It's a friday night, I'm sitting at home, contemplating a sexual encounter with my inflatable goat, Cecil. Cecil looks at me. I look back.
The foreplay completed, I reverse the polarity on my vacuum enlarger so I can use it to make Cecil nice and firm, when...
The phone rings. It rings again. It rings again. It rings again.
It can't be my boss, because it's a little plastic box with a handset and buttons. And it's still ringing. I pick it up.
"Simon?" It's my boss. He tells me on of my informants called and wants to meet me in town. I get the address and kiss Cecil goodbye. He bleats, or maybe that's just the leaky valve...
I didn't know then, but I'd never see Cecil again.
I've went to meet my informant - apparently he's working as a salesperson in a run-down department store. No worries. I break out my holiday hawaiian shirt that looks suspiciously like the results of Elvis's last stomach pump, and head off to the store, located in a definitely seedy part of town. Not the sort of place one would send one's mother, dressed in lurex strides, to - unless of course the rent was due.
I get there...
The doorman's an ugly mother, so I tell him. He hits me. I shoot him. I go to the complaints department - if you want service around here, you've got to go out and get it. I tell the woman what happened with the guy and they say it's terrible and that they'll inform me later in the mail as to the results of their enquiry. Meanwhile I'm supposed to have a happy day.
"Listen -" I say, getting a little heated "How am I supposed to have a happy day? Ammunition doesn't grow on trees y' know"
So this woman on the other side of the counter says that there's nothing she can do. I ask to see the management - I'm definitely going to take a personal interest in this. She tells me to take a seat in the corner. I thank her for her goodwill, but it's 1 .73 calibre Magnum Magnum shell I'm after, Copper tip, Platinum Centre and soft lead surround. She isn't paying attention, but it doesn't matter, the manager arrives. He's ugly - it's obviously an ugly shop. I tell him. He hits me. I shoot him. I'm two slugs down and the cow across the counter still won't help me. I consider shooting her, but what the hell, it's be kind to ugly people week. I ask to see the next in charge. She leaves so I grab a peice of her notepaper and scratch a little note on it: "I've always wanted you. Take me now" and sign the collection of vowels and consonants that are on her name plate. It looks more like a dish from a hunagrian restaraunt.
The next in charge arrives, wearing a teflon sports jacket, the kind you wear hunting with the wife, just in case she's realised that a tragic accident far more lucrative than a divorce. Guaranteed to stop a flying goldfish moving at 2 yards a year.
"How can I help you?" he asks.
"Can you recite Yoko and John's marriage vows backwards?" I ask
"I'm afraid..."
"Can you kick start a 460 big block?"
"I don't think..."
"Do you Linda Lovelace's home number?"
"I..."
"Is your mother still doing house calls?"
"NO!"
"Then you can't help me" I toy with the idea of shooting him, but discard it
"Where's Menswear?" I ask. He points. I shoot him. It's rude to point.
I get to Menswear, and it's like hell in there. Apparently the Michaelangelo Virus mutated and infected their cash register and Bankcard Machine - You put the card in and it scrambles your credit history.
I run my card through cos I've got nothing to lose.
"Mr ROCKERFELLR!!!" the guy behind the counter drools as the register's big-spender light comes on. One for the home team!
He's a nerdy guy, tall, glasses, ugly (as if I need to say). Should've worked in computers except he's probably a premature ejactulator as well, judging by the scuff marks on his trousers. I finger the Magnum Magnum, but what the hey, It's "Be kind to geeky guys with personal problems" week next week, so I give him a break. Radius and Ulna, left arm - He falls to the floor wailing.
He comes back with Moby Dick on a stick and I know that my assonance is not failing me.
I see my contact, Red McKenzie, named after the popular colour. I browse on over to him, stopping for a moment at their BPV stand. All the stuff is Teflon of course, the new age wonder fabric - I'd like to see that stop a .44 sharpened platinum slug launched from a hunting rifle 3 feet away. That's why I stick with the old-fashioned protection, my Trojan 5 solid inches of hardened stainless steel. True, it is a little heavy, and has almost no turning capability, but with the castors I added to the bottom, it's just the trick for hunting down a shopping mall murderer. Except on Escaltors.
I make like I'm interested in the Teflon by reading the label "MADE IN TIWAN" Yep - that makes me confident. They can't even spell TYEWAN.
My attention span expires with a pin and I move on.
"What's the matter Red?" I ask
"Don't call me by my first name!" he cries, "use my code name.."
"Your code name?"
"Blue!"
"Okay Blue, what have you got for me?" I ask
"Two triple thick shakes and a turtle-neck sweater"
"I mean what did you want me for?" I repeat, getting a little annoyed
"Oh, It's the Princess Di / Prince Charles breakup" he whispers in hushed tones
"Pardon?"
"Princess Di Prince Charles" he says
"Sorry?"
"IT'S ABOUT THE PRINCESS DI, PRINCE CHARLES BREAKUP!" he shouts
"Oh? What about it?" I went on, knowing the future of the world (and not to mention Womens Magazines depended upon the happy marriage of the Royal Couple.
"It's Charles - he wants to bring back beheading"
I'd never been a fan of Oral sex ever since I'd met Mr Roberts, and this sounded disgusting.
"Why?"
"So he can be"
>Crack<
A small calibre shot rung out and hit Red/Blue in the left hand shirt pocket. It hit him straight in his cigar case. Unfortunately Red carried a Inter- continental Ballistic Missile in there for personal defence.
When the smoke cleared, I was in a completely new plot, one without the terrible dead end that the last one had had.
I was Sylvie Stallone. (And don't think I forgot about the royals)
- Don't call me Sylvie -
I'd got back from Nam back in 91, it was hell. Every time I went on a package tour I always regretted it. My average age was nineteen plus some more years, but I still hated the place. And now the Royals were pushing me around.
It started with the small stuff - the thin end of the wedge, Di not showing to my stag do, Charlie making ears at me over the TV; then it gravitated to the big stuff. I get home from the Steel Mill and find that the Queen had called and groined DeNiro and taken the wife and kids.
Quicker than you could say Rocky, I strapped on the gloves and headed off to the Palace. The Queen was in the throne room, dropping a grogran, so I waited patiently for her return. I chatted to the corgis (Shithead, Scumsucker & Pussface - Named after the kids apparently) while I was waiting. That got boring, so I told them my war record until they killed themselves. I only got as far as "When I was in Nam..", so I was left feeling a little deflated.
Just then the Queen comes out fighting. Someone must have tipped her off, so she tries to rush me. She's in so much of a hurry she forgot to pull her daks up, but that's ok, the restricted movement would give me the edge. I thump her a couple of times in the guts, but she crowns me across the face 3 or 4 times till I'm seeing stars. Or maybe that's just me, I don't know. Then she drops to her knee and slips me a right into the cod-peice and I'm down. She then proceeds (with the traditional British fairness) to stomp me in the face with her shoes. Luckily, I haven't got any land to colonise, so she doesn't kill me.
I see Anne galloping up and it dawns on me - IT'S A TAG MATCH! Queenie slaps Anne and she's coming at me with with 400 pounds of Royal fury. So that's who eats all the stuff that's got those "by Appointment" labels on it! Anyway, because I'm deeply in the shit, I decide to switch from Rambo to Rocky, because the ring's more his style, which is a comment on the characters athletic abilities and not sexual preferences. Anne slugs me in the guts and Rocky goes down. Kramer stands up and kicks her in her saddle-blown backside and she slips onto the floor. In this light she almost looks like Meryl, except that she's not crying. I wait a minute while she gets up. Still not crying, so I can't be Meryl. She charges me with a right, but it was a fake and she lands me a knee in the crown jewels Kramer goes down. Serves him right, he was a wimp anyway. Tango or Cash gets up depending on who was who, but it doesn't matter cos we're both the same by the end anyway
Now there's going to be trouble - Tango or Cash is pissed.
I pull out the service issue, .99 calibre Teflon coated, genuine pigskin, double insulated, snub-nose, laser-sighted, crosshatched Pearl Handled, fully automatic... where was I? I that's right - gun. I shoot the queen in the head, but she keeps her cigarette box there and the bullet ricochets off and hits Anne in the chest. She goes down and expires.
The Queen stares. "How am I supposed to get rid of that now the corgis are gone?!" she screams at me. "Who's going to take her place at official events?"
I think about this for a while. I've always liked frilly skirts, and the thought of smoking all those "By appointment" cigarettes has me by the short and curlies.
"Do I get a crown?" I prompts
She gets that sneaky look in her eyes - the one you see on pound notes out of he corner of your eye, but that's never there when you look directly at her.
"What sort?"
"Sterling Silver, Ruby and Diamond encrusted" I say, crossing my fingers.
"It's a deal!" She says "Can you ride?"
"What's wrong with Phillip?" I ask, horrified.
"Horses, you idiot!"
"Like a trooper..."
"Like a trooper..."
"A STATE trooper?" the Queen asked.
"No no" I apportioned, as I had rarely apportioned before, apportioning for an opprtunity one might bad-grammatically say. Or not, perhaps, if they were running an English Lit, C- average and it was the last essay of the term, entitled "What I did to my family with a tyre level during my Christmas Holidays" and you were an apportioning ametuer. Or was it Ameteur, I never knew? But I did know how to apportion, and I was apportioning now, believe me.
"Apportion, Apportion" I said to break the monotony. (See, I told you I was apportioning didn't I?"
"Abortion? Abortion?" the Queen Screeched "What do you know of Charles?"
I had her by the long and strandies and she knew it.
I smile knowingly.
She reaches behind her and pulls a and industrial vacuum enlarger from out
of a drawer close at hand.
"Abortion this" she says reaching for the power switch
Knowing I'd probably be sucked to oblivion, I decided to bluff it.
"Do you know what I'm wearing?" I ask, speaking very quietly
She pauses; I've got her again. She has to know, otherwise it won't work, the pleasure and pain will be incomplete. "Where?" she asks, moistening her lips in anticipation.
"Underneath my body armour.." I say, smiling that smile of mine again (You know, the smile that you give the police when they break into your house, trying to catch you watching X-Rated Swedish films about Cheese Making in the early 1920's but you've got one of those .001 second START videos, and before they can make it to the TV you're watching re-runs of "Little House on the Prairie" whilst simulatneously vomiting all over the floor (it's a side-effect, but what the hey) and the other Video machine has dissappeared into the secret tunnel they used to use to smuggle goats out of the monastery next door during the depression. That smile.)
The queen bites - she's just got to know; What AM I wearing underneath the armour? Is it the sweat-soaked singlet that Sigourney Weaver wore to kill the Alien and boost ratings in ALIEN? Or maybe it's the Redneck favourite "USA - LOVE IT OR I'LL KILL YOU", or maybe it's something different. Maybe it's just a sloganed T-Shirt - "I choked Linda Lovelace" or "My other car is an armoured" or maybe even the queens favourite "Corgi riders from Hell"
Whatever it is, she'll never know, her crown slips over her eyes and covers her view - I kick the enlarger out of her hands just as charles walks in - it catches him on the ear as it switches on...
"NOT AGAIN!" he wails as I rip the queen a couple in the stress-fractured corset and make a run for it.
I'm sprinting down the Main hallway as the Queens personal guard, armed with automatic weapons (believe it!) rush down the passagway beside me.
I've got maybe 10 seconds till they get me - there's only one thing for it! I grab a fistful of drapes and stuff them up my shirt, leaving tail to hang out all round my body in a skirt. I then rush face first at the wall 3 or 4 times till my face becomes swollen and discoloured. Just in time, I reach through the flimsy structure of a plot and pick up a microphone from where I'd hastily written it.
They arrive, I spun round to face them, and speak.
"The Queen's bodyguard, are they the fit sexual athletes that we've been led to believe? Will they really poke anything in a skirt? I'm OPRAH, and I'm hear to find out...."
As the terrified screams disappear into the distance, I discard my disguise, step over the discarded weapons and make my way to episode #43... >As the terrified screams disappear into the distance, I discard my disguise, >step over the discarded weapons and make my way to episode #43...
I was in a particulalrly dirty episode, I could tell. Perhaps the tower of London started it, I don't know, all I DID know was that there was going to be lots of words like aperture and thrust and sough.
The alert was out for me at the palace, and I didn't think the Oprah trick would work twice in a row so I made a break for a garbage van, conveniently parked beside the servants exit. I buried myself in the garbage, pushing aside the inflatable greek sheep with the "by appointment" stamp on it's plastic hindquarters and nudging my way through the full gloss covers of Annes "Rampant Stallion Monthly" magazines
Deep in the garbage, I rested whilst waiting for the opportune moment. The truck starting wakened me from the half sleep, which was a shame, as I was just getting to the part where the large breasted women were showing me pictures of tunnels and rockets and nudging each other in a knowing manner. In fact, it was the same knowing manner that Sister Juliana had when she smacked all the boys in our class for running around naked after swimming class when we were about 7, because she knew that by giving us a good hiding would save us from hellfire and damnation. And it worked too, except now I can only acheive sexual peaks if I think about her, a set of steel head golf clubs, a wooden ruler and a pop-riveter. But I digress. I awoke, and was a little annoyed, as I'm sure I saw a wooden ruler and a dusty habit in the background of my dream now I come to think of it. So I was a little miffed as the British are prone to say, in between eating chip butties and watching eastenders and saying "Trubble at Mill"
The truck rolled out the gate in the way rubbish trucks do, with a couple of guards to stop it and check that there wasn't anything good that they could take home and sell to the newspapers when they retired. They missed me at the bottom and I was once more free.
I decided to go to "Randy Ronalds Root Room", a little shop I knew that specialised in masturbation aids. That was the good thing about Ronald, he never pretended that what he sold was for fulfilling a normal relationship, he came across with the goods.
I sold him all the "Rampant Stallion Monthly" magazines I had and had a pretty penny when I left. I was all copper and looked really nice. I got some other money too, so I wasn't too hard up.
I decided to cruise the main street looking for some big boys action, some- thing in the line of an all-human review.
I didn't even see the freight train with my name on it...