Indy Penance Day

It was a hot summer day in London, the sun illuminated off all the little cunty cafes, bars, second hand record shops and little places selling fancy little over priced gifts, the sort of places people with far more money than sense go to buy little trinkets for their shit hill mates and exchange them over merlot and fake yakkety cackles on a Sunday afternoon.
Jack struggled to walk down the street in his ultra tight spray on jeans, hooded fleece with a waistcoat style leather jacket on, an oversized beanie hat hung empty on to the back of his head like a Rasta cruelly robbed of his dreadlocks by a massive swooping racist eagle. Brown leather shoes that were about 2 sizes to big finished the “look”. A normal person would have been sweating like a paedophile at the repairs desk in PC world, but not Jack, there was no meat on him, with his flip floppy comedy sized feet and thin legs, Jack looked like a disgraced clown, (with aids).
He was on his way to “Bar Terminus”, an ex abortion clinic turned into a wine bar slash cocktail hub. Terminus was popular with locals who would enjoy the difficult surroundings of jars of aborted foetuses and its surgical steel finish. The fuck hole of an owner had carried on the surgical theme with the prices, expertly removing a fiver from the womb of someone’s wallet for a bottle of specially imported Palestinian beer, again, popular with the locals due to the difficulty of production and reassuring price.

Jack tried to stride confidently despite the restrictive nature of his trousers, his white Iphone 4s playing tunes from a Croatian double amputee techno DJ “Mauf Peace” who was the latest big thing in Hoxton cutting and mixing using only his face. The repetitive thumping, which sounded like a commodore 64 trying to load, going into his ridiculous Princess Leia sized headphones. What a cunt.

Approaching Bar Terminus, his friend waved at him from across the road, Jack strode out waving back enthusiastically, his arm raised like a skinny Hitler, almost instantly the screech of tyres sounded like a Macaw Parrot connected up to a microphone and a huge Marshall amp having a large unkempt finger inserted into its avian anus.
Jack never even looked around, his ridiculously loud music and expensive noise cancelling headphones now performing the act of cunt cancelling, and ensuring poor Jack would never make it across the other side of the street. The thump was dull and unimpressive and the whiplash cracking his overly thin body hard and the force of the single decker bus, doing about 30mph tore his head clean off his body sending his head, oversized beanie hat and silly headphone in a different direction to his body, which was flapping in the air like a shitty pigeon. His lifeless and headless body slapping into the tarmac, girls screamed, (while still trying to look cool) and Jacks head slowly stopped spinning and ended up staring up into the sky with the same gormless look on his face that he left the house with. How poignant Jacks last image of the sky above Hoxton was to be…

Across the pond, in NASA headquarters, another man stared into the sky gormlessly but through a huge telescope, looking away, then looking back, in utter disbelief, looking away, then back, several more times, rubbing his eyes, and finally turning to his colleagues and screaming “THEY’RE HERE, motherfuckers, they are here”, “The pizzas?” chortled one of his colleagues, “no you asshole piece of shit motherfucker, aliens, Ive got three, repeat three huge UFO’s just appeared on the screen doing a seven zero niner (nobody knew what a seven zero niner was, it sounded cool). Looking and confirming his colleague suddenly drained of all colour in his face, the reality of us not being alone in the universe overwhelming him. He drew a colt .45 pistol out of pocket and blew most of his brains out all over the console. “Asshole” His colleague said, trying to wipe the brains and blood away. “Asshole” shouted the boss as he came down and stood over the smoking corpse, “Son of a bitch” they both added, “motherfucker”.

The boss, Baumhauser, stood staring at the screen in disbelief as the three huge objects bore down on the Earth, “Assholes”, “Sons of bitches” he repeated, chewing on a cigar. In the meantime the magnitude of the situation hit another one of the radar staff in the space monitoring station, and he too drew a colt .45 and blew his face up. “Asshole” screamed Baumhauser, “Son of a bitch”. “motherfucker”.

Finally Baumhauser got on the phone to the Whitehouse (not Paul) and got the secretary of state on the line and told him the news, the phone went silent, and then the characteristic sound of a colt .45 and slapping noise of brain on wall. “Asshole” boomed Baumhauser, and said other stuff relating to the recently deceased’s mother being of ill repute. A further 8 people shot themselves in the face before sense took over and a plan of action was put into place, the priority being on contact with the Alien visitors.

Every form of communication was used to try and contact the alien vessels which were now just outside of the earths orbit; each country tried everything they could. The French played a concert with Jean Michel Jarre, nothing, Japan used the Honda robot Asimo, blanked, the Yanks used a special sign language, not a titter back, the British, well, they did precisely fuck all, reason one, they had no money as they had spunked it all paying benefits for scum bag scroungers, and the fucking Olympics, the rest was spent on quelling the riots that were happening across the nation, as the spacecraft had disrupted the sky satellite reception. Eventually a NASA worker, who was a bit stoned, spotted the numbers 7344556 on the side of one of the huge vessels, and as a very last resort punched the number and a short message into a fax machine. To everyone’s surprise the machine sprung to life and the message went through, saying “Welcome to Earth, we would like to talk” The shock increased when a message came back fifteen minutes later saying “We are ready to address the people of Earth, sorry for the delay, our fax machine jammed!!”.

The televisions of the world simultaneously cut out and an arachnid alien face appeared on the screen, most people didn’t pay attention, thinking it was some sort of DFS or Halifax advert, others thought it was million pound drop and the strange pointy featured beaked beast on the screen was Davina McCall looking quite good, (for her).
That was until the craft started to break orbit and suddenly people paid attention. The English dropped their plates of Findus crispy pancakes, oven chips and peas, and briefly stopped beating their wives, The Scottish did nothing, as they were still 22 years away from having a television signal that could break through the clouds of frozen fog and chip fat smoke, the Irish didn’t have the TV on, as they were out swilling pints of Murphy’s as it was a Tuesday, 11am, and the Welsh were rubbing their legs at the prospect of another life form on the planet for them to hold down and fuck while sizzled on moonshine, or whatever local piss was en vogue.

Eventually, and after about 30 minutes of uncomfortable attempts for the Alien spokesperson trying to get the attention of the earthlings, which included a huge lazer blast that destroyed Greenland, the humans stopped, started to listen, and started to shit themselves.

“I am Zulnep of the 7th Quadrant, we have travelled many parsnips across space (muted human chuckles) and have come here with our huge battle cruisers” (collective sound of human arseholes pulsating in fear, and the cracks of Colt .45 pistols blowing the back of American heads off like shaken coca cola bottle tops, and the ensuing cry of “Son of a bitch, or “mother fucker” from the bereaved. “We have come here for one reason, and one reason alone”……The pause was uncomfortable, like the moment in Xfacor when Louis has to inform a contestant that he is through to the next round, and takes a fucking age about it……”That reason……is”………..”we will tell you after the adverts”. “Fuck sake”, some of the braver Humans said, while all terrestrial TV was interrupted by adverts for strange alien products…..Suddenly Zulnep came back and said, “the reason we are here….Is for the complete, and unabridged destruction”…Mass panic started to spread, in parts of London, in a final desperate act, people started to shit into their hands and smear it onto the windows of Foxtons and Natwest banks. Zulnep took a breath, I say breath, it was like an anus on his neck, fuck knows what it did. “The destruction of…Hoxton….thats it, that’s all, then we’ll bugger off, and that’s that”. People collectively looked, baffled. In parts of India and Africa, they chatted to each other about the skinny jeaned “Beinchods” that live there and how they deserved annihilation at the hands (fins/claws/hooks) of the invaders.

The only people who were not aware of their fate were the people of Hoxton themselves, too busy sipping wanky lattes and using the free internet to “check out” the news of Tracy Emins latest skip full of shit that cretins believe is art.

The huge battle craft made their way to just north of Liverpool Street train station, the rest of the world, breathed a sigh of relief, nobody asked why, nobody cared, people just got on with their day, the fucking Geordies were incensed that the craft had affected the TV signal to the football and were calling them down for a glassing, eventually they went back to their hovels and took their anger out of their wives and girlfriends, artistically creating false tentacles and making them take the appearance of extra terrestrials, before beating them black and blue, with fists, feet and belts.

The craft took position, the idiots below cooed “cool” thinking it was some sort of art installation…

Part 2, absolute wanton destruction and Alien sodomy, coming soon (the writing, not the human fuckees)

Geoff and Lorraine a romance - Part 1

This is an extract from my first attempt at a romantic novel, its called Geoff and Lorraine and I hope that I can use my limited writing skills and sexual experience to truly convey the full explosive sexual chemistry between these two factory workers in Dudley.

Geoff was busy on the production line of “Sanjays Meat Packers”. It hadn’t been the same since the Pakistani’s took over, “Packer Stanis” Geoff thought, chuckling to himself in a way that would make you want to stick a screwdriver into his eye, the cunt.
Further down the line was Lorraine, her job was to control the machine which put cling film around the different meats. Lorraine had a woeful perm; she looked very much like Gene Wilder after a huge shock, such as a close bereavement. Despite the fact that she cut the same shocking figure as a poodle that had been extensively tested on by a cosmetics company Geoff had a thing for her. “Ha” he chuckled again, the thing was his penis. It spent much of the day curled up like a frightened king prawn in his Y fronts snuggled betwixt a rain cloud of unkempt greying pubes.
The casual observer, on seeing Geoff’s constant chuckles to himself, might have commented that they hoped that chuckling caused a terminal illness so bad it made Aids looks like sweat rash. Geoff had an annoying chuckle, similar in annoyance to the sound Kenny G would make through his sax if a pharaoh ant crawled into his anus and stung him rectally mid note.

There was something between them as they spent their day watching hunks of dead animal go past them on huge conveyor belts like a grizzly generation game. She found Geoff funny, his constant little quips and dull observations brought a smile to her wrinkly cigarette raped face. Nobody else found Geoff funny, not his parents; his nan even called him a cunt once. Geoff was happy when she died at the hands of incompetent non English speaking nurses in a care home having spent the two days previous marinating in her own widdle. Geoff chuckled thinking about it, what a tosser.

Geoff had been staring at Lorraine all day; the tension had been building like that of the Libyan who shoved the small shard of metal pipe into the captured Colonel Gaddafi’s anus. Geoff wanted a similar resolution with Lorraine, capturing her with his love, pulling out of her storm drain' and finally shoving his metal pole of justice into her. “Phwoar” he thought with the sexual imagination of a brain injured scaffolder.
Lorraine glanced at him trying to flick her hair, which was a tumbleweed of curls, as she went off for her third fag break of the day, it was only 11, barking out to Glynis to cover her section. Glynis was a pig faced squat little turdlette. Geoff had thought to himself that he would rather stick his penis into a George Foreman grill full of hot glass and used heroin needles than her probable murder scene of a fanny. He didn’t even like looking at her. She was very fat (and ginger) he expected her vagina to look like Mick Hucknells autopsy, he looked away shuddering like a parkinsons sufferer with a chill.

Nothing had ever happened with Geoff and Lorraine, they came close one year at the firms Christmas do when it wasn’t owned by the Pakistani’s. They had got a cab together and they were both more worse for wear than a skinny jean wearing Hoxton twat. Geoff had reached over that night and had tried to finger her, licking his finger first like he was about to turn the pages in a phone directory in some piss stinking public phone box. She was well up for it, the whole event was brought to dramatic close when the jagged finger nail on Geoff’s middle finger struck her labia causing her to yell in pain and turning her off like a vegetables life support.

Geoff shuddered when he recalled the memory.

Lorraine came back and passed Geoff. “Ya alright Geoff” She farted out in a lazy northern way, the syllables all coming out together like they were shy and doing some sort of strange lingual conga. Geoff replied “I’m half left” Lorraine chuckled like an ugly pot faced childless dowdy wreckage of a woman typically would. Geoff attempted to make conversation but Anuj the foreman came along tapping his watch. Geoff thought something unprintably racist and chuckled to himself yet again and Lorraine skulked off back to her section, already contemplating yet another cigarette.

Several cigarette breaks later, a dull sandwich based lunch break and countless cunty chuckles later and it was home time. Geoff, having filed his nails, decided to take the bull by the horns and finish business by asking Lorraine if she wanted a drink down the local. “Ear Lols, fancy a pint of mild” Geoff sprayed out, “Are you asking me out” Lorraine replied (while this exchange was happening a small fly decided to end its life by flying directly into a spiders web, which was better than witnessing this coming together of two of lives biggest wastes of oxygen). After more verbal exchanges the penny finally dropped and Lorraine had realised that Geoff was in fact asking her out.
They left Sanjays and made the short walk to the local pub, the Halfway Inn. Inside Geoff gave a cheery hello to the barman and owner George. George gave a token smile back but wheezed “wanker” under his breath. George had no particular beef with Geoff (Geoff would have found it funny if there was a beef, being that he worked in a meat packing factory and would have done one of his chuckles, which was in fact the reason why George thought he was a walloping cunt).

They sat in the corner of the pub, Lorraine was fiddling with beer mats and poofing her ridiculous candy floss hair up. Their conversation was stale, pointless and stuttering, but despite this, Lorraine felt a stirring in her “fanny”, a bit like attending to a large pan of stew and dumplings that had been left for ages. Several pints later, many bad jokes and a chorus of frankly repellent chuckling, Lorraine finally stepped up and put it to Geoff, “I want you inside meh” she stated, “down thur” she clarified pointing at her vagina. “Get your coat luv, you’ve pulled” Geoff said, in a way which would have arc welded most vaginas firmly shut.
They bundled out of the pub and started to make their way home, her shoes scraping along on every third step. They bundled back her tawdry one bedroom ex coal workers shit hole. Geoff had a sneaky grasp on his “package” to try and get the blood going to it and hope that it performed better than his last attempt at a sexual encounter in which his penis did a perfectly good impression of Stephen Hawking with a flat battery……

Part two to follow…..