Keef strolled out of Trak and then staggered down the astropod dock, arm wrapped around Filthy Sanchez for support, drunkenly singing a bawdy ditty:
My mother was a whoopsie
My daddy was known as Mr West When I was a child they’d tie me up and rape me With a nastily nibbed fountain pen
Daddy was a literary man
I once knew a girl named Celeste Who liked to be bitten on the breasts Her passion is gone and so is her chest I chewed it all off and came on the mess
I’ve had a fear of big-breasted women since childhood
They lurched into an Underpig, a pig headed member of Germy’s security force. “Allo, allo, allo,” said the pig, his pink mouth gleaming with dirty dry saliva. “Cool outfit man,” said Keef admiring his Nazi-ish leather duds. “Shut up,” said Constable Oink, “What are you doing out after curfew?” “Well,” said Keef, “I’m about to smash some fascist cunt in the snout.” Keef started to raise his fist, but he was so drunk it would have taken him a minute to execute the punch. This gave the pig enough time to take out his baton and smash Keef over the head. Then Filthy Sanchez tried to raise his fist, but he was so drunk it would’ve taken him two minutes. So the pig maced him. For Filthy Sanchez, the whole thing had become a full on nightmare. He had gone from being a mildly successful Amway salesman to being thrown into the back of a blood stained divvy van with Keef’s limp bleeding body beside him. All he could see was a painful blur of streetlights and semi-darkness. He yowled in agony as the mace methodically stung his eyes whilst his hands were painfully cuffed and bleeding. Keef moaned and unconsciously vomited across the floor, coughing up blood as he did so. The two pigs rounded a corner and threw Filthy Sanchez (and a lot of vomit) against the walls of the van. One of the pigs turned around, peering through the security grille with a menacing leer. Not a smile. A leer. “You are in hell,” said one of the pigs. “Well where is Johnny Young then?” asked Filthy Sanchez mockingly. The pig maced Filthy Sanchez in the face again. “State your business, punk,” demanded an Oink. Keef sat there silent slowly registering consciousness. His face contorted with a lewd smile. Then, suddenly, without any change in his facade, he pushed out the words ‘Konchatalaundatikipoo-poos.’ “What did you say?” asked the swine forcefully, “...I know your type. You come here to our grand city searching for your damned Mono shit drugs. Do you know what it does to you boy?” asked the pig rhetorically. His tone of voice suddenly took on condescending overtones. He continued... “It fucks you up boy, yeah that’s right, it fucks you right...” Keef interrupted: “I not after Mono, J after Mono, J after Germy. I be after Jizzbucket.” Oink pulled the security grille out, reached across and playfully pulled Keef’s ear off. Keef licked Oink lightly across the back of the hand, running his tongue slowly between the webbing of the fingers, letting a small trickle of saliva go with a slight, sensual flick of the tongue over Oink’s palm. Oink grunted, shifting his hefty buttocks slightly, so as to accommodate the driver’s hand between his thighs. His zip slowly came undone, the pressure in his trousers mounting as his penis sprung from the loosened cloth. The driver lowered his head and began licking the swollen glans. The car careered wildly down the Astroway as the pigs continued, heedless of the danger they were in, their passion unabated. The driver began sucking rhythmically - up and down, up and down. Constable Oink gasped, gripped by spasms, and shot his load with considerable force into the driver’s face. “Blinded by the white…” they sang in discordant harmony. Oink fiercely pulled the driver free. His penis stood proud and erect. Oink lubricated it with a tube of KY jelly that Keef thoughtfully handed him, lowered his trousers and manoeuvred uncomfortably onto the driver. “I got rhythm,” sang Oink - up and down, up and down. They both gasped as the driver’s prostate began to quiver with premonition. The driver stamped the accelerator to the floor as he came; their speed two hundred and three kilometres per hour. Oink spattered the windshield with wild orgasm. Neither of them saw the Magistrates Court looming ahead. The car hit a statue of President Urine and Oink and the driver were thrown through the windshield, still joined in passionate coitus. They were skewered on a stake that was anchored horizontally next to the marble archway, still held in their unholy tryst. Filthy Sanchez and Keef were thrown clear of the wreck as the car upended and the doors snapped open. They landed with a heavy splash in an open sewerage culvert. As they crawled free of the stinking, clinging mess, Filthy Sanchez asked Keef: “Where the fuck did you learn to lick like that?” “Arrr... I think it was from a limbless leper in some colony. The best fuckin’ licker I’ve ever met. Finger lickin’ God! Had the erotic arts of the mouth down to a tee. Wasn’t much else he could do other than practice on other lepers or they would’ve kicked shit through him. Took him thirty-two years to get his technique down, he reckoned. I spent a couple of months with him a little while back.” Keef smiled, caught up in his own memories. Filthy Sanchez looked away, feeling sick. He had a suspicion that the fantastic fellatio given him the night before in his paralytic state had been performed by Keef. He resolved to check himself for signs of decomposition the next time he had a moment alone. “Hey look at that,” said Keef as he pointed at the security pigs skewered on the side of the Magistrates Court. “Yeah I saw. Pretty cool.” “No. The apple.” Someone had stuffed an apple into each of the mouths of the dead pigs. There was a note attached to Oink’s apple. “I will help you,” it said. “Who the fuck...?” wondered Keef. A grey shadow sidled around the side of the building and beckoned to them. They walked closer. The figure was cloaked and led them to a waiting car. As Filthy Sanchez went to get into the car the figure pulled back the hood, revealing in the stark moons’ light the features of the Mad Arab Abdul Ab Hazarad! Keef promptly vomited on him. “Vile temptress!” screeched Abdul. “What?” asked Filthy Sanchez. “I... don’t... know,” said Abdul with a faraway look. “So exactly how do you plan to help us out, O great stupid old fart in declining years riddled with dementia?” Abdul looked down at the mustard stains on the sheet thing he was wearing. A tear rolled down his cheek. “Sorry man,” said Filthy Sanchez, “group hug.” “I can help you,” said Abdul, “with three pieces of fishing wire and bicarbonate of soda! Oh hang on... that’s for my piles. Wait! President Urine has a price on my head. If I agreed to meet him somewhere for the purpose of what I would call an amicable agreement involving power, money et cetera, et cetera, then he could walk right into our hands!” “What about security, guns, bodyguards, and the armed forces of Psychoville?” asked Keef. “We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it,” said a glaze-eyed Abdul, fiddling playfully with his crotch.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
Be first to comment this chapter
Add your comments on this chapter - Registration not required!
