a foe sweeping this city which even my quite brilliant powers of observation will be unable to stop. Sexual awakening. I read about it in a book or other many years ago, but thought it to be myth until just a few weeks previously. But now it seems more and more people are succumbing to this psychological succubus."
I reeled at the information Holmes was laying out before me, struggling to take it all in.
"People are slowly realising that they can have sexual intercourse for pleasure", he whispered, hissing the last word between gritted teeth. "And we're looking at a full blown sexual revolution on our hands. Still, there'll always be you and me, eh Watson? Watson?"
I heard not a word more of Holmes' diatribe, for at that very moment I leapt from the moving carriage and had it away on my legs up Baker Street. The reason, you ask? Why, to engage in the wanton act of consensual procreation with my wife, of course. I am a red-blooded male, at the end of the day...
I actually sent this story in its entirety to a Manchester-based writing collective who shall remain nameless. Apparently, it wasn't what they were looking for...
"Come on then, let's see what you've got" Haversham chuckled, feinting to his left, and attempting to land a blow to Holmes' face. Holmes dodged this easily, manoeuvred himself behind Haversham and connected with a right hook to his kidneys. Haversham whirled around unsteadily, and tried an uppercut. Holmes ducked with the grace of a ballerina, causing his hat to dislodge itself, leant forward on one foot and punched Haversham squarely on the nose. He stumbled backwards, slipped on the chrysalis that had somehow found its way onto the floor, and tumbled over, his head cracking audibly against the hardwood floor as he went. I stepped over to his prone form and quickly checked his vitals, expecting the worst. Fortunately he was merely unconscious. I glanced over to see Holmes dusting off his deerstalker and replacing it atop his head. He then walked over to where Mrs Haversham lay, and, ever the gentleman, sat her up gently as she came to, explaining what had just happened.
“Oh Mr Holmes, I simply must apologise for my husband’s beastly behaviour. I just hope he won’t bear any grudge towards you.”
Holmes laughed at this. “Madam, if he so wishes, he may challenge me to a rematch, although I would attempt to dissuade him from this particular course of action!”
Finally, he bent down and kissed her outstretched hand, then shook it and stood up to face me. We left the building without a word between us, and it wasn’t until we were journeying homewards in a cab that Holmes turned to me and spoke.
"Watson, my friend, what I told that man was a lie. He wasn't the victim of a dastardly plot dreamt up by a vengeful tailor. He was the victim of something far worse."
I gasped, and swivelled to face Watson. In all my years of knowing him, I'd never been witness to him lying.
"It turns out, Watson, that there is a foe sweeping this city which even my quite brilliant powers of observation will be unable to stop. Sexual awakening. I read about it in a book or other many years ago, but thought it to be myth until just a few weeks previously. But now it seems more and more people are succumbing to this psychological succubus."
I reeled at the information Holmes was laying out before me, struggling to take it all in.
"People are slowly realising that they can have sexual intercourse for pleasure", he whispered, hissing the last word between gritted teeth. "And we're looking at a full blown sexual revolution on our hands. Still, there'll always be you and me, eh Watson? Watson?"
I heard not a word more of Holmes' diatribe, for at that very moment I leapt from the moving carriage and had it away on my legs up Baker Street. The reason, you ask? Why, to engage in the wanton act of consensual procreation with my wife, of course. I am a red-blooded male, at the end of the day...
I actually sent this story in its entirety to a Manchester-based writing collective who shall remain nameless. Apparently, it wasn't what they were looking for...
Monday, 1 August 2011
The Curious Case of the Swollen Organ, part 4 (of 5).
The continuation of the continuing saga continues continuing...
“My dear Mrs Haversham”, Holmes said coolly, “any creature is easy to obtain in London if one knows where to look and who to ask. Why, I could secure for you an Indian elephant by the end of the week if you so desired.”
"But what about me?" Mr Haversham spluttered. "You say I've been poisoned, is there any cure?" He gesticulated wildly as he spoke. Holmes regarded him patiently, waiting for him to finish.
"Mr Haversham, worry not. The poison is but a very mild one. Its effects should wear off presently."
"Pendleforth really had thought of everything" I observed.
"Almost" Holmes exclaimed. "Should Mr Haversham had paid what he owed, Pendleforth could simply have called over on some pretence and removed the erstwhile intruder without issue. He even went so far as to ensure the window was left open, allowing the butterfly to escape. Quite ingenious. But what he hadn't thought of was London's greatest sleuth and his languor of an assistant! Now, onwards, to Pendleforth's abode!"
Holmes trotted towards the door, but Mr Haversham leapt in his way, a foolish act if ever there was one.
"Now see here, Holmes! You think you can just waltz in here, tie a fancy bow around things, then bugger orf without so much as a by your leave? Well, I'm afraid you're very much mistaken sir!"
Holmes stepped back, clearly impressed by this man's audacity, although he didn't show it.
"What would you have me do, Mr Haversham?" he asked.
At this, Haversham blew up like a great balloon, red with anger. His moustaches bristled, and he clenched his teeth so hard I feared they might shatter.
"What would I have you do?" he almost screamed. "I'd have you arrest that Pendleforth villain for attempted murder, as well as forcing him to pay out generous reparations into the bargain."
Holmes smiled thinly and shook his head. This set Haversham off once more, and he began moving about the room like an agitated clockwork toy.
"Firstly, the poison he gave you was only a mild one at most, as I've already tried explaining to you. Hardly attempted murder. Secondly, as for reparations, you're the one who owes him money, and I'd pay up if I were you. In all honesty, my hat is well and truly off to such a cunning individual."
At this revelation, Haversham almost collapsed in abject fury, but just about managed to regain some sort of composure.
"I knew it, you're in league with this treacherous scoundrel" he howled, pointing at Holmes with a trembling finger. "Well, you picked the wrong fellow to try and con, let me tell you. I used to be boxing champion at Cambridge back in the day, and I dare say I've still got a few moves left in me. Come on now, put up your dukes."
Mrs Haversham, who had up until now been watching the tense scene unfold before her with some distress, finally fainted with a sigh onto the ornate divan behind her. Haversham meanwhile, threw off his jacket, and began bobbing and weaving about the room, punching the air. Holmes simply stood still in the centre of the room, watching this ridiculous figure dance a fool's jig around him.
“My dear Mrs Haversham”, Holmes said coolly, “any creature is easy to obtain in London if one knows where to look and who to ask. Why, I could secure for you an Indian elephant by the end of the week if you so desired.”
"But what about me?" Mr Haversham spluttered. "You say I've been poisoned, is there any cure?" He gesticulated wildly as he spoke. Holmes regarded him patiently, waiting for him to finish.
"Mr Haversham, worry not. The poison is but a very mild one. Its effects should wear off presently."
"Pendleforth really had thought of everything" I observed.
"Almost" Holmes exclaimed. "Should Mr Haversham had paid what he owed, Pendleforth could simply have called over on some pretence and removed the erstwhile intruder without issue. He even went so far as to ensure the window was left open, allowing the butterfly to escape. Quite ingenious. But what he hadn't thought of was London's greatest sleuth and his languor of an assistant! Now, onwards, to Pendleforth's abode!"
Holmes trotted towards the door, but Mr Haversham leapt in his way, a foolish act if ever there was one.
"Now see here, Holmes! You think you can just waltz in here, tie a fancy bow around things, then bugger orf without so much as a by your leave? Well, I'm afraid you're very much mistaken sir!"
Holmes stepped back, clearly impressed by this man's audacity, although he didn't show it.
"What would you have me do, Mr Haversham?" he asked.
At this, Haversham blew up like a great balloon, red with anger. His moustaches bristled, and he clenched his teeth so hard I feared they might shatter.
"What would I have you do?" he almost screamed. "I'd have you arrest that Pendleforth villain for attempted murder, as well as forcing him to pay out generous reparations into the bargain."
Holmes smiled thinly and shook his head. This set Haversham off once more, and he began moving about the room like an agitated clockwork toy.
"Firstly, the poison he gave you was only a mild one at most, as I've already tried explaining to you. Hardly attempted murder. Secondly, as for reparations, you're the one who owes him money, and I'd pay up if I were you. In all honesty, my hat is well and truly off to such a cunning individual."
At this revelation, Haversham almost collapsed in abject fury, but just about managed to regain some sort of composure.
"I knew it, you're in league with this treacherous scoundrel" he howled, pointing at Holmes with a trembling finger. "Well, you picked the wrong fellow to try and con, let me tell you. I used to be boxing champion at Cambridge back in the day, and I dare say I've still got a few moves left in me. Come on now, put up your dukes."
Mrs Haversham, who had up until now been watching the tense scene unfold before her with some distress, finally fainted with a sigh onto the ornate divan behind her. Haversham meanwhile, threw off his jacket, and began bobbing and weaving about the room, punching the air. Holmes simply stood still in the centre of the room, watching this ridiculous figure dance a fool's jig around him.
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