Thursday, 14 May 2009

los tos

Saturday, 9 May 2009

Sunday, 3 May 2009

Wednesday, 29 April 2009

Town Planning

spastic tree, institute for muscle tissue, staring at a mirror on the earth, struts holding in polystyrene, sand dollar shop, the cool blue flames of rational thought, rugs in the city square, ectoplasm effulsion, partition hiding a scared nazi.

Wednesday, 15 April 2009

Saturday, 4 April 2009

A little self gratification - prt 2

The hybridization process had some benefits unknown to Marty. 

Mr Bobbins tightly secured his Welsh tamil shanti around his
heaving gusset and tossed his horse blanket over his golden, 
rippling shoulders.
   He spoke to Marty in a manner not too far off Noel Coward. 
Lit another Mentholated Moore and tapped the ash in his left upturned hoof.
"For God's Sakes boy wouldn't you rather practice perfecting your
dovetail joints, rather than attempting to enter my body in the most
rrrrrrrriduculous manner, all for 50k and the front page of the Family
Spurt, how vulgar!"
"Oh fuck you Bobbins, you retard" Marti said romantically.
"You can't fool me with that hydrodisation process shit, I can see the outside edges beginning to crumble, I'm gonna have you right up the horses arse.
"If you must," Bobbins said thoughtfully, he carefully snuffed the end of
the Moore and put it back into the packet.

Marty stepped back, his well honed survival instincts alerted.
Something in Bobbins manner and tone of voice had hinted at real, horrible, potential violence. His erection dwindled. Reluctantly he pulled up the abattoir worker dungarees he sported as part of the elaborate cover-ruse that had gained him access to the hydridization facility. Shrugging bib-and-braces onto his upper body, he backed out of the dank corner. The sexy elderly hybrid might need more careful handling. As much as Marty enjoyed packing as much gratification as possible into all aspects of his existence, focus and strategic thinking offered their own satisfaction. All he needed was to lure the old freak into the van, there he could sedate it with the dart gun and hit the road back to civilization.

Bobbins, staring at jagged holes peppering the corrugated iron walls of the back of the Culling Barn, remembered his birth mother. Remembered how she had been standing in that very spot when Dr Cecil had kindly put her misery to an end with the 12 bore.

He shifted focus, and looking through the shot torn holes, was suddenly taken by the overwhelming wonder of a flaming sunset, the suns rays protruding through the blue tinged pink clouds, the long shadows of dusk over the purple heather.
After several minutes he relit the half consumed mentholated Moore, savored the moment.           Looking across at the valley below at the purple tinges of dusk he noticed a 
strikingly ugly / uglily striking, copiously sweating figure lurching toward the Culling Barn from the other side of the valley. About two hundred metres off but making good headway despite the rough terrain. 
Bobbins had no idea who this person was, but Marty’s reaction might give a clue .

Alerted by the stentorian snorting caused by this figures exertions, Marty started.
Unusually, he was surprised. Klaus van Boolie Churchill, for it was he, was unfortunately unmistakable to all in the publishing industry.
     A well-known hack of ‘The Bum’, Churchill was looking rather swell in his good lederhosen (having just left the Vauxhall Torture garden after a three month binge).
"Oh Christ" thought Marty. "How the hell did he get to hear of this? 
How had he just waltzed brazenly through all the security and secrecy that took me months to breach?"


Klaus v.B.C , ample hairs that ran from arse-hole to widows peak stiffly erect with the thrill of imminent satisfaction, gleefully swore as he hacked his way through a stand of giant hogweed. The poisonous sap of that gargantuan celery cruelly stung in the hugely dilated pores of his flanks. He paid the potent irritant no heed, as the arch druid of a neo-cymric cultus devoted to the dark practice of intricate sex/pain magicks, the toxins pouring into his bloodstream merely complemented his regular diet of exquisite pain . OK, as a day job Boolie Churchill was the Childrens Literature correspondent at THE BUM, but what he did in his own time was his own fucking bidness.

Earlier that afternoon, few rays had penetrated the silvered windows of that sink of depravity, the Vauxhall Torture Garden.
Whilst dragging an exotically serrated turnip macerator across the eagerly proffered genitals of a young acolyte, Churchill had gleaned his first intelligence on the hydridisation project. The shattered young author/illustrator of 'Tiny Lambkins swimming adventure'(Carper Hollins £12.99 rrp) had babbled of strange shadows in the orchards on the hill behind her writing retreat and an eldritch screeching at the full moon. Klaus withheld the supply of pain until his torture subject, shrieking lustfully for more, was willing to divulge details and a location. His position at THE BUM (that most syphilitic of all press organs) meant he had the pick of many creatives from the childrens lit industry, they were only too willing to bow to his whims for a favourable review. He made them and broke them in many ways.

K.v.B.C was a Hack for The Bum but he was in it purely for the kicks. His father, descendant of Teuton Knights and fully paid up member of the Thule Group, had dropped out of sight decades before to persue a retirement of esoteric asceticism, laying at his sons disposal access to an account held at Floutts and Co, Mayfair. It has never been established just how enormous the wealth within this account was, but the reverence and dreamy eyed sycophancy shown by the staff of Floutts spoke volumes. It is said that these funds were diverted from a bottomless fortune looted and salted away as Hitlers Operation Barbarossa enjoyed its first exhilarating sweep across the Ukraine.

This is why Klaus was able to be so laissez faire handing in copy to The Bum. He was a major shareholder and they had to print whatever pisspoor drivel he emailed from whichever evil fogged dungeon he chose to be working up a stink in. 

A younger Klaus had made efforts to become the author of several children’s books. Pitifully unsuited to his chosen field Klaus' efforts had failed. Even with great wealth and connections to die for behind him, fortunes spent on champagne receptions, enormous advertising budgets, even bribing school librarians had failed to endear him to his potential readership.
Both children and their parents were entirely nauseated by his leaden interpretations of gloomy German myth, illustrated with drawings so inept and ugly they looked as if he scratched them out in the lightless recesses of a uranium mine using a palette of diseased and clabbered body leakage.

Eventually public outcry led to the Territorial Army being called out to burn every copy with phosphorous grenades in a pit on Salisbury Plain. The failure of these works being so comprehensive and the disgust of the nation so apparent that even landfill sites and paper recyling sites servicing toilet paper manufacturers had cried off dealing with the tainted stock.

Anyone with an ounce of human feeling in them would have been desolated by this fiasco and quite rightly taken the honorable path of oblivion, climbing tearfully atop the stacks of condemned publications to await the cleansing holocaust.
Unfortunately for the World, Klaus didn't have any such feelings. 

Instead of self-murder he decided to alter his career trajectory a little. Due to his wealth and a hastily purchased Oxbridge diploma in some writing based subject, that was easily done.
Perversely he started off by taking a job at The Gordyun and the most deceitful part of him enjoyed perfecting the requisite tone of smug indulgence, sinking into the typical role of flabbyminded self referential smartypants. However soon the miasma of banality was gagging him. as soon as he managed to secure his shareholdings in The Bum he was off. 
Firmly entrenched, he sat astride the world of children’s lit punditry like a carrion drenched Roc atop its aerie.

Reaching the barbed wire fence at the edge of the orchard Klaus straddled it and was over with only a few red strands of hair twitched out of his balls as they peeked from the hem of his hotpant-cut lederhosen (‘Janus’ of Old Compton street, Bear department, real pigskin £450).
He bellowed to Marty; "YOUNG MAN! I CAN SEEE YOOO!......."
He saw that Marty froze, his face a picture of chagrin and hate.
With a visibly painful effort, the expression twisted like a snake being rammed into a tin box with razor sharp edges. It transmuted into a professional smarmy blankness.

Marty was scrabbling for a cigarette, Anything to mask the dreadful stench of poppers, body odour and torture that emanated from this most repellent, yet most powerful hack in the trade. He had to keep the horrific deviant away from Bobbins or his meal-ticket-to-the-top-table-of-the-gravy-train would be up in smoke….


Bobby Ewing stepped out of his power shower wearing surprisingly dry pink jogging bottoms.

As he turned to grab a stolen hotel towel off the bathroom rail, the word 'attitude' was revealed in gothic script on his over wobbly arse. Putting on the nearest coat hanging up near the front door, he stepped out into the stinking Leicester Square rain, crossing Charing Cross Road facing squarely the windowy spectacle of the Argus Highland Fling Flang Steak Out. He studied a bored looking man playfully attacking a rather rare looking sirloin steak.
"That looks nice," he thought," pity I'm a fucking vegetarian.
No, correction, I'm fucking a vegetarian, that doesn't therefore make me a vegetarian.What have I allowed myself to become?
I have forgotten who I am. I'm a man, forchrissakes. I'm not putting up
with this vegetarian shit anymore. I'm gonna have a steak, and Crystal can just fuck off; well actually, she wont even know.
No, she will know because I'm gonna tell her.
Yes, that's it, I'm just gonna tell her, bugga it, she can like it or lump
it. Moody cow."