Oncle Gutz Part I

Somewhere over the yellow rainbow and just outside Berlin Feb 1945

Two surgeons worked tirelessly on the burnt out husk of SS major Oncle Shultz, he had been rushed to Hospital after an incendiary bomb from an RAF Lancaster had landed on the orphanage at which he was trying to recruit Hitler youth. These were desperate times, the third Reich was in full retreat, from the east came face eating Russians bent on revenge, from the west a gigantic Allied war machine the size of Brian Blessed’s face steam rolled towards the fatherlands interior. The German army was forced into enlisting old men and young boys to bolster their depleted ranks hence Shultz's mission. The two surgeons looked at one and other “Zist does not look gudt Herr Jupiter” commented Herr Lips; he was the master surgeon at Berlin general. Many wounds and ailments had passed his weary eyes during the course of the war but none more severe than the wounds suffered by Oncle Shultz who lay before them. “Zee Vounds are tremendously bad Lips, it would require many donors of both skin and organ to repair ze damage on zist one”

At that moment a shadowy figure entered the operating theatre, small circular glasses abounded on his pie like face, a thin prickly moustache adorned his upper lip the man carried a dark and assertive presence. “I am SS Reich’s Marshall Himmler, How is he doing” The two surgeons looked up at the inquisitive Himmler, “Not gudt”

Himmler ran his gloved finger along what remained of Shultz’s Face, “Hmm I see he’s in a bad vay, However as nothing is impossible I expect him to make a full recovery, he’s second in command on ze eastern front and a key member of ze Nazi party. If he dies I will personally gas your families, bury them in a mass grave, then unleash the Luftwaffe on said grave, I will then exhume them, gas them a second time for good measure before burning them in my mobile incinerator/holiday home, do I make my self clear” The two surgeons began busily working on the dying Shultz.

Himmler abruptly left the operating theatre.

“Christ Jupiter we have to save this cretin” Jupiter Grabbed Lisp’s face, “I have an idea Herr Lips, Go to the morgue and retrieve all those killed in tonight’s orphanage strike, there should be enough organs skin and bone to graph the Shizac out of him, oh and gather up what ever went tits up in ze maternity ward tonight, its our only chance, one last thing Lips the zoo is only two blocks away retrieve what you can”

Only taking breaks for vomiting and prayers alike, the two surgeons worked tirelessly throughout the night, after using seven, two year olds to reform Shultz’s torso, one nine year olds bladder to rebuild his throat and voice box, and three and a half stillborns to form its face, the exhausted and sickened surgeons stood back and doted on there creation, Ventilators powered its infant/poodle lungs, a dialysis machine moved blood and plasma about its body, tubes fed nutrients and fluids into its newly formed dog stomach and around the rest of its multi animal/infant body. The only world Gutz knew for the foreseeable future would be one of pipes, iron lungs and the watchful gaze of the two mortally ashamed surgeons. Although technically alive this hideous creation was in the balance. The two surgeons approached the new Shultz, disinfectant and iodine stained its patch work skin yellow, the beasts form was like that of a bin bag full of swan guts free falling from a good sized zeppelin over Munich. “What have we done Lips” Herr Lips placed his hand on Jupiter’s shoulder and whispered into his ear “we have saved our families Herr Jupiter”

“But at what cost Lips, we make Josef Mengele look like fucking Walt Disney”

Himmler sat stroking the bag of infant/stray animal guts that now made up SS major Oncle Shultz, Himmler pinned an iron cross to the fleshy patch that was its chest. Two eyes of varying size opened slowly both focused in opposite directions they were blood red and drowsy. The mouth of this creature began to move, apparently trying too speaking, but no sound came forth. “His avake, Get me some doctors dam it” bellowed Himmler, “Dam it your alive” SS major Oncle Shultz tried to focus on Himmler, in a raspy high pitched squeal/hiss Shultz asked a question that would ultimately change his destiny “were am I, what place of man is this, who am I” Himmler shot from his chair and gave a quick Nazi salute “you my love are Oncle Babygutz” The sack off offal vomited and began weeping, Herr lips and Jupiter ran over to the bed and sedated Babygutz, As his eyes closed he could see Himmler Laughing unaccountably,

When he regained full consciousness several months later the war was over, the hospital was deserted all but for the old and infirm, he was alone and unsure as to just what the last few months had been all about. Oncle babygutz allowed his stinging eyes to adjust as he assessed what he could of his war torn and surgeon tampered 'body'. His two legs seemed to be mere inch thick branches bound to Lima legs hanging out of an uneven sphere of infant offal and skin that was no more than a foot and a half across. Babygutz would have screamed in remorse if it was for the fact he had to regulate his breathing so he didn’t foul himself from the arsehole inconveniently re-located above his left eye. Painfully Herr Babygutz hoisted himself out of the hospital bed he had been comatose in, for what period of time he could not gauge. He scanned the other beds, most contained those dead or dying, abandoned because their wounds were so confusing it would perplex even the greatest jet engine designers of the time.

Uncle Babygutz did not know the word 'failure' or 'quit' this wasn’t just due to his harsh SS training program of polar bear disembowelment and drug cocktails injected into their faces while doing press-ups over the mass graves they had to dig for their families. Oh no, it was because this was the nature of the redeemed uncle Babygutz, and clearly despite his ungodly transformation it had not been lost during his life saving mutilation. So with all the grit and drive he had always shown in service of the fatherland, he boosted his stinging sack self out of the bed and onto the syringe littered hospital floor. Seven hours of crawling through the catacombs of the Berlin hospice Babygutz finally saw a wheelchair beyond his beady bloodshot eyed gaze. He sat in the seat exhausted from his ordeal. It was a miracle of Hitler’s misspent funding on medical research that he was still alive. The small problem of Babygutz' chimp grafted arms with two female fingers stitched to both of them not being able to reach the wheels of his chair was soon fixed by inserting mice into the wheelchairs tire tubing. The sight before him as he left the hospital made his dog heart nearly stop eight times in his chest-face. Russian tanks and troops were sprawling across the Berlin streets. It wasn’t the Berlin Oncle Babygutz had left behind, and as it dawned on his sweet bile stained face the war didn’t end in Germanys favour, a stream of blood rolled down his cheeks in an attempt to emote sadness.

Oncle B decided it was time to leave this war strewn country as soon as possible, being a high ranking member of the waffen ss Babygutz knew he would eventually be brought to task over his part in war crimes most foul.
His Multi Mammal organza of a body was a double edged bayonet, on one blood stained fist it afforded him a new identity on the other he would never be more than a bag of toddler guts and dog lungs in a world he no longer knew.
His rodent powered chariot of limited mobility rode further into the depths of the catacombs; the Allies had not yet found this labyrinth of sleazy technical bishop halls. All around him Nazi officials were burning documents and original scripts and blueprints for shows such as ‘Bagpuss’ ‘Rainbow’ and the ‘Magic Roundabout’. He eventually reached the bowels of this maze of mazes. The wheel chair bound soldier of misfortune sat before the heavily armoured doors of the Reich’s Bank slush fund safe/penthouse bunker, inside was five tones of stolen Nazi gold and god knew what else, he knew the encrypted entrance pass, But without arms of suitable quality and length he couldn’t reach the enigma spindles attached to the doors locking mechanism. Looking around in desperation he caught sight of a lightly wounded officer necking a bottle of Vodka. “You there, herr Oberfurher, help me with this door at vonce” The drunkard officer looked up but could only see what he thought was an empty wheel chair a few yards in front of him with its back to him, However the chair was rocking from side to side as if possessed by George Formby. Then suddenly the most horrid excuse for a face ever recorded reared its self up and looked directly at him, the terrified officers bowels let loose in a torrent of brown slurry, “My God what are you”. Oncle Baby guts went berserk, “insolent bastard! never perform bodily functions in front of a higher rank” screamed BG whilst looking the terrified solider up and down in a condescending fashion, in his frantic thrashing about the old gut sack overturned his wheelchair trapping him under the great contraption. The young officer cautiously approached Gutz. Slowly lifting the wheel chair up of the now stunned and silenced bag of offal, what was revealed made him turn away in disgust and disillusion at medical science, he could feel bile rising in his gullet, he reluctantly looked once more at the gibbering bin bag of offal that was now staring directly back at him, even though the beast had a miss match of owl and chimp thigh muscles in place of normal human facial muscles it still managed to have a look of defiance and sadness slapped across what you may want to call its torso/face.

“What is your name?” Barked Baby, The young officer replied “Kurk Feltz” Babygutz rolled over onto his back, staring at the ceiling with a great vividness in his eyes as if communing with a greater power; he again turned to look at Kurk, “I shall call you Das Afrika for no reason what’s so ever”

The newly dubbed Das afrika, lifted his mutated superior into his wheelchair. Trying not to drop the constantly healing/breaking bag that made up his body. A task made difficult as he had to shut out from his mind the seagull tears and plasma-like ooze that was spilling onto his combat shy hands. Oncle noticed this, "I can tell from your silky texture you’ve not killed more than 2 small villages using Lugar whips" Afrika looked down in shame. "it is true sir, I was recruited only 6 months ago. I am only trained in husky smashing and sexing tanks".

Babygutz looked at the floor in disarray as if too say 'just my seal clubbing luck'. With a gesture from his cartilage, Afrika proceeded to open the safe doors. The two stood in awe as the 8 times titanium re-enforced security saloon door swung open to reveal the gaping dark maw of the cavernous room before them. After groping around in the darkness for a while Afrika found the light switch, the room light up revealing the sheer scale of this five star bomb shelter. Not only did it have one quarter designated for the big 'H' himself it also sported octopus leather recliners which sat on rugs made from gypsy skin and lampshades made from owl bone and the blonde hair shaved from the heads of Germany’s preferred recruits, it was a sight to behold. But just across the way from that was an area purely designated for Hitler’s personal strippers/scientists, who clearly had worked around the clock to harness new modes of energy and resources whilst also ensuring Hitler had at least a semi-on at all times.
Babygutz ran over one of the many corpses still present after the last cyanide new years party held here, unlike the satisfying crunch Oncle expected one in particular let out a meek whimper.

"we have  a survivor down here Afrika, come here at vonce" Afrika ran over to see the malnutrition stiletto wearing brainiac sprawled out before Babygutz, desperately reaching his mouth towards Babyguts' leaking piss in a an attempt to quench a lack of hydration he had clearly suffered.

Afrika slapped away the dying mans face from Babygutz leaking crotch "away with you cur, this man is a general!!" Oncle turned to Afrika and spoke to him harshly through his bulbous lips "stand down private, let the man have his thirst quenched"

Afrika did as such letting the awkward and questionable scenario continue on for far longer than his memory would like to recall.....

After half an hour calf suckling the strip of fallopian tube that constituted Oncle Gutz’s ‘gut stick’ for much needed sustenance, the revered doctor Cyberwhore came round to full consciousness. Slowly his weary eyes focused upon Oncle BG whom was standing ‘hands’ on goose hips with what can only be described as a seriously malign smile upon his wheezing chest face. “Vot happened here” screamed Baby, The high heeled professor recoiled in fear at what stood before him. “what… who…er..” Baby guts began to secrete more fluids, Dr Cyberwhore tried to stand but his emaciated legs failed him and he landed face first in a pool of Bismarck diesel that had leaked from the bag of gutz that was now standing above him. “I know what happened here! The experiments the gold, the puppy eating!” The professor looked at the ground in shame, “Look at me good Dr Cyberwhore it is I SS major Oncle Shultz” Cyberwhore adjusted his spectacles, “My god vot happened Herr general” Baby guts shimmied over to the fallen Dr, and placed his chapped and swollen giraffe and moose lips to the poised ear of Cyberwhore, “the dammed RAF bombed the Cats and Dogs out off an orphanage I was recruiting Hitler youth at, lets just say I should of died that night, but our good friend Himmler decided to try a multi ‘veal donor’ experiment there and then, the rest is sexed up history, Now I want three things from you good Dr, one million Reich Marks worth of gold deposited into a Swiss bank account under the name of Herr Oncle Baby Guts. A revamped nuclear powered wheel chair void of troublesome mice and lastly I want you to place me into the Cryogenics machine, set the date for 1981; by then medical science will have progressed sufficiently in order to rebuild my shattered body in the form of a human being rather than a bin bag full of entrails. Then and only then I will attempt to stoke up the fourth Reich.

Baby Guts was man handled by Cyberwhore and Das Afrika into the cryogenics machine, the door closed and the dial was set for 1981.Das Afrika was given the task of transporting the gold to Switzerland however he was ambushed by the dirty Dozen and beaten to death by Keith Sutherland and Clint Eastwood, who also stole the gold and used it to fund their dream of removing fresh water supplies from central Africa. Cyberwhore Began construction of the bespoke long distance wheel chair but Allied solders using sonar equipment eventually located the bunker and captured any survivors within the hellish catacombs, all technology deemed advantageous was shipped of to either Russia or the USA, Churchill felt left out so was given a strange double fridge like contraption with a bin bag full of guts inside, after a few years of unsuccessfully trying to pull the doors off using his fleet of bulldogs and two tonnes of horse tack he donated it to the sue Ryder charity, who in turn shipped it to there failing hospice in a Miserable grey old town called Ely upon Fen, There it sat for the next four decades, used only to satisfy the window licking urges of down syndromes and perverse nurses. Until the night of the 31st December 1980 at 11:59am jets of dry ice began to emit from this strange device, now stored in the attic away from curious residents, Babygutz was about to be reborn into 80’s fenland England.

The contraptions doors flew open with such force that it shook the nursing home to its foundations and worsened a few disabled residents’ heart murmurs even worse than they already were. Babygutz came wheeze-squealing out of the fridge like a panther shot in the face with pepper spray, due to the overwhelming experience of feeling its fragile bag body thaw out from over 3 decades worth of ice. luckily Dr Cyberwhore could wrench himself away from his distracting addiction to various fetishes long enough to include Oncles much needed nuclear warhead powered wheelchair into the cryogenic fridge too, in which Oncle hoisted himself up into once he had caught his bearings after such a traumatic experience.
He pressed a button on his wheelchair armrest to send him flying over to a nearby window at half the speed of light. Oncle thought to himself it would take time to get used to his 20,000 break horsepower cripple trolley. As he wiped away the dew on the window gathered from the excessive heavy breathing of the mentally deficient residents he caught his first glimpse of the shitty disappointing future. People were running amok in mondeo-trons wearing make-up usually reserved for Goring's whorde of Alsatian whores, neon signs lit up his bleeding eyes, filling its fragile cat brain full of uncertainty and curiosity. the shock for Oncle BG was nearly too much as he quietly vomited into his open-top bladder he looked out of the window once more to get grips with this 'future'. "my vord, Fascism has truly failed in the future, this capitalist hell I have awoken in...will take much getting used to ...but not for long".

After having to launch itself down many flights of stairs at nearly 3.a.m. in the morning to get out of the house, Oncle was stumped by the time he got to the locked front door. Trinny whiplash a sleep-in care worker walked cautiously over to the front hallway towards the hissing and German profanity emanating from nearby. As she walked up behind whatever it was screeching at the front door she could only see a wheelchair shaking from side to side with the kind of velocity you would expect from Stephen hawking when his speech machine runs out of battery. She turned around the wheelchair and shone a torch into Babygutz’s fox night vision eyes.
"FRAULINE IF YOU DO NOT OPEN ZIS DOOR, AN ABUNDANCE OF BILE SHALL FIND ITS WAY ON TO YOU AND YOUR FAMILIES FACES"
the care worker was so shocked and sickened, nervous energy alone made her open the door in enough time to appease the enraged ex German general offal bag.

Not aware of the motoring condition of the future Babyguts flew out of the care home and slap bang into the middle of a busy main road. many a ford Capri’s driver lost control to avoid the atrocity careering in the road and in only 5 short minutes Oncle had orchestrated a pile up so effective, if performed back during the war it would have tipped the end result in Germanys favour.
Babygutz had much to learn....

Travelling at around mach 3, Babygutz soon found himself in Ely market square, He had no idea were he was, his plan was to awaken in Germany, who knew were he was now. He saw a burger a van selling bapped up beef faces to drunken men in leather jackets, every man and his panther had shoulder length hair and eye liner slapped upon face. Babygutz was no fool, and had prepared for such changes in culture by sewing a prestige mullet onto the back of his badger skull before being frozen in stasis back in 45, but even with this ‘counter culture measure’ he stood out like a saw vulva in a Vietnamese whore house. His eyes searched for reason, his ears for native tongue. A gang of likely lads came over to were he was hiding; the leader grabbed the handles of gut’s wheel chair and began pushing him around in a mildly humorous way as only a lad can. It wasn’t until Baby put the steam whoring chair into overdrive and tech boosted the contraption to 6000mph in under two seconds, resulting in the complete disembodiment of the offending ’lad’ that the rest of the gang stepped back and left the bag of steaming toddler guts to its own devises, after he had done a few laps of the market square half out of control half trying to shake of the flailing teenager arms that were still gripped tightly to his chair handles, Gutz disappeared down the road sending cars and pissed up vicars into dustbins.

Gary was finishing his late shift at ‘club sawn off’ he was the general manger, life was good, he had a nice girlfriend whom carried his child, too boot he drove a brand new Seria sapphire Cosworth. Driving home with a smile on his face Gary knew life could not get any better than this. All off a sudden what seemed to be a wheel chair out of control careered in front of him. His family saloon jerked to the left and then clipped a bus stop sending the car rolling into a charity shop, amidst the flaming second hand clothes of the middle classes and steaming bucket seats lay Gary, Badly wounded.

Babygutz rolled up to him,

The last thing Gary knew of this world was what seemed to be a chimps arm with a woman’s hand grafted onto it, reaching into his top pocket, he felt his wallet being lifted out, then something that would of surely convinced him that he was in hell looked him straight in the eye.

Babygutz sped of into the darkness, once in a silent back alley he began sifting through the wallet he had just found, Bank notes showed a queen, the writing was English, surely England hadn’t annexed Germany? Then Babygutz felt rain upon his patchwork skin, “Shizac am in ze Englandz!”

Over the course of the next week Babygutz had made a nest from used diapers in the library air ventilation shafts. This proved effective on many levels. The constant flow of hot air warmed up the baby shit to serve as a kind of insulation to the cold Babygutz was vulnerable too, and the unidentifiable stench drove away the library visitors so even in the day it was possible for Oncle to move about the vicinity without being seen. Although his daytime wandering did cost the library cleaner her marriage as she persisted to her fiancée about a fleshy poltergeist haunting the library and spitting vomit at her when she made eye contact. Of course no one believed her. Oncle used this public library mainly for filling in the 40 year void of knowledge of modern history. Babygutz spent many hours intently reading about such pivotal events such as when that martin Luther king assassinated J.F.K. and the other time popular entertainer cum psychic Uri Gellar jumped the great Chinese wall length ways on a moped. But what really caught Babygutz’s attention were the results of the Nuremburg trials. Many people he had shared whore baptisms and heroin fuelled Messerschmitt dives with were, he felt wrongly tried and ill treated. This being natural for living SS generals made from infant offal, he himself guilty of more than 7000 counts of human rights violations.
Either way learning the fate of his brethren and indefinitely his fuehrer fuelled the fire of his resolve and made this angry sack of World War 2 esque dictatorship intent more than ever to re-animate the Nazi party in some form and bring about the creation of the 4th Reich and inevitably its occupation of modern Germany. As Babygutz powered out of the library fast enough for his spinning wheelchair wheels to ignite most of the literature in the place, he made sure to savage the now dumped and untrustworthy cleaners face off in a typhoon of savage SS henchman rage and reef shark teeth gnashing.

Oncle Babygutz sat atop the towns cathedral, he had taken refuge in the south tower, this gave him complete oversight on which bin bags were being thrown out from the best restaurants, how he longed for a cold flagon of German beer and a good veal scnitchel, instead he feasted on bins full of curries and broken glass, fending of street cats and cyber punks for scrapes of spicy slurry. With no money and no real idea were exactly in England he was, Oncle Gutz retired to his make shift tarpaulin shelter atop this wind swept tower with only a tin tray full of albatross madras for company.

Morning broke to the sound of pigeon roars and street fights on the streets below, daylight offered little opportunity for Gutz, only the other day he attempted begging outside the ‘Twat In Hand’ Inn, only to have narrowly avoided a beating and a possible minor sexual assault by a gang of river pirates. Gutz’s situation was becoming desperate. How could he earn money in this foreign and hostile land, his English was ok but his appearance would play hindrance, looking like a bag of swan giblets wrapped in a decomposed sheep’s stomach ruled out most forms of work. A gust of wind carried with it a maelstrom of old sanitary gloves and newspapers, the job section hit guts in the face tearing a huge paper cut across his fleshy cheek. He peeled the paper away and caught site of an intriguing proposition ‘Escort agency requires Escorts and Drivers; call Timothy Vulva on 0800 69 101 666 for details’

Meanwhile

Timothy Vulva swept back his greasy hair curtains from his manic eyes, taking one last swig from the bottle of vodka in his gloved hand then launching it at the door he was about to kick through. The smashing of a bottle was the only warning a couple of chancers who recently turned one of his escorts over had. Taking a run up Vulva steamed towards the door, two size sixteen steel heel cap slippers came crashing through the armoured balsawood doors, a double footed drop kick saw to that. Two Crack heads tried to scramble to their feet but they had just deposited one to many snow balls, Vulva unclipped his claw hammer from his ankle holster and set to work on the junkies, hammer blow after hammer blow deconstructed the faces of two unfortunates, until nothing other than a pulped fleshy mound of teeth and claret lay before him. Vulva walked outside and returned moments later with a large kit bag, the one working eye amongst the two twitching bodies on the floor saw Timothy reach into the bag, and lift out a sawn off shot gun, Vulva forcibly inserted the weapon up the anus of the least dead addict, BOSSSSCCCCC!!!!!!! within an instant the room was scarlet red, the wall artexed with fragments of flesh and hip bone to such a standard that when detective Laurence llewelyn-bowen was first on scene he vowed to become an eccentric interior designer from then on. Vulva began to repeat this process on the one remaining junkie, when his mobile rang,

Vulva answered it,

“Arachnid escorts, how may I be of assistance?”

Baby guts held the public telephone receiver in his ornate prostitute’s hand

“yest hello, I am inquiring about ze Drivers vacancy you haf advertised in the Ely Grumble”

The sound of another shot gun blast resonated down the line

“Sorry about that, yes the position is still available it pays £3.74 an hour, you have to supply your own vehicle and personal protection, no touching the escorts and no boozing on the job, the positions yours if you want it, swing by my office tonight on Shellshock street and introduce yourself”

The line went dead.

Babygutz smiled, then he realised he had no car and he didn’t have sufficiently able legs to drive one regardless, plus these modern cars looked frightfully complex, just as all seemed lost Gutz spied the bishop of Ely rolling into his drive way bellow in a brand new 1981 Porsche 911, Gutz recognised the badge on the car, it was the crest of Dr Porsche himself the expert tank designer from Germany, Gutz himself had driven many of his battle field creations back in the war. How different could it be!   

Babygutz exercised one of the few benefits of being a shapeless sack of kindergarten veal, by posting his body through the crack of the Porsches doors, thus preventing the bishops multi church organ car alarm going off, which in turn could alert any possible choir boy heavies that may be patrolling nearby. Upon deeper inspection Oncle realised he would have to make some minor alterations to the car...and his body.

The seat was too low so he hung an onion bag for him to sit in from the inside of the car roof. He covered the steering wheel in pig shit flavoured schnitzel to make steering the car with his giraffe tongue much more pleasurable too.
Sadly Babyguts had to pull off his badly stitched on (but much loved) lemur legs and replace them with two walking sticks so he could pump the pedals efficiently. living up to his status of war general, Babygutz showed great initiative and engineering proficiency by rigging up the nuclear powered wheelchair engine to that of the 911's resulting in the first and only Porsche/wheelchair hybrid car achieving 20,284 bhp.

Meanwhile:

'Arachnid escorts' base of operations was inside a medium sized beige caravan wedged in between a kebab shop and an army surplus store on Shellshock Street. Inside was Tim vulva leaning back in his leather recliner incoherently grumbling and laughing as he flicked through a pack of erotically-themed playing cards. Before he could enjoy the mediocre pleasure of a developing semi in his joggers, supersonic exhaust backfiring and high beam pulses could be seen and heard through the 'haemophiliac skin' thick caravan walls. "What the West ham united is fucking going on out there?"
vulva pushed his greasy sovereign ring covered sausage fingers between the metallic window blind to see a German super car perform acrobatics certainly not road legal even by 'modern princess chauffeur's standards'.
Vulva's mouth dropped at both the sight of such masterful use of reverse doughnuts and that of the angry swearing sack that was evidently operating the car from within. Vulva ran back inside the caravan to fetch a couple of spare whores, each one being carried under each arm. "Now for the real slutting test". Vulva strategically threw the two posh tarts in the front of the over-razzed German sports car. With ease Babygutz manoeuvred out of the whore’s way only slightly disembowelling the surprise chimp whore Tim vulva threw out from under his leather jacket as a 'surprise'.

as Tim ran over to the ever-burn outing Babygutz in an attempt to claim he is certainly hired, vulva caught his hip on the screaming Porsche bonnet, sending him flying and lying on his side only to watch Oncle spin constantly in some kind of burnout trance for a further 5 hours...

Tim Vulva arose from the floor; his clothes reeked of burnt rubber and whore discharge. What was this mysterious creature that piloted this fine example of 80’s Porsche. He approached the open drivers side window and peered in, Babygutz turned in his onion sack/harness to face the awe struck Vulva, “Mien name ist Oncle Babygutz and I seek gainful employment at your high class escort agency as a driver.” Vulva nodded his head “I see, have you had experience in any driving jobs before” Babygutz coldly laughed, “I was Divisional commander of the ‘Das Reich’ SS panzer division 1943-44 good sir” Vulva looked puzzled, “I don’t know what the fuck are you talking about mate but your hired!”
“Your first job is to give sandy Gizzard here a lift to the Bishops palace” a male escort stood next to Vulva one hand on his hip and the other smoking a stupidly long cigarette which was loosely clamped betwixt the lads pink clad lips. Babygutz had just a few hours ago stolen his new ride from the bishops abode to deliver an escort driving that same car could prove deadly. Gutz looked unsure, “what the hells the matter bag guts or whatever your fucking name is, don’t say you’ve lost your ‘twat punching’ bottle already, I knew it ! this job is for high octane skin heads with nothing to loose, those who live on the edge of throat cancer at all times, and then there’s you, a bag of faggot entrails driving round in his shiting dads Porsche no doubt, a spineless chancer who’s about to get his face stoved in.

“Nine zist vill not be necessary!” cried Gut

Sandy snake hip waltzed into the passenger’s door; Vulva kicked the back end of the motor as it drove off at speed.

People driving towards the two unlikely acquaintances were greeted with a scene that would make most people question their elbows, a bag like creature struggling to control a dangerously out of control motor next to whom sat a puking white heard pink lipped spiked dog collar wearing renter. The Porsche dipped its lights and rolled into the bishops extensive estate which sat along side the cathedral, the sick covered Sandy gave his driver a filthy look before exiting the vehicle in haste, within seconds stones were flying in all directions as Gutz quickly reversed out of the driveway as fast as he possibly could, The bishop came running out of his palatial home, all tent thousand of the 16th century stained glass bay windows had been obliterated by stones, Sandy covered in dust and sick presented the bishop with a confusing scene, “what the hell happened here ! And who the holy whiplash are you!” Sandy introduced himself accordingly, “Oh yes the escort, am dying for a good romp, ive had the day from hell, some punk stole my brand new car, a gift from the arch bishop of Cuntanbury himself. I hope you’ve lubed up boy cos I have got a stinking great shit eating snake that likes the taste of ring and my gut heart tells me that I’ve just seen you been dropped in my half inched motor. 

Hours later Baby gutz returned to the Bishops palace, as gingerly as possible. It wasn’t quiet enough, The man of god had pork sworded the unfortunate Sandy to death and literally pumped him for information regarding the stolen Porsche. Quickly before the bishop chased Babygutz off with a rubber phallus attached to the end of a 50 ft bull whip, Gutz managed to salvage some spare inner thigh skin and toe-nails from the mutated rent boy pick n mix which was all that was left of Sandy Gizzard. Gutz threw himself into a nearby butchers dust bin to camouflage himself, when the ecclesiastic heat finally died down he began seriously putting his feline cranium into overdrive. He needed to think, he had dreams of founding the fourth Reich but instead here he was acting as a wheelman for the terminally ill and horny in some backwater fenite shithole.

“vwat hav i become, is this the peak of the once great herr Oncle babygutz?”.....

A pause was ended with Gutz screwing his face up in retort and puking acid bile on a butcher's apprentice whom only crime was his curiosity as to why whispering was coming from the chicken and ox organ containers.
During his yellow gastric fluid flinging rage Gutz had an epiphany. Not too far away was the tramp screaming educational gutter heart of England itself.

Cambridge

"yes.....yes.....Cambridge....the training ground for geniuses to be......".
Babygutz mused upon the idea that if there were intellectually adept/socially incapable young enigma's nearby he could get in there quick and wolf whisper lies into their already jumbled up genius brains and bend them to his will and desire. Gutz needed the same scientific brains that war time Germany once boasted back in the day. The kind of minds like that of professor 'Ozwald Shart' the poltergeist powered jetpack designer or Dr 'Walt Dogfuck' the pneumatic powered bowel inventor. If he could find a great mind to combine with his own cunning maybe the dark dreams of a constantly rotting/healing surgical mishap/general could be realised after all.


Goat Whimpering and Tampons are the cause of pure Global Warming

Chapter Two

It took a full week for Babygutz to get to Cambridge, no pound or penny in his flesh pouches he made his way to Cambridge by hiding in petrol station toilets awaiting for unsuspecting truck drivers to unload a fresh batch of chimps fingers. During the beautiful and natural process of truck driver dumping Gutz would latch on the under carriage of said unfortunate and acted like a clump of piles. If the truck driver disturbed or questioned the sudden appearance of false gut grapes Gutz would hiss, swear and aggressively insert one of his walking stick legs into the lorry drivers anus stimulating awkward, previously un-explored sexual glands as a warning not to pursue the matter further. After the successful latching on to nearly 32 truck drivers Gutz was now within Cambridge. He still needed shelter though. The harsh rainy weather was turning Gutz’s body to something reminiscent of a Jamie Oliver recipe and there was no time to spare. Gutz's plan was to pose as a university professor somehow, to get on the inside to look for cranial talent. But in order to do so Gutz needed a base of operations, he scoped and whizzed around the outskirts of the river Cam like a mechanised rabbit at the dog races to find anything to sleep in, 'even a fucking jack-knifed punt would do" he screamed aloud out of frustration. His patience was finally rewarded after an unfortunate named 'Bruce Foulger' parked his highly modified house sized speadboat/punt just yards away from the irate and desperate sack of German war effort.


Foulger was preparing a ‘pig swill’ flavoured pot noodle for himself, it turned out that the old teacher of basic entry science had retired a bit to early, and as a result had been forced to eat substandard foods. He sat down in his sheep skin office chair witch faced an old ‘acorn’ computer, little use to the modern man other than to play basic tea shop business simulators and to allow one to view digitally titillated ‘Pac man’ porn. Hours passed by like low flying ‘Mig 29’s on a hot summer’s day,

“Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiizaccccccccccccccccccccccccccc!

Foulger glanced round, his eyes more alert than a panther that’s just found out its drink has been spiked in manumission. What was this coarse, monotone shabby excuse for a budget drum and bass sound effect that had just abused his ears so?

Foulger rolled his dale inspired office command chair back as far as his narrow living conditions would allow, arising from his seat, the old teacher began to lock down each and every port hole window with haste, something told him a great evil was near.

Turning down the ‘dolphin sick’ lantern that dimly lit his water bound abode, he began to hear what must have been a bin bag full of puppy guts being dragged along his frail wooden roof. What new Madness was this! The old man had recently had to ‘up sticks’ when he decided to Moore up in St Ives, and became a target for a local sex pest who repeatedly tried to impregnate himself with the boats rudder handle.   

Oncle wheezed heavily, his apple sized poodle lungs could barely supply much needed carbon Monoxide to his owl heart. Meanwhile Foulger nervously looked through every porthole window on his Cambridge punt come home. What was this terrible whispering that haunted him so? Scuttling then scratching, whispers then shouts, paradoxical annoyances abounded. He caught glimpse of bag like creature moving at speed past his bedroom window cussing in coarse German as it went, what manor of beast was this. He had in the past dealt with troublesome barn owls and boisterous eels but this was different, the atmosphere was dank and oppressive, the smell of rotten organs and TCP made breathing an untold effort. Foulger looking through his bedroom porthole didn’t notice Oncle slipping him self down the exhaust pipes and into the engine bay. Within minutes he was aboard. Foulger growing increasingly nervous began to bang the side of the vessel with a rounder bat in a vein attempt to scare this beast away. However Oncle was already inside. Foulger ran to the rear of the boat and started the engines, nothing happened. The water was dark this night, the moons reflection glared up at him, he turned and began to run back inside the ill fated boat when a 6 stone bag of meat with gnashing teeth struck at his Achilles tendon with a malice not seen since Florence Nightingale Lit a fart in a burn victims face. The savage attack sent the wailing Foulger overboard into the dark waters and no doubt into to the wanton mouths of pike and perch alike. Oncle threw lead weights into the water to narrow Foulgers survival chances, after three hours all was silent, Oncle had an abode.

Babyguts needed to see what this tarted up inner city sewer raft could do in case of an emergency getaway. so he proceeded to push the speed punt house to the threshold of its limits by terrorizing Chinese swans and straw-hat wearing student tossers trying to look cultured by pushing boats around while sloshed on local ale. This was achieved with Oncle strategically alternating attacks between six high pitched fog horns and a bag of dead swallows and thrushes. As the sun set behind this city of opportunity Oncle broke open a much disserved bottle of badger cunt wine and sat in Foulgers hand made otter bone bean bag. Everything was calm for a while. Oncle sat rosy faced in his seating made from protected species, but then as quick as a Newmarket mugging a rigid yet fleshy rod of tender meat sprung up between Oncles legs. "vwat ist dis?!".
The now securely wankered bag of teen bowels looked down in a weary glaze at this unsightly protrusion. Babyguts let loose flash bangs and hedge trimmers at it but it didn’t seem to budge if anything it was attached to Babygutz himself as searing pain began to set in, he realized this.
It then dawned on Oncle that contrary to his beliefs those surgeons that botch jobbed him back to life did include genitalia after all. "It has been a long time since ive felt the tender loins of a female husky on my face and groin after all" Oncle remarked with a disappointed sigh. Casting the badger cunt wine bottle aside Babygutz finished the night off by initiating the agonizing ritual of self pleasure. This would have been as harmless as teenage moustaches if it weren’t for the fact Foulgers boat neighbour Jimmy Shuttocks watched in horror through the port windows as a sexually aggravated bag of anger pounded away at its swollen and exploding hip stick for a full three hours.

As soon as the deal was sealed Babyguts heard a noise outside, turned round and met weasel eyes with the peeping Jimmy Shuttocks. Jimmy tried to run but it was too late Babyguts had already caught up and burrowed into jims internal organs eating himself out from the inside. Oncle slept the best he had done in months that night.......