Wednesday, 25 March 2009

Saturday, 21 March 2009

a little self gratification - prt 1.


"and thats when i realized.
Maybe old Bobbins had problems of his own.
So he stank of come and amyl nitrate,
he was a human being (at least partly) that showed his love for me in the
only way he could".


-Long shot in sillouette against sunset of Bobbins and young Marty
walking slowly through the orchard into the abattoir.

Bobbins then happened to mention that he was one of the first cloned
runts who was destined to never perform to any potential. A survivor of that first litter long thought to have perished either from crippling birth defects or of the ruthless culling policies carried out by the half insane quasi-scientists that had established the breeding program back in the 80's.

Marty was torn. To slaughter the freakish creature or not? He really longed for that skewbald hide
(in order to make the finest leather loafers a bit like the ones that estate agents wear in Clapham).

"Fancy just one more shag before I part this mortal coil?"
Bobbins pathetic offer of sexual favours in return for momentary reprieve from death had a hopeless ring to it,
he knew that there could be no novelty left for the jaded Marty in this coupling. Marty contemplated this offer,
in an instant he knew there was more to be gained in the name of science than simple gratification or a
a pair of new shoes.

They sniffed yet another bottle of nitrate. They felt great and shagged.

Marty subsequently got onto his mobile, ringing up the Sunday Spurt,
asking to speak to a biology expert enquiring whether they were interested in the story. For a price.

Bobbins was sexually relieved but slightly dubious of his future as a
cloven clone and science side-show celebrity.
Would his hide be allergic to all the make up he'd now have to no-doubt wear?
What about his fat arse? His rather sordid past? Could he bear having it picked over by a pair of tweezers?
"Oh sod it", he thought, "I've always had an attention deficit."

-close up shot of muzzle, dramatic music, raised eye-brow.

A spatter of coagulating foam/Marty-sperm/Marty excrement fell from Old
Mr Bobbins steaming snout, besmirching the white butchers wellies Marty
sported during such anal rampage sessions.

Marty didn't ever care a hoot for who or what he was rutting.
He was engrossed in the deal being cut with Liana Creeper , Ace science
correspondent at 'The SpUrt'.
"Listen, Creeper. This story isn't just gonna lie here waiting for you like
one of your silicone 'Spurt' whores. Agree to my terms or regret losing this
golden opportunity for the rest of your sad sack life. This could keep us
all in Mescaline and fine Havanas for a long time! Doesn't the idea of being
the hack delivering proof that cloned skewbald human/boar hybrids still roam the
Brecon Beacons make your genitals twitch with joy?
50K or i go to the Pig Husbandry Gazette, they'll pay top dollar for this kinda shit!"
Immediately there came the whining sound of a hasty climb down. Liana gave in to his demands.
"Right, get here with the cash in half an hour, what ? i don't fucking
care HOW, just get here or i'm speed-dialing the P.H.G."

Old Mr Bobbins, who as a last bid for freedom was about to sever Marty's neck with his razor sharp
tusks and enjoy the resultant crimson fount, hesitated again. He slunk into the obscure shadows
at the far end of the shed, a trail of jism silvery in the gunmetal autumn dusk of those barren Welsh mountains.
Maybe he should see how the next round of this game played out before taking any direct action ?

Marty, assuming Old Bobbins was a rank retard because of the
hydridisation process, gave not a care as to what his recent spunk
receptacle thought about being bought and sold in such a vulgar fashion.
He strode bombastically toward the darkened hiding place.

"Right then Bobbins,which orifice do you want it in next?"

Friday, 13 March 2009

hidden city.

















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