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AB#7 – Whore House

9 Aug

I often find myself struggling to get the attention of females, whether they are young, old or disabled. I put this down to the fact that they are too scared to approach me, not that I am intimidating, but because they probably feel that I am out of their league. Yes, I may be a self proclaimed eccentric; I like to wear a stuffed toucan on one shoulder when going out to socialise, but inside I am like every other man out there, only a little bit nicer.

As a result of the insecurities of the females in my town, I find myself having to pay for sexual gratification. It’s more of a necessity than a hobby. Well, it was, until two nights ago when I paid a discreet visit to my local brothel, Bones. By day, Bones runs as a massage parlour, a good one at that. However, at night, the shutters come down and the action moves to the flats upstairs. Either way, you can enter the premises stiff as a board, but leave feeling flimsy, with a smile on your face. The local constabulary are well aware of what goes on, but there is an unwritten rule around here amongst the men that we keep it a secret from the majority of women in the town. The only ones who know are Gladys and Martha, who own the massage parlour, and indeed the prostitutes that work there.

What I enjoy about visiting Bones is the huge selection. You get to choose the woman you want, how long you want her for, where you want her, what you’d like her to wear, what you want to do to her and, my personal favourite, what you’d like her to do to you. All the options are handed to you on a laminated sheet of A4 at reception and you simply select the combination that tickles your fancy. You just write down what you want, and when your girl is free, you’re good to go. Last Thursday I opted for the following:

Renata – 30 minutes – Bathroom – Barney dinosaur costume – fist – hand job.

 Now Renata is a filthy minx of a Polish woman, and she has a tidy little torso on her as well. She had a tiny shaving rash around her vagina the last time I had her, but I liked this quite a bit. It looked naughty. For my thirty minute session, I paid the sum of £40, a bargain I’m sure you’ll agree. I’ve been with Renata a few times as she’s money well spent. She actually looks like she enjoys her job, unlike some of the others, particularly the Romanians. I heard rumours from other regulars that she’s a bit of a squirter, but I have yet to experience this phenomenon. In most of the women,you can see the fear in their eyes, which makes the whole experience thoroughly enjoyable. Shameful sex is good sex; I learnt that from my father.

Anyway, two nights ago I was at home and feeling frisky. I’d already watched my ‘Carry on up the Sphincter’ DVD twice that day and was bored of the same images; they were no longer doing anything for me, unable to raise anything more than a semi. I decided to go to Bones to see what was on offer and to hopefully satisfy my ever increasing sexual urges. I applied a delicate dollop of savlon to my sore shaft, which, if I’m honest, I had already put through its paces earlier that day and now resembled a purple button mushroom, more than it did a penis. Picking my wallet up off the mantel piece, I headed out the door with dirty thoughts running, nay fumbling, through my mind. Bones is only a ten minute walk from my house and I arrived bitterly cold; the night air was crisp and I had negated to wear a coat. My flat cap did little to cover my ears either.

I headed down the side alley next door to the massage parlour and rapped on the side entrance four times. This is the signal that you are a punter looking for business; a secret code that lets the reception area know it is safe to answer the door. Within seconds the door was ajar and I could see Gladys smiling at me from behind the security chain.

“Arthur! Come in, good to see you”, she said jubilantly, as always.

Gladys was a joy to be around, she ran a tight ship at Bones but everyone respected her. Even though she’s in her late sixties, she’s always up for a laugh and I think a lot of the young girls look up to her. They even let her look after their passports. Gladys led me upstairs to the main reception area and handed me the selection sheet for the night. I scanned the names of the women.

“No Renata tonight?” I looked at Gladys disapprovingly.

I was up for a whole night of pure kink with Renata, but my hopes had been dashed.

“Sorry Arthur, she’s ill tonight. She thought she had a shaving rash but it turned out to be a little more serious than that. Do you want to choose one of the other women?”

As I looked down the names, a lot of the regular women were on there, but I noticed one name that I hadn’t seen before; Mary. I pointed at her name on the list and asked Gladys who this new person was. I was told that Mary was a buxom beauty, and a local girl as well, just looking to get a bit of extra cash. She’d passed her HIV test, which all of the Bones employees have to take as a precaution, with flying colours, and was willing to do pretty much anything, as long as it didn’t involve being tied up as she had a phobia about this. “I’ll try anything once, Gladys. Put me down for Mary”. I scrawled my selections out on a selection sheet and handed it over, together with my £200. I was staying the night. My choices this time were:

Mary – 1 night – Bedroom – Naked – Anything she desires – Everything I desire.

I wanted to make the most of this one. New meat was rare at Bones; the company was renowned for its low employee turnover rate, so seeing a new girl on the list was not only a shock, but also a turn on. I saw Mary like a new ride at a theme park; the prospect of riding it was scary, but at the same time, hugely exciting. Gladys led me down the dimly lit corridor to the left hand side of reception and to room five. “Wait until I leave, and then knock four times. Mary will let you in when she’s ready. I’ve already phoned your requests through to her.” With that, Gladys spun on her heels and disappeared back to where we had just come from. I took a deep breath, I was feeling anxious, which was not normal for me, then knocked on the door as advised.

 It took what seemed like an eternity before there was any answer, during which time my little womb ferret had decided to make his presence known to the front of my jeans. I quickly reached down and pulled him upwards, tucking him underneath my belt. I didn’t want to look too keen.

“Come in”. The voice was a husky whisper.

 It was obvious that she was a new worker as she didn’t have the confidence in her voice that many of the other girls have. I opened the door and waddled in. I couldn’t walk properly as I was now concealing a rather large bulge down below. I closed the door gently behind me and spotted Mary perched on the edge of the bed, her bare back to me, and smoking a cigarette. She looked lovely. She wasn’t a petit from what I could make out, but she was by no means large. As I went to take a step forward, Mary turned to face me, manoeuvring her legs onto the bed, so she was now lying on top of it.

“Ma..Mary?!”

“Ar thur?!” I stayed where I was, aghast.

The new worker was none other than Mary O’Connor, the woman who lives across the road from me, and who I used to actively stalk. I couldn’t believe my luck. For just £200, I was going to be able to do anything to her I wanted. My head was awash with thoughts, part of me thought that if I could put in a decent performance, I might persuade her to be with me, to run away with me like I had always wanted to do. Mary looked as shocked to see me, as I did her. She crossed her arms awkwardly in a desperate attempt to cover her soft breasts and placed a tatty white pillow in front of her beaver.

“Arthur…What are you doing here? You have to leave, we can’t do this…I…I…know you. Please don’t tell anyone I do this. Please”.

“Damn you, Mary.” I proclaimed in a rather spiteful manner and I approached the bed.

The moonlight was pouring through the gap in the curtains and onto her body, making her shimmer like a glorious mermaid, without the tail. Or the scales. “I’ve paid good money for tonight. It’s your job; you can’t turn me away; besides, because it’s you, I’ll be gentle. You know how much I adore you.”

With that, I clambered up onto the bed and towards Mary, who had a look of bewilderment in her face. She was shaking a little bit, probably through shock, and this made her nipples gyrate hypnotically. I took the opportunity to push Mary down flat onto the bed, and knelt on her outstretched arms, so my groin was in her face. She said nothing; she just lay there gazing into my bloodshot eyes. I knew at this point I was going to have to pull something special out of the bag, so to speak. I put my finger to Mary’s lips (facial), as she started to sob gently.

“Shhhhhh, Mary. Relax. I’ll make it all better”. I was trying to calm her down, not too much, but enough so she might enjoy it as well.

I unbuttoned my jeans and wriggled free from them, like a snake shedding its skin. Next, my maroon, and embarrassingly stained boxer shorts were pulled down. I teased the tip of my shaft around Mary’s neck and then up onto her cheeks, whilst moving her left hand onto my balls. She squeezed them tightly as I entered her mouth. Her lips were dry, but I enjoyed the friction. As I thrust in and out of her gaping jaw, I was planning my next romantic move. I knew it had to be special. I ordered Mary to turn over and push her chest to the bed with her arse in the air. She obliged, eventually.

I took up my position up off the bed and took a small run up, my erect penis aimed arrow-like at Mary’s winking snatch. Her arse looked wonderful, like a peach, but a little less furry. There was a squelching sound as I entered her and I must admit I let out a small woop of joy; I was shagging Mary, the woman of my dreams. I thrust deeper and deeper into her velvety folds, holding her around the waist and rocking her back and forth to a nice gentle rhythm. I could feel myself nearing orgasm with every thrust so I removed myself from her passage and stood up once more.

Mary collapsed face down onto the bed; her legs were weak from cramp from the position she had been in. I rolled her onto her side and began to slowly stroke myself whilst I cupped her breast in my other hand. I moved in for a kiss but she turned her head away and this made me a little angry, reminding me of the times she’s shunned me in the past.

“Run away with me”, I whispered delicately into her ear, hoping to change the mood in the room somewhat.

She didn’t respond so I gave her fanny a gentle pat, then climbed on top of her and penetration commenced once again. I was more vigorous this time. I no longer cared about my £200; I wanted to finish off the dirty work and then cuddle up to Mary before chatting deep into the night, about our future plans together.

“One more manoeuvre”, I exclaimed through drawn breath. Mary nodded her head as if to say ‘go on then’ and I took up by the hand and led her across the room, positioning her against the wall opposite a wardrobe which had a mirror on the front. I wanted to watch myself in action, and watch Mary’s curves ripple slightly as I serviced her. I dropped to my knees and lapped at Mary’s sweaty pink hole with my tongue. I gave a performance like Pac-Man on acid, and Mary actually shuddered a little as her vaginal muscles contracted and sent a wave of pleasure through her body. I rolled onto the floor, triumphantly. I’d succeeded in what I wanted to do; prove to Mary that I could make her happy.

I lay there, physically and mentally exhausted, and it was in this position that I had a moment of epiphany. I realised that Mary O’Connor would never give me a proper chance outside of the brothel. She was dead to the world and had no true feelings. Besides, I’d got what I’d always wanted, and I’d discovered Mary was nowhere near as exciting as Renata. I was finally over the bitch, and I’d achieved it by having intercourse with her, whilst at the same time degrading her. What a way to get over her.

“Shoot that poison arrow through my hearrrr—aarrr-ar-art”, I sang as I left the room. Mary was still naked, stood against the wall with her legs apart and head to one side with her eyes closed. As I shut the door behind me, I heard a thud, which I assume was her slumping to the floor. This made me smile. I am now looking forward to another liaison with Renata, I may even try and find out where she lives…

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AB#6 – Midget Party

7 Aug

Every year I host a garden party for all those people in my local area that have been cursed with the plague-like affiliation of dwarfism. Last night saw this event take place and a plethora of small people turned up. Dwarfs and midgets chatted as one, and I even threw in a few party games as well.

I took it upon myself to start hosting this event for a number of reasons. Firstly, I wanted to raise my profile in the local community as I aim to become town mayor by the time I am 40. Secondly, I am sick and tired of ‘little people’ being treated different from other members of our society, I thought I should make a stand and help make others realise that we are all the same. The final reason is the warmth I get inside as I watch a smile form across their faces when they see what I have done for them. Smiles so big that they almost take your eye away from their whacking sized foreheads. I love the way their little limbs flap as they clamber up my stairs and roll about in the sand pit. Oh how I laugh when I see them running for the punch, like a toddler, only funnier.
Last night was no different.

Invites had been sent out last week to about 30 midget people that I have got to know over the last few years. Guests started arriving at 7 o’clock and I directed them into my front room where they could enjoy the delights of ‘Guess which name I’m pointing to in the Yellow Pages’ whilst they waited for the arrival of the others. I’d provided a small finger buffet of cocktail sausages, pineapple and cheese on sticks, beetroot sandwiches and radish slices.

Around half an hour later, all my guests had arrived and it was time to show them to the garden. As I pulled back the curtain from the patio door, there were gasps of delight and their little faces lit up like tiny children at the fairground. I had erected a gazebo to keep everyone dry from the rain (after all, we didn’t want to see anymore shrinkage) and halogen lights lit the place up like Blackpool, only cleaner. I had even layed out an old carpet, and provided seating, and a small BBQ was ready to go.

The first party game was to be the piñata. Up stepped Mike, a dwarf that works in the local butchers. He makes small trinkets from the bones and carcasses of the dead animals there, and sells them on a stall outside. He grasped the baseball bat in his tiny chubby hands, his watch almost disappearing from sight amongst the rolls of fat as he bent his grip backwards. I blindfolded him and stepped back for safety. The piñata swayed in the gentle breeze, the pink and orange tissue paper that I had used to decorate it reflected the light hypnotically. Mike stepped forward a pace, and to a chorus of clapping and cheering, swung at the piñata with all his might.

He missed by a mile.

The clapping got faster, the midgets cheered louder and Mike swung again, this time leaping a little off the floor to try and get more power into his hit. He was still a long way off though, I estimated about 4 foot lower than the bottom of the piñata. I called to Mike to let the others have a go and so he removed his blindfold and put it around the face of Jenny, an even funnier looking thing. Her body was way out of proportion. Her arse is like that of rhino, whilst her body like that of an aphid. Her head is indescribable.

Mike gave her a quick pat on the back for good luck and made his way to the others. Again the clapping started, and encouraging cheers were this time as loud as ever. Jenny aimed the bat upwards and swung, the sheer momentum of it causing her to fall over. There she lay, flustered, like a woodlouse on its back. A small kick to her side was all that was needed to get her up.

Over the next half an hour, many more midgets had a go, but none of them could reach the piñata. This was a great shame, as inside lay man y a treat including a baby bullfrog, a spinning top and a small Buddha statue, signed by Konni Huq o Blue Peter fame.

The next game was apple bobbing but with a twist. For this game, I had hired out a pool, one of the self-assembled variety that are seen in many gardens these days, and at 4ft deep, was adequate what I wanted.
I asked each midget that wanted to play this game to stand around the outside of the pool, in their underwear. They stood and watched as I tossed about 30 apples into the pool and made them all tie a balloon to their pants. This was to make the bobbing much more difficult, they would have to power their little legs harder in order to reach the bottom of the pool.

“On your marks. Get Set. Go!”, I shouted and 12 midgets leapt into the pool. This was a sight that will never leave me. Little people all trying their utmost to get to the bottom of the pool, but bobbing about like buoys with small limbs. The winner of this game was to be the person that could retrieve most apple, with their mouth, from the bottom of the pool, in two minutes. Those that were not playing shouted words of encouragement, I just laughed at them. Their legs flaying out of the top of the water, kicking around uncontrollably as they tried to get to the bottom of the pool, was sheer comedy. Even those not participating found it hard to control their laughter.
I looked at my watch at shouted for them to stop. They got out of the pool and stood next to the apples they had managed to bob. Not one of them had managed even one, until that is, I reached Brian..
Brian stood triumphantly next to a pile of 7 apples. I was amazed at this amount. None of the others had managed a single apple, yet Brian, a man smaller than many at the party, had somehow amassed 7.

I congratulated Brian and gave him his prize, a homemade lemon gateaux with added fish essence. I told him to turn around so I could untie the balloon from his pants and it was at this point I was taken aback. I noticed a large,pointy lump coming from the bottom of his pants and asked Brian what the Hell it was.
“Oh, that? That’s my tail”, said Brian proudly. With this, he lowered his underwear slightly to reveal a small wagging tail, only skin covered, not hairy.
“How….how did you get that?” I asked. He went on to explain that his spine hadn’t stopped growing, even though the rest of his body had, and so he had a little tail. He could wag it like a dog, and had used the power from this to propel himself to the bottom of the pool.

“This is an unfair, amphibian like advantage”, I cried, throwing the gateaux over the fence. I had decided to disqualify Brian and so there was no winner. After a bit of protest, he agreed that he was in the wrong, so we moved onto the game – the high jump.

This was a game that everyone was to compete in. At one end of the gazebo, I had two piles of breeze blocks, four high, with a broom stick in between them. The midgets formed an orderly queue at the other end . One my command they all took it in turns to run at the broomstick, and attempt to clear it. Those that could would go through o the next round, where the bar would be raised, until we had a winner.

The next 20 minutes proved to me that my party games were a waste of time. Not one midget managed to clear the bar, and we lost Darren, the young AIDS victim, through a broken nose. He had tripped and smashed his face into the breeze blocks, losing 4 teeth in the process. Instead of playing the other games I had lined up; basketball and wrestling, I decided to call a halt to proceedings.

“Every year I host a party for you guys, this year, you’re just taking the piss”, I shouted. “If your not willing to put the effort in to these games I’ve arranged for you, then I’m not willing to have you all in my house. Go on, get out. Be gone you pathetic excuse for humans.”

They looked at me stunned, slack-jawed. I snared and they began to file out of the garden, through the house and out the front door. “And don’t come back”, I screamed, waving my fist in the air, as the last one closed the door behind him. I had wasted my time , money and effort in organising the party. I felt saddened at the fact that these midgets had tried to make a laughing stock out of me, even though I was willing helping people understand them. What had I done to deserve this?

I walked back out into the garden and extinguished the flame on the BBQ. Walking back inside, I glanced over my shoulder to survey to mess they had left behind them. “The bastard rapscallions”, I said to myself and went to the kitchen.

Never again. Never, ever again.

AB#5 – The Return of Axle Strider

7 Aug

My local pub, the Bell End View Local Tavern is where I go every Sunday night for a couple of pints of Abbot Ale, and to join in the quiz with all the other locals. Yesterday saw a £50 prize going to the winner, so I headed straight down after my dinner to get a decent seat. The pub itself has a very cosy atmosphere; the faded red upholstery that adorns most of the seats now has a more of a pink tinge to it, and the old oak posts and floorboards are battered and worn. Old brass utensils are hung sporadically on the walls and the low sloping ceiling makes the whole place seem smaller than it really is. A log fire burns most nights keeping the pub warm and inviting.

It’s shielded from the rest of the pub by a very large grill. It didn’t used to be, but after an elderly chap had a rather bad accident after too much rum in close proximity to the fire, Health and Safety called for it to be installed. His nickname is now ‘Weston’. The pub has no pool table, which I like, as it keeps unwanted youths away, and the bitter is always of good quality. The main reason I come here though is the people. From landlady Scatty Morag to many of the other locals – Big Paul, Carpenter Dave (he’s a plumber), Chin O’Brien and Mustang Wally; they are all a lovely bunch of people that give me a lot of time and good conversation.

I arrived at about ten past seven to yesterdays quiz, and the pub was already to beginning to fill up with hopeful people all wanting to take part and win. I always enter the quiz on my own, rather than being in a team, as I like to take all the glory for myself. Plus, what’s the point of splitting £50 five ways? I’ve never seen the use of winning a tenner. My usual stool at the end of the bar was unoccupied so I ordered a pint of Abbot and a packet of pork scratchings and sat down.

“What time do we get underway, Morag”, I asked as she handed me my change.

”Well Arthur it’s an 8 o’clock kick off, would you like a cheese sandwich?” she replied, smiling.

“No thanks, I’ve just eaten” was my response and I was a bit surprised at how quickly she’d managed to change the subject, which Morag was famed for.

I passed her my £1 entry fee and looked around scanning any potential competition. Most of the usual faces were already gathered in their groups; my main rivals were sat directly opposite me near the door. ‘God Shave the Queen’ is their ‘hilarious’ team name, but they have won six of the last eight quiz nights. Mustang Wally is the brains behind the team, specializing in both science and geography, but his wife Brenda is also capable when it comes to history questions. I think that they carry the other two members of the team somewhat, their next door neighbours Colin and Bruce, a couple of homosexuals that have matching moustaches and who like to fornicate in public.

Also present were ‘The Old Couple’, ‘Pump your Quiz on me’, ‘Farmers Meekly’ and ‘Beadle’s Claw’, among others. I opted to go for my usual name of ‘Solo Baggall’. Although it sounds like some sort of lurid sex act, I like this name and I will always keep it. I can’t stand teams that change their team name every week; in fact, I think there should be a 10 point deduction for any team that wants to change their name. Farcical. As 8 o’clock neared, the pub was bustling with people getting drinks in ready prior to the quiz starting. I got another pint in as the first one had gone down so well.

Question Master for the evening was to be Morag’s husband, Phil, who always did a good job. Morag passed Phil a microphone from behind the bar and it made a piercing shrill as he flicked it on. “Good evening Ladies and Gents and welcome to the weekly Bell End View quiz night! As some of you know, first prize tonight is £50, so good luck all. Morag is handing out paper and pens to all the teams as we speak and once she’s done that, I’ll start the quiz!” I took my pen in my hand and then hunched over my paper slightly in the fashion of a child at school, so no-one could copy any of my answers. I was quietly confident that this was going to be my week.

“Round 1 will be on Capital Cities”, said Phil. My eyes lit up. I couldn’t believe it, my best topic. I was determined to get into an early lead and show my rivals I meant business. Phil picked up his clipboard of questions and spoke into the microphone.

 “Ok, question 1. What is the capita ARRHHGGGHHH, what the f….”

He was stopped mid sentence by an almighty smash. There were cries of terror coming from two women sat on a table behind me, near the back entrance which leads to the garden. Looking over my shoulder I saw broken glass littering the tables, chairs and floor that stood in front of what used to be a window. The occupants of the table were not badly hurt; one lady had a deep gouge on her cheek but was otherwise fine. She looked to be making the most of it, milking the fact she was bleeding as a way of getting a bit of attention. The woman and her friends made their way over to the bar and everyone was now beginning to crowd around the area where I was sat to see what had happened. The whole pub had fallen into an eerie silence. The congregation around me reeked of anticipation; they were expecting something else to happen.

“Please remain calm and return to your seating”, announced Phil with slight discomfort in his voice.

No-one listened; they remained focused on the smashed window. Morag had shimmied over to the area to retrieve a brick from the floor. This was obviously the projectile that had been used to cause this damage but who had thrown it? Although it only happened yesterday, I cannot really remember what was going through my head at this point. I think I was more transfixed on watching the actions of others. I remember having a gut feeling that something else was going to happen, and I was right. From out of the dark night sky, a figure moved towards the shattered window. I could only make out the silhouetted outline at first but as they moved nearer, It slowly dawned on me as to who it was. The person in question is a beast of a man, the local nutcase who had previously done time for GBH, armed robbery and necrophilia; a man that I had the misfortune of spending my school years with. Most of the crimes he commits are carried out whilst he’s high on drugs, I’ve spotted him on my binoculars before, sniffing glue and popping pills in the early hours of the morning.

The man who had smashed the window was Axle Strider.

He was back from wherever he’d been, and he didn’t look too happy. His face was contorted with rage; his bulbous eyes with dilated pupils looked full of confusion and anger. Sweat trickled down his bald, veiny head, and it glistened like a disco ball from the light emitted from the pubs fire. His stonewash jeans were tattered and dirty, and they were held onto his lower torso with what looked to be a bungee cord. His white vest was thick with grease and mud and clung to his toned chest like a limpet. Over this he wore a denim jacket, with the sleeves rolled up. It didn’t quite match the shade of his jeans, it appeared to be newer. In one hand he clasped a butchers’ knife. The other was in the air with the middle finger raised.

“What the fook are you lot lookin’ at, eh?” he screamed, as he waved the knife menacingly.

Many people in the pub had moved back now towards the entrance and those that had been around me trying to see what was going on were following suit. I remained in my seat trying to stay calm. In truth I was petrified. Axle used to bully me at school and it was no surprise to me he had turned out like he had. I wanted to keep my head down, try and look away, but something was stopping me. I just had to watch the mentalist.

“Axle, my love, what the bleedin’ Hell are you doing? What do you want? Can I get you a Stella? Why did you smash my window?” Morag was hysterical. She was shaking like a cold Parkinson’s sufferer.

Phil had moved behind the bar and put a reassuring arm around her. She nuzzled into his neck and began to sob.

“Pleeease, please go Axle. Why are you doing this to my pub?” Her words sounded weak and feeble. The corner of Axle’s mouth moved up slightly and he broke into a smile. As he smiled, his chapped top lip bled slightly as the skin broke out from the tight position it had previously been in. He was now starting to climb through the window and no one was doing anything to stop him. I remember Mustang Wally attempting to remonstrate with him and I admire him for that. He walked towards Axle, picking up an empty pint glass on the way. Axle leapt through the window, knocking the remaining shards of glass out from the window frame with his feet as he did so. Wally was in trouble and we all knew it.

“Leave him Wally”, said Phil, almost inaudibly. Wally looked at Phil and then backed away slowly from the window. Axle started to laugh.

“HAHAHA, you utter wimp, you complete and utter wimp” and as he said this he moved towards the bar where we were all gathered. My heart sank as his gaze fixed onto me, once again I was trying to look away but I just couldn’t. I knew he recognised me from somewhere, I was just hoping he wouldn’t figure it out. Many people were pleading with him to leave.

All he would say though was “I am Axle Strider and I will do what I please”. “YOU!” he shouted, prodding me in the chest with his finger. “Who are you? I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”

He was right in my face now, spitting the words out through his clenched teeth. I was so close to him, I could see the patterns of stubble against his rough skin. I could smell alcohol on his breath and I could taste his salty body odour which was raping the air. I was scared and he knew it.

“No, not me, Sir” I said, in the gentlest manner I could. “I think you have me confused with someone else”. It sounded convincing enough in my head.

Axle took a step back and surveyed me up and down.

“No, I do know you. You’re Baggall aren’t you? I knew it! I knew I recognised you’re ugly mug”. He slammed a fist onto the bar in front of me. Morag let out a quiet whimper as if she knew what was about to happen. I looked around me for support but everyone had gone to the front of the pub, packing themselves against the wall. I was on my own. Axle lurched forward again and grabbed me by the collar of my jumper. The force of this sent my flat cap to the floor. He looked like a rabid dog; foaming at the mouth and now shouting an impressive array of obscenities. I was so scared, I couldn’t move. People were shouting, I could see their mouths moving, but I could hear nothing. It was like I was underwater.

I looked into Axle’s eyes and he just looked back blankly; it seemed as if he was looking straight through me. He moved his right arm backwards, his tightly clenched fist pointed down towards me, with numerous sovereign rings ready to pummel my face in. Everything was moving in slow motion. As his fist came through the air towards me, I did the only thing I could. I moved my head to one side and pushed my arm upwards towards his face. As I made contact with his sweaty face, I pushed my index finger deep into his eye, gouging it; twisting my wrist so that I could inflict as much pain as I physically could. Axle let out a terrifying scream in agony and staggered back, releasing his grip on me. He fell to his knees and covered his face with both of his hands. Blood was oozing from his eye socket and spilling down his face. I was in shock. I looked at my hand. I had Axle’s blood spattered over it. I remember the noise coming back into the room at this point. I heard a cry of “What has he done, Arthur’s a dead man now” and it sprung me back into action.

“Take that you bastard!” I leapt forward and kicked upwards against Axle’s chin, sending him backwards onto the floor. He was sprayed out like an upturned woodlouse, disorientated and desperately trying to feel for something to help him to his feet. A nasty looking cut had formed from the kick, a gash so deep you could just see the bone. I knelt onto Axle’s chest and tried to pull his tongue out. It gripped the fleshy end between my thumb and forefinger and tugged downwards. As I did so, Axle’s head jolted forward and met the palm of my other hand, sending him back to the floor.

Blood was pissing out of his face now, he was almost recognisable. I had never got into a rage like this before, the last time I came close was when I was back at school and the bullies used to lock me in the stock cupboard with the school cleaner, who was later convicted as a paedophile. I used to get taunted saying that I had turned him. I suppose it was these memories that came flooding back as I pummelled Axle. Every last sap of energy drained out of me as I laid a relentless barrage of punches, kicks and slaps. After 5 minutes or so, I stood up, sweaty and dazed. Axle lay on the floor like a dead badger on the side of the road. I don’t know why but other people in the pub began to clap. There was cheering as well, “Way to go Arthur, Yeah!” a jubilant Morag exclaimed, “Let’s drag the evil swine outside”.

So we did. It took 4 of us to move his battered body across the floor and into the pub garden. We rolled him into the bushes and retired back to the pub for a celebratory drink. I couldn’t believe what I had done. I was a quivering wreck by this point. I wasn’t sure if it was the excitement of being a hero or the fear of Axle’s revenge. Either way, I was going to try and savour the moment. The night passed quickly without any further incident of note. I was proud to have conquered a few of my childhood demons, with Axle taking to full brunt of this.

I was rewarded with a three-some with Phil and Morag. After closing time, we headed upstairs and into their bedroom, onto the marital bed. Things were by no means awkward and we got straight on with things. I took Morag from behind, quite slowly, whilst she performed fellatio on Phil. It got quite messy. Morag was begging me to come deep inside her at one point, but I wasn’t ready. I squeezed my throbbing shaft at the base and withdrew. The sight of me, member bobbing around proudly, caused Phil to withdraw and spatter Morag’s face with his man fat. She looked like a plasterer’s radio, but she managed to force a smile and lick her lips a little. I was bashing myself off like a little spider monkey at this point, whilst furiously fingering Morag’s baggy snatch. Yes, she was old, but her pert breasts more than made up for the lack of friction I was receiving from her vaginal passage. She had a nice little rug on her as well, like a 70s German porn star.

Phil was watching, semi-awake and semi-erect. I took his place on the bed and lay down. Morag shimmied herself over me and then squatted, releasing a torrent of fluid over my chest, which I massaged into myself. She then lowered herself onto my wand and began to slowly gyrate, leaning forward so I could take a nipple between my teeth. I held onto her arse for support and went at jack hammer speed. Morag wailed loudly and arched her back, her ribcage protruded through her skin. I was ready to unleash my load into her cunny and Morag shouted, “I’m coming Mr.Baggall you fucker” as she climaxed. I won’t go into the finer details of last night, but I sure did enjoy myself. As for Axle Strider; I hope he never has the nerve to show his face around here again.

AB#4– The Man with the Dodecahedron Shaped Head

7 Aug
It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to write as I’ve been busy helping the police with some of their more important enquiries. Believe you me; you’ll be shocked when you hear what I have to say about my ‘friend’ Barry, known around the town as ‘The Man with the dodecahedron shaped head’.
He’s also now known as a dirty zoophile.
Barry has always been a bit of a quirky fellow. Firstly let me tell you about his head, it really is a grotesque affair; weirdly shaped with bumps and lumps coming out from every angle. It’s veiny, pale and has a texture similar to that of ET; half leather, half eczema. When Barry walks, his huge head flops about carefree, like his neck has given up trying to support it. When he speaks it’s painful to listen to. A long monotonous drone followed by a thirty second stutter and spittle. And that’s just him saying his name. Not only this, he has a habit of hording anything and everything. He’ll collect rubbish from around the town and hoard it under his bed, he’ll defecate into old lunchboxes and put them in his freezer and he’s started to collect dead animals; cats, squirrels, mice, pretty much anything he sees that hasn’t got a pulse.
 
 
Having said this, I’ve always liked Barry. We met at the village fete last year where I was running a ‘Splat the Rat’ stall. Barry was my last customer that day and my only winner. He refused to use the rounders bat I offered him, instead opting to smash the ‘rat’ with his bulbous forehead. I gave him his prize, a signed photo of Dave Benson-Phillips and we hit it off from there. Since then, we have met up at least once a week, normally round my house as I find the putrid smell that lurks around his pretty unbearable.
 
 
As much as I like Barry and get on with him, it is often difficult. The public aren’t too kind when they see Barry, and treat him like a modern day John Merrick. Abuse is hurled at him wherever he walks, and being a friend of his, I often get caught in the crossfire. I’ve often seen Barry chase after local youths that have called him a freak, armed with only a leather belt and the angriest grimace on his face you can imagine. His head, although slowing him down, can make a handy weapon. Friday nights are the worse, and I’ve taken to staying in on my own. “Oi! Dodecahedron head you ugly twat”, are the most frequent cries from drunken revelers. They like to poke him and laugh at his voice. I remember one man describing Barry’s groans like that of ‘Brian Blessed’s voice, only with a megaphone, whilst battering a baby seal with all his might’.
Anyway, the events of the last few days have put a lot of things into perspective for me. The most important things I’ve learnt from what has happened is never make friends with a weirdo, never talk to a freak and never ever trust a man with a dodecahedron shaped head. The reason?  Almost all of them are dirty zoophiles. I’ve learnt from my lesson and I hope by writing down the events of the last couple of days, whoever reads this will too.
 
 
Last Thursday there was a knock at my door. I remember being a bit angered as I was playing Subbuteo against myself and actually winning for a change. I opened the door and smiling at me was Barry’s wide frog-like mouth.
 
 
“Arthur”, he said, foaming at the corner of his mouth slightly, “Fancy coming round to mine for a bite to eat?”
 
 
“I’ll pass on the food, but yeah, I can come round for a bit. Let me get my slippers on Barry and I’ll be right with you”, I replied.
 
 
Barry’s eyes lit up, I was the only person in the village that gave him any sort of time at all, he knew if I had have turned him down, he would have been forcing his faeces into Tupperware all afternoon, alone and upset. We set off from mine at about 12.30 and Barry’s house is normally a 5 minute stroll from mine, sometimes slightly longer if his head is more swollen than usual. However, Barry wasn’t intent on going straight to his house, he wanted to go via the park as “The fresh air helps my facial skin”, I remember him saying.
Now, you might not think this is strange, especially as it’s coming from the mouth of the dodecahedron shaped headed man. But, if I was to say that I had seen Barry sniffing the grass in the park where a couple of pigeons had copulated just a couple of days before, you’d have a slight air of suspicion about you. I did too. I knew this type of behavior wasn’t normal, and seeing someone with Barry’s looks displaying such behavior, only amplifies the strangeness of the situation.
 
 
We entered the park. There is a gravelly path which cuts through the middle of it, grass on either side of it, with a medium sized playground on one side next to a pond.”Can we, can we?!” Barry said in the manner of a drunken toddler. He was jumping up and down on the spot, head flailing about wildly and arm pointing at the park. I agreed we could stay for a while but being a grown up, and very mature man, I didn’t want to hang around for too long. I don’t want to dwell on the finer details, but there were about 3 ducks and 2 swans on the pond and two dogs with their owners near the slide.
Barry made his way over to the swings and brushed the tops of each seat gently with his hand as he walked passed. I sat on the first one I came too, but Barry looked about carefully before settling onto his swing, as if he was looking for a good position. A good position for what, I didn’t know at this point, I could tell though he wanted to be able to see the dogs playing, and birds swimming.
 
 
In a way I thought this was quite nice. I was thinking of Barry reminiscing about the time when he was young, being in the park with his parents, who are now deceased. I imagined Barry going back to an age where prejudices didn’t exist, and children played together and got on with each other without any problems. Barry has long been without anyone. He would come to the park and go into almost a trance like state. I visualized him in my head, holding hands with other children and singing ring-a-ring-a-roses. Little did I know, his thoughts were far from what I had envisaged. He was a pervert. A dirty, boulder headed pervert. And I was going to catch him out.
 
 
We stayed on those swings for about half an hour before I asked Barry if we could leave.
 
 
“Barry?”……”Barry?”…..”BARRRYYYY??!!” I had to bellow in his face. A small pool of drool had formed on the soft tarmac by his foot, not unusual for Barry, but there seemed to be a bit more than usual. He’s eyes stay transfixed on the two dogs.
 
 
“Let’s go” I said as I stood up from the swing. Barry followed from behind, almost hunched over. I thought it was the weight of his head, now I know the dirty secret he was trying to hide. Looking back to this moment, I should have seen the small bulge in Barry’s groin region, but like anyone that has ever seen Barry will tell you; it’s very hard to take you’re gaze away from his head.
 
 
Upon arriving at Barry’s house, he ushered me through to his living room. Sweeping a bird carcass and numerous empty packets of peanuts from the sofa, he offered me a seat. I brushed a few of the remaining feathers off the tattered upholstery and sat down.
 
 
“Would you like a drink of tea?” Barry spluttered.
 
 
“Please Barry; that would be nice”, I said, hiding my now growing fear about his mental state.
 
 
As soon as he was out of the room, I began looking for something. I didn’t know what, I just wanted evidence; something solid to go on. Something that would either prove me wrong and set my mind at rest, or would capture any dirty deeds Barry had been carrying out, and send the dodecahedron headed freak to prison.
I looked behind cushions, lifted carpets, opened draws and moved furniture. I was moving frantically but at the same time quietly, hoping Barry wouldn’t hear me as he could turn into an aggressive beast at the drop of a hat. I heard the click of the kettle as it finished boiling and knew I didn’t have long. Scampering around on my hands and knees, I spotted a silver object pushed firmly under the tight gap under the sofa. I snatched at it but it was wedged quite firm. Using the strength in my left wrist, I managed to push the sofa upwards, revealing a brand new laptop. I heard the clinking now of the spoons hitting the mugs as Barry stirred the tea. I stayed crouched by on the floor for what seemed like an eternity, but in truth was only about 30 seconds. As Barry walked towards the room, I decided to leave the laptop where it was and play it calm.
 
 
“My shoelace was undone” I said as Barry walked into the room.
 
 
He nodded and smiled as he handed me my tea, fortunately not noticing I had slippers on. His baggy eyelids probably played a part in this. We sat and talked for about 20 minutes. I was of a nervous disposition, sweating quite profusely, but Barry being Barry didn’t notice a thing. In my head I was trying to conjure a plan. How could I leave the house, armed with the laptop, without Barry noticing? Plans came into my head but I deemed them far too risky. There was only one thing for it.
 
 
“Take that you moron”. I flung my hot tea into the face of Barry and he yet out a loud shrieking cry, covering his face with his hands and falling to his knees. I lifted the sofa and grabbed the laptop making a run for the door. I could see Barry out of the corner of my eye starting to stand so I upped my pace and bolted out of the door, slamming it shut behind me. As I ran home, huge thoughts of doubt crossed my mind; what if Barry just liked animals? What if he wasn’t abusing them and I had just assaulted an innocent man?
 
 
I got home and went locked the door behind me. I shut every curtain in my house and made my way into the spare bedroom upstairs. The laptop whirred slowly as it started up, my heart was beating my against my rib cage so hard I could hear it. Once fully started up I began searching through the ‘My Documents’ folder.
There it was, a folder called ‘Fun’. I stopped for a deep breath and then opened it. What I saw will stay with me forever; images of Barry violating an array of animals. There were a couple of pictures of him fisting miniature horses and naked in bed with goats and sheep, all of whom I recognized from the local farm. There were more pictures of him, naked from the waist down, fellating various breeds of dogs. They looked happy, but you could see it in their eyes how uncomfortable they really were. There were hundreds of images of Barry receiving oral sex from birds. In one, what looked like a duck had its beak stuffed so full with Barry’s swollen member, his eyes were beginning pop out. In another picture, Barry was bent over with a live kipper dangling from his puckered anus, whilst Barry fingered a squirrel. It had its bushy tail tied upwards with a ribbon which had the other end attached to the ceiling. I’ll never forget the confused look in the squirrels face.
I felt sick but felt I had to look on. The next pictures I found were of Barry masturbating furiously over two chickens whilst smaller birds, possibly starlings, ate bird seed from the dents in Barry’s head. Barry had his tongue out, obviously enjoying the moment. There were more. One looked as though it was taken around Christmas time as there were decorations up. A badger was lay spread-eagled on the mould ridden floor, a mop protruding from its rear end. Barry was kissing it on the head, taking the photo with an outstretched arm. I started to look at pictures of Barry sodomising a tortoise when suddenly a thought hit me. Had Barry been violating and then killing these animals? It would explain the corpses in his house.
 
 
A small bit of acidic sick shot up my esophagus and into my throat, so I gulped it back down and sat in the darkened room; laptop still whirring quietly. I slammed it shut and started to sob gently. I let out tears for all the animals I had seen in those photos and the hundreds of others that probably met there untimely death to Barry, the man with the dodecahedron shaped head.
 
 
Gathering my thoughts, I went to the police station. I handed them the laptop and explained what had happened that afternoon and what I had seen Barry up to in previous weeks.
The next couple of days were traumatic to say the least. I had to give evidence against Barry and the local town found out what he had been up to. Phrases such as ‘Dodecahedron Dog Fiddler’ and ‘Freaky Mental Animal Sucker’ were daubed in graffiti onto Barry’s house.
 
 
I was proud with what I had done. Yes, I had lost a friend, but the man is crazy. I’ve found the locals to be a lot more friendly with me as well, more so than usual. I even received a £10 book voucher as a reward for putting Barry behind bars. There is a downside to all this though and that is the mental images that will scar my mind until the day I die. I hope all the animals that died may rest in peace, especially the miniature horse with the dreadlocks; I cannot ever imagine how he must have felt.
 
 
Apparently, Barry has tried to hang himself twice since his arrest, but on both attempts, his head proved too heavy and the noose snapped. He’s even tried to tar me with the same brush, saying I had intimate relations with a goat. What Barry doesn’t realize Is, that what I practice is a sport, not a sick fetish. I hope he rots in his cell, which, given the head size, may take a while…

AB#3 – Spying on the Pikeys

7 Aug
Two days ago a group of around 16 travelling people, housed in just two caravans, moved into the field behind my house. I kept a close eye on them as I know they have a reputation for robbing, vandalism, physical and mental abuse, AIDs spreading, hosting dog fights and not washing. Here is my account of what I witnessed yesterday:
 
 
8am: I was woken rather abruptly by shouting coming from behind my house. On looking out of the window I saw two large caravans parked up in the farmers’ field. Numerous flea ridden dogs were barking at one another, kids were throwing stones at cars as they drove past and there were adults sat idly around smoking, and drinking strong lager. I also witnessed a 30-something year old lady squatting over a bucket and releasing a torrent of what I can only describe as ‘gravy’. The Pikeys had officially landed.
 
 
8.10am: I had to duck down quickly as one of the main pikey men saw me spying. I burnt my forehead on the radiator and had to apply a damp flannel. I held this in place with a bulldog clip attached to my fringe so I had both hands at the ready, should I need to use them. The children were called by the elder lot for breakfast and they sat round a fire under a gazebo to eat.
 
 
8.20am: The gazebo caught alight and in turn set fire to one of the older, slower dogs. 3 men and a teenage boy threw the burning remnants of both the dog and the gazebo over the fence of a neighbour who lives 2 doors down from me. Luckily, it landed in the pond. I went down for breakfast; poached egg on toast.
 
 
8.50am: I saw two pikey girls aged around 16 jacking up behind one of the caravans. One appeared to have a small goatee beard. I wondered if they could be part of a circus. My thoughts were interrupted with the sight of one dog tearing a rabbit to shreds, whilst the rest of the pikey clan whooped and cheered with joy. The rabbit was then skinned and given to the children to play with. They used it as a football. One boy kicked it with such force that the rabbit’s liver shot out and landed on the roof of one of the caravans.
 
 
9.35am: Numerous beer cans littered the field now. I contemplated phoning the police but thought I’d observe a little longer. 3 of the younger children decided to drop their trousers and bare their backsides to me. All 3 had worms; I could see them dangling free quite clearly, even at a distance. One of the younger pikeys pulled one free and hurled it into my back garden. It seemed to stretch out as it flew through the air.
 
 
9.45am: I moved into the back garden to get a closer look. I have a nice peep hole in the back fence. Music was now blaring from the make shift camp site, it sounded like that new rave techno shit all the kids seem to be listening to nowadays. I accidentally trod on the tapeworm. It was slippery and of a rubbery texture. It looked like a cross between a condom and a jellyfish but smelt like Swindon. I nearly vomited but managed to contain it which caused a burning sensation in my stomach.
 
 
10.00am: The lady who I had previously seen relieving herself in a bucket ran over to one of her friends, who was sat upright on the floor, with her back against the wheel of the caravan. She had a distressed look on her face and was panting and sweating quite alarmingly. She had a rather nice red and yellow chequered dress on though, with a dandelion in her hair.
 
 
10.03am: Said lady gave birth and followed through at the same time. The dogs began the clean-up operation whilst the men opened a can of lager each in celebration. The sound of Whigfield now filled the air.
 
 
10.15am: As all the family crowded round the newest member of their pikey clan, the two biggest men, both in their late forties, overweight and with lumberjack style shirts on, made their way inside one of the caravans. They appeared a few minutes later carrying something wrapped in a blanket. The blanket was put onto the grass and unfurled, revealing a small, disfigured cripple boy. The young lad smiled at the baby, and then pulled a tuft of hair from his own head and a tooth from his mouth before crawling into a small puddle. His legs looked like they were fused together, like some sort of freakish mermaid. He had sores and welts covering his scaly skin.
 
 
10.25am: Some of the other children began prodding the freak with bamboo canes. I admit I laughed a little when one of them gouged his eye! This was the highlight of my morning as not much else happened for the rest of it, only foul language and the consumption of more alcohol. I made my way back inside to play scalextric and make an artichoke sandwich. I could still hear them from my front room, so put on my home made video; ‘A tribute to Linda Barker’, in which I’ve edited together all of her best bits. I try to watch it at least once a day if I can.
 
 
2.00pm: I must have dozed off. I awoke to find I had soiled myself but I could also smell burning. I searched for the source of this smell and through the glass pane in my front door could see a small fire. I opened the door and stamped manically on the fire to put it out. Eventually I succeeded. I was about to go back inside when two pikey children decided to pop up from behind my front wall and hurl faeces at me. I cowered behind my wheely bin until they had run out of ammunition, the last of which cannoned off the wall behind me and landed, still steaming, next to my shoe.
 
 
2.10pm: I ran back inside my house and went back to the upstairs window. Two cars were now in the field, a blue Austin Maestro and silver Vauxhall Cavalier. I couldn’t see if they had tax discs from where I was, but I doubt they did. There was also a frail donkey,a small tent had been set up, and a naked man in a wizards hat. This disturbed me somewhat. I could hear him shouting “Come on children; who wants to play with my wand?”
 
 
2.15pm: The naked wizard man disappeared inside the tent with 2 children; a girl and a boy, whilst their parents looked on. I assumed wizard man to be a relative. A bonfire was lit and most of the other pikeys started throwing deodorant cans onto this. As they exploded, the kids were jumping out of the way. I noticed the small freak laughing manically under one caravan.
 
 
2.45pm: The bearded lady also gave birth and the previous ritual was carried out. Wizard man offered his congratulations by knocking his helmet across the chops of the mum thrice, before disappearing back into his tent. One pikey, who I presumed to be the dad, lit a roll up and nodded in appreciation. The mum looked tired from giving birth but exuberant. Her dress was tattered and her withered breasts could be clearly seen. I took a couple of polaroids.
 
 
3.30pm: One of the teenage boys turned up on a tractor, obviously stolen from the farmers’ yard. A few of the younger girls started throwing sanitary towels at him so he chased them around the campsite, narrowly missing the crippled child who was now rolling around on the ground, wrapped in his duvet. He reminded me of a large grub worm as he moved about.
 
 
4.04pm: Most of the children were now on the rampage, pulling down the fences that separate the gardens from the field. These were being used as firelight. An elderly gentleman from up the road went to remonstrate but was forced back into his house by one of the dads, who picked up a rake and began thrusting it aggressively towards him. I heard the smashing of at least two windows and I was very nervous that my property may get damaged as well. I decided to call the police, who confirmed to me that they had already received several complaints and were on their way already.
 
 
4.30pm: On their way my arse! The police finally arrived to the field which was now burnt, littered and covered in putrid mess. I was surprised as the pikeys moved on with minimum fuss. Initially, a few glass bottles were hurled at the police cars, but when the police retaliated and shot the wizard man in the knee cap, the pikeys’ fun was over. Unfortunately, so was mine. Whilst I was scared at the thought of these people entering me and my house, it was exciting to watch, and I got some great photos of the occasion. I still hope they never come back though, they’re like human rats.

AB#2– Stalking Mary

7 Aug

After my near escape from almost certain death last week I have decided to take up a new hobby; stalking. This I feel is a lot safer for myself, and will give me the added buzz that my life is so desperately lacking at the moment. My target is to be Mary O’Connor over the road, a 40-year-old woman that lives alone. I have chosen her for a few reasons.

 

Firstly, as already mentioned, she lives alone; so this will make my hobby a whole lot easier and thus more enjoyable. Secondly, she is quite decadent. Small in stature, nice little but perfectly formed breasts, with nipples like raspberries, and eyes so deep; sheer beauty. Thirdly, I think I can get away with it for a bit longer with her as we are already sort of friends: I once threw my frog-themed wellington boot into her garden and she spoke to me.

 

I have decided to tell you how I am to go about this task, and in the near future will let you know how I have got on. Trust me; it will be a lot of fun. My first plan is to act like I am obsessed with the same things as Mary, but in a fun way. For example, I am going to start conversation with her every morning when she collects her milk and I collect mine from the doorstep. I will ask her what her favourite food, singers and hobbies are, and state that mine are the same. Once I have found this information, I can learn more about each one using the internet and then blurt out random facts the next day.

 

I can see it now; “Ah yes Mary, Hootie and the Blowfish are my favourites to – were you there in 1987 as well?” I’ll give this a week or so and then start copying the way she dresses (I still have my mothers’ clothes in the attic). I’ll copy the way she styles her hair, and perhaps even her little idiosyncrasies.

 

My phone will probably be my new best friend for the next month or so. I plan to ring Mary. A lot. If she doesn’t answer, I plan to keep ringing her back until she does, leaving a message on the answer machine every time. I have seen this on both films, and soaps and looks a good tactic to use. I’ll start off with things such as, “Hi it’s me, just seen something that reminds me of you, ring me back”, and get progressively worse, maybe becoming tetchy and angry with each message I leave. I plan to end with, “Do you hate me?? What have I done wrong, Arrrghghhhh!!” and leave an almighty, deafening scream. When she does eventually answer, I’ll act like nothing is wrong, and that maybe she is the strange one for believing I was angry.

 

The next stage will be to make random appearances at places she is at. I’ll follow her car to local supermarkets and accidentally bump into her, “Fancy seeing you here!!”. I will attempt to find out when and where she is going out for dinner with friends, and book myself a table in the same restaurant. For added stalker value, I may even wear the same dress as her. I know she visits her Mother on a Sunday, so I plan to become her mother’s gardener on this day. At this point she may start to get worried. If I can keep up with this for maybe two or three weeks, I’ll begin to get a bit more aggressive in my approach to stalking Mary. I already know where she works, but I will find out about those people she works with. Then, when in conversation with her, I’ll make snide comments about them that will freak her out.

 

For example, “You know Bill in your office? I’d love to see a lorry reverse over him, and his rotting corpse be scavenged by crows. Sorry, did I say that out loud?” I’ll follow this up with a violent shake, and my best evil laugh. The final part of my stalking expedition will be the abuse in a public place. When Mary has maybe sussed me out, or is definitely worried by my presence, I’ll follow her everywhere, getting worse with the insults. I can start off lightly with phrases like ‘liar’, ‘cheat’, and then move onto ‘baby killer’, ‘husband murdering bitch’, etc. This will be fun, I am sure. I’ll let you know how it goes.

 

Rot in Hell, Mary, you fat whore

AB#1 – Stuck in the House

7 Jul

Today is Thursday and I have decided to pen my latest diary entry just in case I die. You see i’m trapped, trapped in my own home and have been without food and water for almost 76 hours. I even refuse to masturbate because this will take up vital energy (I did slip up yesterday, although this provided valuable nutrition).

 

It all happened so fast. One minute I was watching Super Nanny on the TV, whilst simultaneously practising my extreme ironing/bestiality combo hobby. This involves ironing, using an ironing board and iron, in an unusual stance, pose, position or place, whilst taking sexual revenge on an animal that has upset you somewhat. I think you can see where this is going.

 

I had one foot on my sofa, one on the floor. The ironing board was in the same position, forming a perfect 45-degree angle between itself and the floor. In my right hand was the iron, not plugged in of course because this would just be stupid. Straddling the ironing board was a 6-year-old goat, white/grey in colour, and wriggling like you do when you accidentally inject steroids into ones scrotum. My left hand was venturing up the goats sphincter, and I was opening and closing my fingers like a starfish.

 

After a few grunts, and loud squeal noises, the goat had calmed down a bit, so I took the opportunity to try and milk one of his little udders into my favourite Thermos flask, Thundercats in design. “This will make the little bastard angry”, I thought to myself. I gripped his rubber like teat in my mouth, steadying myself by leaning against the ironing board, and careful not to let go of the iron. If I had, I would have had to disqualify myself (and I don’t think I could hold urine in for that long ever again).

 

This is where it gets a bit hazy, and quite messy.  I yanked down on the teat with my mouth, and aimed it towards the open flask on the floor. The goat took quite an offence to the fact that I was pulling at what is essentially his nipple. Milky fluid squirted out onto the carpet, missing my flask by a matter of inches. As part of it hit my slipper, I lost concentration for a split second and lost my tight grip slightly. The goat slid down the ironing board, my arm in his arse was now up to the elbow. A piercing shrill filled the room and I felt a painful kick into my chest. My iron holding hand flew backwards, hitting me on the head as I fell, and smashing a small ornament of Cyndi Lauper as it hurtled towards the floor.

 

The sheer force of the goats kick sent me spiralling backwards, and freed the goat to make his escape. Up he leapt, almost salmon like, and bolted through the door of my living room, dragging the ironing board behind him. I heard another crash as he managed to free himself from the board, possibly with a wild shrug, I wasn’t sure, and the door closed behind them both.

 

My eyes closed at this point. I was in pain, my head spinning, ribs aching, and bonar diminishing. I awoke 2 hours later to an eerie silence, with a puddle of blood and goats milk around my head. I surveyed the carnage around my and almost broke down in tears.
“Better go catch the bugger”, I thought to myself, and went to push the door open. It was jammed. I pushed a bit harder, still nothing. I took one step back and leapt forward, shoulder first into the door, but alas it did not open.

 

Squatting down, I peered through the keyhole and saw what the problem was. My ironing board had become wedged between the door and hall wall, trapping me in. I started to panic for I knew that it would be impossible to cry for help. Not many people live in Siddlesworth anymore and my phone had been disconnected.
The next 24 hours were pure blood, sweat and fears. I pushed, bashed, threw every possession in sight at the door, but still nothing. I bawled at the thought of the goat telling his friends and them coming round to get revenge. I took up a foetal like position in the corner of the room and rocked, sobbing to myself.

 

As a day passed I became more hungry and thirsty. I had sucked as much milk from the carpet at possible, and eaten a cactus that I had in a nice pot next to the TV. I had even contemplated licking the moss that grew in the damp corner of the room. Many hours were spent looking at myself in the mirror. I didn’t feel ashamed, the manoeuvre I had attempted was one of the hardest, I just felt a bit silly.

 

That was 75 hours, 43 minutes ago, and now I am worried. I still haven’t worked a way of getting out. My nails are worn and brittle from scratching at walls, and do not allow myself to sleep, as the nightmares are far too scary. I am starting to wish I had have taken my father’s advice. When i was a youngster, probably 10 or 11, my dad would let me watch him perform extreme ironing/bestiality moves in the back garden. I had seen him perform this trick only once in his short life ( he died at the age of 37, on stage in Camden, London, playing bugle for the Merry Feltchers). His trick however was in the safety of the garden. I remember him using a polypropylene rope to tie the goat steady, and the trampoline was used instead of a sofa. He looked at me before he started, winked and said, “Arthur, if you ever try this, always do exactly as I do, never different”.

 

I’m sorry Dad, sorry for ignoring you. I fear I will waste away in the next few days and I leave this behind as a message to all ironing enthusiasts as a warning. I leave this behind as a message to all animal haters to kill goats, and I leave this behind as a message to Cyndi Lauper to say, “Boys wanna have fun as well”.

 

Until next time, if there is one, Goodbye diary, Goodbye World (perhaps)

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