Plain Stories 1

1...A fragment

I remember March, when the weather was nice. I went into a dark illusion, and foolishly walked down a path. This was in the middle of the country, or so it seemed. The cherries breath smote me; so did the blackberries. Several garages were behind the walls and it must have been at least 300 metres long, the flowers scent hitting my nose and a school on the left. A few hundred yards, or short steps forward, two figures attached themselves to the light and bayed.
"Fancy being murdered. Only ten pounds per murder. It's a terrific thrill. Rope, sunshine, plover's eggs. We can kill you with anything," the younger of the two shrilled.
"I'm not sorry, I don't want to die," I calmly pent on. "How is your business going?" I enquired.
"Oh, good!" the younger one lied, his pitch rising throughout.
"You blorious idiot"

And then, the story ends.

2...A weird story

"I really, really want you to know that I hate your guts; they're disgusting"
"Then don't eat them then," I shot back, the bare wooden boat pushing on.
"I can hardly eat your face; it's yellow" he cried
"That's hardly the point." Anyway.

Seven days we had been afloat, and this is where we had got to. It was boiling, cringe making, disastorous. I chewed on celery. There was nothing else we could find except tuna that tasted like dog food, or its odour hinted, and we were in the Sargasso sea. He was licking up saliva, from the nape of his elbow.
"I could eat your hair," he retched, his voice like a plum.
"My hair's yellow; I thought you didn't like that"
"I know, but it's chewy"
After the tenth time of hammering his head against the tuna I tried with my tinny knife and got blood all over my hand. We played poker and it stopped us going mad.
"It's European," I said, "not Asian"
"Oh, go fun yourself," he whittered back.
I put on a record and listened.
"Owner of a lonely heart, owner of a broken"
"Oh fud this!" Borrock cried and cracked it against the side of the boat. We could see the ocean liner cruising out of the horizon, it's white billowing smoke leaving us. Exiled for necrophillia and exiled in the land of Godot.
"What are you meant to do, what are you meant to do? Fucked in a chilly old boat."
"STOP singing!Chilly, it's bloody boisterous" Stern measures were called for and grabbing his mouth open like the doctor I am, poured a gob of whisky down his throat, not enough to dehydrate him. Disastrously, the last morsel of nutrition was mackerel. Grey, green mackerel.
A chilling note resonated like a tuning fork being struck, and a head hashed it's way up through the boat. His weird teeth glinted and he shook his mouth open.
"Godot. Godot, Godot, Godot. My name's godot, don't yuh know; fancy some sauce."
"Hell no!" my partner shot and crashed a white oar against his blackened hair.
"This story's getting silly. And I'm hallucinating," I added.
"Story, this is no story; this is life. Life like a museum in London. London town," he added pointlessly.
The next thing we knew, we were thinking chess. We would end up like Bobby Fischer.

3 A fun story

I was walking across the lake one day, when my knee fell on the ice. "Ow!" I screamed but nobody awoke. It was still three in the morning. I took out my knife and crashed it into the ice, which flobbered up then drew back into it's shell. I cried: "God help me mine!" but only a swallow flew overhead. I looked into the hut and saw it was mine, three hundred yards away, beneath the mountains glaik. Tom the fisherman lived there, letting plooms of smoke obscure his view of the yellow mountain behind me..
3 minutes later I was there, the pick marks of my crampons obvious to the white light, as the blue moon shollowed down. On his record collection he had three tracks: Hitler and the Bloodhoud, Giner Baker and the Remington of Spa, Mozart's cake suprise. I gently prepared the mozart, flummoxing it out of it's sleeve and onto the turntable. The lake was very wide and only a tractor was on it, its orange paint and black catepillar tracks bloodunt in the moonlight. He had left some cake, which when eaten, tasted rubbery and jingling like a lemon slice but the strange onerous quality of flesh.
The Mozart was half-way through crackling out and had gone into a fandango: ting-ting ting-ting ting-dbming.
And then he appeared: my overlord, the man who had bullied me so much in the pub on the Eastern shore, making me serve sick-coloured cider to European immigrants who were used to nothing worse.
"Stealing, are we?" he gibbed. It was like a buttery knife in my playing heart. "You steal music!" he ranted.
"Music cannot be shared without the express permission of the copyright owner," he ranted, his cigar between his right index and middle slowing obscuring more and more of the lake, where reindeer pulled a red sleigh filled with small boxes behind the foaming mouth of a white queen, who slayed into my boss before whipping the air, inches above my nostril then centimetres below my head.
She renched him up and pulled him into a sack. The rain had become slushy and red, no doubt poisoned by the queens deep-face mining on the north side of the water.
"Stealing are we?" I fidgeted. "There's nowhere near enough fat on him. Are you planning on dueling him up with ostritch eggs." I forgot to tell you about the beer.
Then she brought out her taser.
"I am the white queen," she announced, "and I bring you:
...

shollow: seem to dip 3 or 4 degrees
glaik: lower part
bloodunt: appearing as an obstacle
gibbed: half snorting

4 Diary of a yob

There are twenty-one ways of putting a cock into a pussy. Yeah, I said that. Me: Johnny Frimthrow.
Pies are meant for throwing; remember that.
Create jobs, more planets, more asteroids. I rant at the idiots as I drive my chin magnetically. We will conquer the moon. Britain will one day be a gun.
I snort cocaine, I snort anorexic blowjobs. I snort Gaelic football top trumps.
You are what you eat, you fat bastard, you fat bastard: you ate all the pie. Chips an' beer, that's all I need. That and spraying mayonnaise on to my window for the bitches to slick up.
Brighton Rock! Brighton Rock! Ooh-er, you deserve to die! Jobs for real people, jobs for real peo-ple, crooked houses want.

I throw the brick and watch it bleed
The mortal king has no new weed
He saw it through his gum.

I hate the people from my Manchester, the white-face chickens. It's not orange, I swear. My face is not orange.
That's it, Kilroy, shaft it. Shaft it down my dong, you iradescent cock-sucker bitch-whore mother-fucking zinc whore! You're not a patch on Edmonds.

Britain's great, Britain's great, you Frenchie all our turds
You love your geese, you love your mum, you love your apple curds.

I hate you, I hate you, let's all kill the moon, rabid lungs of portal gung, the cripple whips the murd.

Blowjobs are for cissies. Zhu nuh say quar, you Mongolians.

5 Capital Punishment

Adviser 1: How about we only kill the immigrants
Minister: Punish?
A1: Oh, yes...righto!
M: How long until they cease becoming an immigrant
Adviser 2: 5 years. 5 years, 2 days and 1 month
A1: Oh, very droll
M: I'm sorry, but I just don't like killing.
Voice in his head: What are you? Some pinko god for nothing?
M: I'm not a pinko god for nothing, I have rules, I have standards, I have bench marks
A1: No one was suggesting, minister?
M: Oh, shut up. No one was suggesting, my rubber truncheon. That's how they'll look at me. The man who runied the rope industry, the man who believes in music lessons and warm cells for an eye, not another eye.
Secretary: The mail minister?
M: This is the pit's bottom. I know, yes I know but it's a shape, just a shape, I need alcohol to put it into words.
S: (sexily) Have some gin, minister!
M: You lok like Anna Kournikova, I'm sure you looked like Betty Boothroyd yesterday.
Adviser 3: Stress, minister? I can help.
M: (gulping) You can?
A3: Yes, I can. Have this porridge Minister; it's not literally porridge but I've laced it with cocaine.
Joking minister, joking.
A1: Don't trust him.
A2: Yes, don't trust him. Shall we get back to the hanging.
M: Who's hanging? I didn't steal that loaf. It was Fagin.
A1: The creeps' hanging, minister, the ASBO louts. Three ASBOs and you're out. Like Trident minister. Nobody will dare winging out to Fat Boy slim at three in the morning.
M: winging it out? You gobshite.
S: (outraged) Minister!?
M: What are we going to do. What are we going to do? I am the Minister for social affairs and I desire some nuts. Where are some nut's to crack on my teeth...where are my bloody nuts? Look at this! Minister unfit to sell shoes to orphans! (The Sun) Minister unfit to make a bath (my wife). Minister unfit to comb my hair (Anna Kournikova).
I know..Ha-ha-yee! We'll start a purge. Minister sacks 50 per cent of his staff. You're first!
(takes out revolver and shoots it: white strip comes out reading: BANG!)
All immigrants to learn God Save the Queen, on guitar, no flute! Any immigrant rejecting offer to play God Save the Queen in orchestra to be repatriated to any country we haven't invaded yet! Even better, multi-cultural porn. Tax breaks to any country, I mean company, that features Egyptian gels, I mean gels. You fill out the abstract, I mean generic. Adviser 1, you are fired.
A1: My name's Pete.
M: Not anymore, your name is loafer. Get used to that! Adviser 2, summersault this invidious individual out through the glass
A2: Staircase, minister.
M: You can't go through a staircase, adviser 2.

[end]