Germy’s Cybermail? tablet let off a high-pitched beep in his pocket. He had received a message:
DEAR DOGBOY,
MEET ME IN THE PERSIAN CHESS HOCKEY SOCIAL CLUB TOILETS AT 3PM TODAY TO DISCUSS FAITH AND PROSPERITY.
YOURS TRULY,
MAD BAAEAARK ABDUL.
“Fool!” exclaimed Germy to Krustin in their love chalet, “This is obviously some horrid attempt to bribe me out of taking his life. Little does he know he’ll be walking into my spindly hands!” He laughed loudly, indicating he had seen far too many evil cartoon characters laughing on TV. “You’re very sexy,” said Krustin quietly. “Shut up,” said Germy as he pulled up his pants, “you will be coming with me to the toilets...” “A dream come true, sir.” The Persian Chess Hockey Social Club toilets were very large. They were about the size of a school gymnasium; white tile in vast amounts covering the floor and many, many mid-wall urinals. It was very white and very clean. Keef, Filthy Sanchez and Abdul had concealed themselves in a cubicle, stuffing an arsenal of really cool automatic weapons into their clothes. Germy and Krustin stepped into the toilets. “Where are you, Abdul?” yelled Germy. “Here I am, you big boil,” said Abdul as he came out of the cubicle. “So you’ve come to negotiate something?” asked Germy. “Uh… no,” said Abdul vacantly. Fear set in as Germy, prompted Krustin to do a series of flips towards Abdul whilst holding a razor between his teeth. “Skin him real nice!” yelled Germy. Suddenly Keef and Filthy Sanchez smashed through the cubicle door, firing assault rifles and throwing Krustin off his path, a shower of reflected bullets and sparks coming off his bullet proof chrome body suit. A shot gashed his head and he fell. Krustin sprang to his feet, ignoring the blood that was turning his face into a used tampon that was smooth, had eyes, a nose and a mouth. He ran over to one of the urinals and collected a fistful of urinal cakes. He flung them in quick succession, like ninja stars, at Keef and Filthy Sanchez. They were struck in the head and hands, causing them to drop their weapons. They looked dazed as Krustin put his hands on his hips and laughed in a deep voice. “You are my weakest prey!” he declared out of synch. J arrived and began casually washing his hands in one of the basins. Abdul drew a pistol from under his robe, which he held the wrong way around. He laughed as he aimed the butt of the gun at Krustin and shot himself several times in the shoulder. This may have been deliberate. Everybody started laughing. J wound up his watch and drank some of the hand soap. Keef and Filthy Sanchez regained their senses and watched Krustin run across the white tiled walls wielding a deadly toilet brush. The three engaged in vicious martial arts combat. Keef and Filthy Sanchez ducked and dodged the heinous bristles of the brush. It whooshed past their faces as they leant backwards in slow motion to avoid its momentous curse. Toking on a fatty, Keef rose into the air in crane formation, appeared to hang there for a second, and gave Krustin a hard girly slap on the top of his head. This gave Filthy Sanchez the opportunity to give Krustin a squirrel grip he would never forget. Filthy Sanchez enjoyed this too much and smelt his fingers. Krustin collapsed again to the floor holding his goolies and feeling the wrath of a stinky Keef fart directly into his face. The smell put him into temporary paralysis. J went into the far right cubicle and took a piss, often comparing the time on his watch with that of the clock on the wall. Krustin was not yet beaten. He managed to pick up his razor and run to the far wall. Keef and Filthy Sanchez gave chase, chuckling a little. Krustin leapt gracefully onto a hand dryer and balanced himself on its button. As Keef and Filthy Sanchez approached, he changed the direction of the blower and activated the dryer. The two were temporarily blinded by the hot air and wiped their hands over their faces in classic Curly fashion. They went: “Whoop, whoop, whoop.” Krustin ran across the wall and landed, crouching, on the cistern of the toilet into which J was pissing. “Show off,” said J. Krustin flew down and, with arms outstretched, ran up J’s urinal stream and kicked him in the face. He then back flipped onto the top of a cubicle divider. “Fuck! That’s it, you fucking bloody fucking fuck fuck-fucker,” yelled J as he nursed his hurty nose and shook three times. Upset and in tears, J went running from the toilets. Keef and Filthy Sanchez (who couldn’t stop giggling) took up their chase again as Krustin leaped from cubicle to cubicle, leaping into each one and touching the toilet water lightly with his toes. He came to the last cubicle and planted his feet on the cheesy rim. Keef and Filthy Sanchez finally had him kind of cornered. Filthy Sanchez smelt his fingers and cackled like a backwoods hick. A patron entered to use the toilet. Abdul raised himself onto an elbow in a spreading pool of blood and said: “Not a good time.” The patron scanned the scene, went pale, wet himself, and left. Krustin had picked up a toilet roll, slid it on two fingers and stuck his razor into it. He unravelled the roll, twirling it into a floating spiral, the razor dancing at the end of it. He flicked the spiral of deadly bog roll at Keef and Filthy Sanchez, slashing at their faces with a maniacal grin and executing almost balletic battle stances. Blood poured down the face of Keef sending him into a fury. “Fuck it! That hurt, fucker! I’m ending you, cunt!” said Keef as he picked up Abdul’s pistol and unloaded several rounds into the head of Krustin. Germy took out a pink sponge yelling: “Take me to Boronia!” and squeezed it. Keef leapt onto his stomach and writhed around like an epileptic, licking the floor furiously. “Make me a chafe and table borster!” Filthy Sanchez screamed and jumped up and down on the spot, swinging around a pair of suspenders. Germy ran around in little circles slapping his forehead with his palm. A nightclub singer wearing a royal red velvet tux and suspended on fishing wire lowered from the ceiling singing ‘Razor Baby Purple.’ Three kittens on roller skates were sliding around in the pool of blood that Krustin had created. An old man in a bright yellow dress began talking about chairs in the corner of a large sweaty cardboard box that was inverted. Filthy Sanchez climbed the to the top of the cubicle, then in the same motion leapt into the air like a seasoned luchadore, landing on the open gash in Krustin’s blood red forehead. Brain matter splattered out from under the knee of Filthy Sanchez, shooting across the room. One part flew into Abdul’s eye, blinding him momentarily just as he was about to commit the act of axillism on Germy’s armpit. Brains splattered the once clean walls of the latrine. It oozed down the wall making it appear as if blood was actually coming from within the building. Germy, seizing his moment kicked free from Abdul and sprinted for the door in a vain attempt to escape. Keef dived at Germy, catching his Mr Squigglesque left foot, causing him to trip and fall face first into the steel pipe in front of him. Germy stood up again, blood pouring from his mouth where his front two teeth previously resided. Filthy Sanchez continued to attack the bullet ridden, limp, brainless body of Krustin with assistance from Abdul, who was slicing up Krustin toes with his new Ginsu II. Abdul turned around to see Germy holding his bleeding mouth in pain. He could see a small purple mark where Germy had been previously hit in the gum by a small orange pellet. Abdul promptly fired four shots from his revolver, all shots missing the target. “Damn those rubber bands. I should never have put them there!” Abdul lamented as Germy ran down the hallway screaming like a girl. Keef was in hot pursuit with his blade in hand. Germy sped down two flights of stairs, blood streaming from his mouth. He sprinted down another hallway spotting an open door beckoning him ahead. He ran in through the door, with Keef following, yelling obscenities of a rare and vital nature. As Germy sprinted through the door, he quickly turned and locked the door behind him. For a brief moment he felt safe. He saw a person in a dark shadowy corner of the room. The man appeared to be holding a Kafe Gavani. “You know, these come in handy at times,” said the man in the shadow. He walked slowly towards Germy. As the bristling light shone through a crack in the wall illuminating the man’s face, Germy froze in deepened horror as he realised that the man was in fact J. Suddenly the Mad Arab Abdul Ab Hazarad came crashing through the ceiling. J grabbed Germy by the lapels of his jacket and slammed him hard against the wall. Germy burst into tears. J spoke: “You are my enema. You will not dilate. People will say J really rectum. Urine my power. I knew you were varicose because I was stricken with terminal illness at the gastropod port. Did you know Lily? It was when I cauterise that she first licked my hand. A beautiful colic. We went on many a catscan together. You know you don’t look like a genital... but you are, aren’t you?” Germy struggled, his long skeletal fingers clawing weakly at J’s face. J kneed him fiercely in the testes. Germy grimaced in pain. “Can’t you be a bit more... congenital?” J slammed him against the wall again, turned him around, and proceeded to give him several hard and extremely painful elephant bummies with his knee. Germy sobbed pitifully. Abdul rose from the ground behind J. “Give him to me. He is mine.” “No. Get your own. Ner,” retorted J. “Please. I want to fuck him with an animal,” begged Abdul. Abdul’s eyes darted nervously left and right and his tongue flickered serpent-like over his lips as he spoke. “You sick bastard. Get a grippe on yourself,” said J. “Fuck you!” said Abdul and withdrew a small dagger and flung himself at J who dropped Germy to the ground. J defended himself with the Kafe Gavani blocking Abdul’s wild swings with the knife. Abdul overreached himself and J caved the back of his head in with the Kafe Gavani. Warm arterial spray drenched him in light flicking licks. As Abdul lay dying, he spoke almost inaudibly, to J: “Remember the time in Rome? We’d had S & M Gerbilphilia in the Caesarean section. You kept saluting me and saying “Hail Seizure.” I loved you then. But you became so vein. I thought there were clouds in my coffee but the cida going around might have had something to do with that. And I tricked you, heh, heh, heh...” Abdul coughed forth a small puddle of blood, mucus and black shit. “You thought I’d put a tumour in your strawberry thickshake and thought it was affecting you. How I laughed and got all rheumatic and malevolent at the same time. I remember on High Colonic...” Tears ran openly down Abdul’s face as he reminisced. Violins would have built to a tumultuous crescendo as J drew his Luger, placed the barrel in Abdul’s mouth and pulled the trigger. Germy was covered in a warm shower of brain matter, scalp and headdress.
Filthy Sanchez and Keef were having sword fights with their urine over the tattered remains of Krustin Janzl. “Come on,” said J dragging Germy behind him, “let’s take the bacteria door. Fuck that Abdul guy was totally fuckin’ weird,” he added, “I mean like, I’ve never met the man before in my life.” J walked over to the traumatised body of Krustin. “And by the way,” J said to the brutalised body guard, “if you see your mother this weekend... you’re to be sure and tell her... SATAN, SATAN, SATAN!” He jumped with full force onto Krustin’s face with both his feet. His head popped like an overripe melon and sent trails of brain matter in all directions, the face now just a film of horrified skin on the floor. (Warning: this scene should offend) J found a pair of chopsticks and forced them down the shaft of Krustin’s penis, pulling them apart, creating a big stretchy urethra. “Get me my bag of maggots,” said J. After obtaining the maggots, J grabbed a handful and dropped them down the hole, his flesh pulsating with the forms of the hungry creatures. He then found a hose connected to a gas main and shoved it down the neck stump. The body started bloating and J took the time to slit open his arm and had sex with the gushing wound. He forced himself to vomit and shoved fistfuls of digested intestine into Krustin’s anus (which had been opened to about a width of a foot with a vice) and came violently into the vein, spraying blood all over. J chewed on the spongy tongue and eventually yanked it out with his teeth. He then cut Krustin’s nipples off with a blunt bread knife and hammered pins into his areolas. Keef found an aborted foetus in one of the toilet bowls, cut open the putrid stomach and shoved that up the anus of Krustin. The maggots immediately attacked the body of the abortion and pink and purple ooze slowly made its way out of the arse. Krustin’s flimsy ball bag writhed with movement of a thousand starving fly pupae, finally bursting and causing the violated penis to close in on itself and drip with aborted stomach acid. He lubricated his left forefinger with KY jelly and some of the fat that he had cut from the thighs of Krustin and began to insert his arm deeply into any orifice he could find in Krustin’s body. His now blood soaked arm slid ever so easy into the painful sight that was Krustin’s former anus. “I love random acts of cruelty,” gleamed J as his elbow disappeared into the dark chasm that was the limp remains of their combined atrocity. J wrestled his arm around the body, eventually pulling out part of the intestines. He handed them to Keef who was smiling gladly after breaking every bone in Krustin’s hand. “Oooooooooh intestines!” screamed Keef in utter joy. He then proceeded to run in an opposite direction to the body with the intestines as they slithered from the vulgar corpse. Filthy Sanchez had to hold the body as it was violently jumping around from the strain of Keef who was dragging the intestines up the hallway. J continued searching through the innards of the body and said, “Oh man look this is just too cool. I got his heart.” He handed the heart to Filthy Sanchez. With a quick Phil Smythe-style movement, Filthy Sanchez launched the heart toward an open backboard, hitting the upright seat and landing in the middle of the toilet. Three points! J motioned Keef and Filthy Sanchez to leave. “Let’s get this fucking prat out of here and to the gig.” “How’d you know about the gig?” asked Filthy Sanchez. “How does anyone?” replied J. “Woah... Heavy thought.” J trussed Germy up like a British MP and slung him over his shoulder.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
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