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codes: M+f+ / humil / viol / caution /
anal / nc
---
WARNING: This story is a nasty bit of
business, but I assure you no harm had come to anyone in its making. Still, if reading such material offends you,
just hit the road, you won’t be missed.
And for those of you who choose to stick around, I think you should know
that I don't condone or advocate anything that happens in this story. I may or may not even like it. It's simply a fantasy, a product of my imagination,
and thus, completely fictitious.
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A
Band of Despicables
(An
Erotic Horror Story)
BY
Hunsi
Book
cover Picture
Click
to meet the players
/files/Authors/HumblePie/Pics/despicables.jpg
Sitting at the Defendants table
before the ecumenical court, the accused clerics looked rather inattentive if
not annoyed.
One of whom, Father Archibald, who
could care less about what was being said about him in court, was busy swatting
at a fly buzzing about his head.
"Horace Archibald!" The Bishop, the chief magistrate barked,
"Stop what you're doing right now, you poor excuse for a man of the
cloth."
"Aye, Bishop Martin, I can't
argue with you about that," Father Archibald readily agreed as he tossed
the fly he'd captured into his mouth as casually as he would a raisin.
"That's
disgusting!” The Bishop scowled, looking on repugnantly. “I can't tell which of the two of you I find
the more pitiable. You or Father
Cornelius, that hunchback, that monstrosity sitting there beside you with his
finger up his nose fishing for what or why I dare not ask.
Then turning toward the man sitting at the
head of the table, "Now, as for you, Father Obasi!”
“You told this court that you know nothing
about the paternity of the child, yet the girl points to you with tears that
are real enough.”
"Are you saying she has made it all
up?"
"No, I'm not saying that at all, your Eminence. What
I’m saying is that the brat she dropped don’t look
like anyone sitting at this table. More
to the point, the little bundle she dropped has neither Hoggs
pig-like snout, nor Oliver's simian-like brow ridge, or Barnaby's pointy li’l rat ears. And,
it goes without saying, she’s not black skinned like
me.
“That, Father Obasi,
is what they call a blessing!” The
Bishop cynically scoffed, then pounded his gavel when an equally cynical scattering
of chuckles erupted in the audience.
“Yes, well, what you call a blessing, I call
no proof!” The black cleric, Omar Obasi , said
triumphantly, as much to the Bishop as to those gathered to observe the
proceedings.
"Besides,” he then went on, “why would
I even want to go through all the trouble?
I mean, think about it. Doing a
little thing like her can be quite taxing on the groin, especially for a big
fellow like me, and especially when all a fellow would have to do is stick it
down her gullet and have her flushed the whole lot down. Or so I would conjecture, you understand, as
I wasn’t there and have no personal knowledge about what actually transpired.
“You do understand that, don’t you, Marty,” Omar
Obasi, said, ending his presentation with a smirk.
“That’s Martin, not Marty, you buffoon.”
“Er, sorry there Marty,
I mean, Martin, I meant no harm. I just
figured that since its okay for the lads whose bums you fuck to call you Marty,
I thought it only fitting given the fucking you are giving me right now.”
“You know, you truly disgust me,” the Bishop
scowled, “but I praise heaven for the stupid who all but admit their guilt.”
"Me?
You point to me when the brat she dropped hasn't a single kinky black
hair on her head?” Omar bristled
indignantly as would any father confessor about to be nailed to the cross.
“And as for the tears that little tattle-tale
seems so eager to shed, that speaks to nothing but her acting skills,” he then
added in his defense.
“And a good actress she is too. Always quick to put on an artistic quality
performance to engender one’s sympathy, when in actual fact, there is nothing
behind the sad little face and crocodile tears but pretend.”
“Oh?
If you haven’t touched her, how would you know that, Father Obasi?"
"Ah, ah, ah,” he hemmed and hawed, then
turning about, he pointed his finger at Sister Margaret sitting the audience
directly behind him.
“Sister Margaret, that’s how I know! More than once she has told me how the child
cries up a storm whenever she finds it necessary to wash away the gunk that
saturates her every pore.”
“Her hands, her face, her tummy, as well as
those swimming little seedlings that amass inside her bottom hole
and hairless little quim. And that’s not even to mention the extra
effort the saintly Sister makes to wipe away the drool that seeps from out of
her mouth in a curdled, viscous, lumpy white strands upon those delectable li’l kiddy titties of hers.”
“Oh, merciful heavens!
Your language, sir, the filth that spills from out your mouth! You are absolutely despicable! The devil himself couldn’t be more profane.”
“Your eminence, don’t blame the
messenger. I’m only here to speak truth,
not to mask it beneath flowery words. I mean, the truth be what it is. The
child is a liar, and there’s no stopping a stubborn Sister Margaret once she
has made up her mind to bring the baby pink flush of her cheeks back to life.
"That's not true, your
Eminence," a tearful Sister Margaret stood up from her seat in the
audience. "I only did what I did
because that’s what Father Obasi instructed me to
do.”
“He instructed you?”
“Yes, your
Eminence,” she said in a mousy little voice while cradling her beads. “He even told me what he wanted done, and
showed me too."
“He instructed you? He showed you?”
“Yes sir, I even thought to write it down,”
she tearfully said as she unfolded a piece of paper she held and then began to
read: “I want you to pick clean the crusty film of scum stuck between her
teeth, and then scour out her ass clean of the seed."
“Those were his words?”
“Yes, Sir, to a one. He said he wanted that poor dear girl well
cleaned out for Father Hogg and Oliver and the grotesquely ugly humpback who’d
be doing her next,” she tearfully followed.
"Guilty! Guilty!
Bishop Martin cried out, slamming down his gavel. "I need hear no more! Judgment is herein rendered.
“Now it's just a matter of how best to
punish the lot of you.”
“Given the Monsters that you are, you’re
certainly deserving of the worst. But as
this is an ecumenical court, and not a court of law, I unfortunately have but
three choices. Excommunication,
defrocking, or rehabilitation, which is the less sever penalty, but in my mind
is the most just, and I'll tell you why.”
“You are a band of despicable, the lowest of
the low, and to just toss you out the door and into the community at large, no
child, no woman, no dog will ever be safe again. However, should I choose to send you to a
cloistered monastery somewhere out in the hinterlands until you find your
redemption, the better for you, the better for the whole of humanity."
"And so I decree," he said as he
pounded down his gavel. “Court
adjourned!”
----------
Chap 2
The following morning they were led out the
door with bags in hand to board a coach. The coachmen, a tall, lean sturdy
fellow tossed their bagged atop the coach then open the door for them to board.
“Pardon, sir,” but I don’t believe I ever
saw one like you before.” He said as Omar Obasi stepped
up to board.
“One what?”
“A black, sir, if you don’t
mind me saying. Up here in the
“I’m Kenyan, schooled by a ministry in
"Now if I may ask, where is it we're to
be are sheltered," Omar asked while bracing for the worse.
"Don't know, Father. All I know is that I'm to take you to Loch
Muir where we'll meet another coach waiting to take you on the final leg of
your journey.
---
The trek form Glen Haven to loch Muir was a
four hour ride with Cornelius humped over in his seat drooling mouthfuls of
spittle on Omar’s shoes, and Father Hogg's up-tilted, pig-like snout dripping
snot all along his sleeve.
The four aberrations of nature that Omar
traveled with were a despicable bunch to be sure. They were coarse, foul,
tactless and repulsively ugly, whereas Omar looked quite the opposite.
Though black as obsidian as he was, he
looked no less the dashing and otherworldly handsome vision of every girls
Harlequin dream. That is, until it was
too late and the girl realized that inside that paragon of manliness loomed the
very incarnation of De Sade himself.
And just as De Sade
had a soft spot in his heart for the grotesque, he too had a soft spot in his
heart for the horrors that were Cornelius and Hogg.
So, instead of choosing to slap Cornelius
and Hogg upside the head for soiling his clothes, he simply pulled out his
kerchief and wiped clean his sleeve and shoes of the snot and the slobber, and
then stopped to ask his traveling companions the question he felt pressed upon
to ask.
"By the course we travel I reckon we’re
destined for the highlands, a barren place indeed. I wonder, might any
of you fellows know whether the ministry provides for the orphans in the
No one answered, of course. Not because they weren't wondering that
themselves, but because the whole lot of them were just too damn busy picking
off the fleas and scratching their asses to pay attention to him. That is other than Brother Oliver who chanced
to speak up.
“Not unless them
kiddies sprout out from beneath the rocks. The land is too barren to bear to
grow much else.”
“Yes, Brother Hogg,” Omar Obasi nodded in agreement, “I was thinking that
myself. But houses and building rise up
from the stone, so perhaps they have a gray stone depository to stable the
orphaned kiddies as well.”
“Hum, well, you just might have something
there, Brother Omar.”
“Well there you have it, we agree,” he
buoyantly replied, “We have us a chance!”
---
Their coach pulled up to the depot in Loch
Muir as the sun had reached high noon. The coachman pulled up to the trough to
water his horses, then led his passengers inside the tavern to water
themselves.
After good many pints of malts and a piss in
the trough on the way out, the coachman led them over to the coach that would
take them the rest of the way to GrimWold, that old
mockery on the Mire.
Their new coachman, a friendly sort,
extended them the courtesy of helping them board, while talking nonstop in his
unabashed manner. "You church fellows
sure be a smelly bunch. You fellows be washing much? Or, are
you blokes just too busy praying to care much about cleaning?”
“Is it me you be asking,” Omar asked upon
his boarding?
“Aye, sir, but don’t you take no offense, I
done smelt worse. Like me maw, she’s
plenty old n’ smelly. But Sir, that
hunchback who come before you, he’s got fleas by the plenty.”
“Yes, well, not to worry. They’re invited guests. They eat the lice you see,” he said to the
coachmen as he pat Cornelius upon his hump, and looking off beyond at a gray
stone building some meters further down the street, his attention drawn to a
nun he saw walking up the steps.
"What's that? He asked, pointing the way.
"
“Orphans?” Omar gasp.
“Yes, sir, and in these barren northern
reaches we got us a plenty. Fact, from
what I be hearing, them Sisters got them kiddy’s stacked up in there like li’l pink bricks, and they all be needing
a lap to sit upon.”
Omar’s gasp turned to a gulp, then
breathlessly he uttered as if to no one other than himself. "They got them an orphanage, a home for abandon
tots!"
"Stacks of them," Oliver followed,
equally awestruck, and again with a hushed voice that carried over to Barnaby.
"Little tykes! Ones that be needing
a lap to sit on," the wart-encrusted Barnaby said with a sigh, and a
croaking little voice that carried over to Hogg.
"Aye, tots in need of a lap. My lap, my saddle, and me
cock to ride. Or, as Cornelius would
have it, a hump to goose,” he nudged his hunchback friend standing at his side.
"Aye, I give them sweet li’pusses a nice good humping," he followed, spitting
out spittle, gathering in puddles upon the ground.
It was at that moment that Omar saw a nun
walking up the front entrance steps of the orphanage that his eyes were still
fixed upon. The nun, for all her
fineness and distinction, drew long and hard on his attention. Or more accurately, there was something in
the way she carried herself that stirred up a remembrance, and some very
pleasant thoughts.
"Can you give me a moment?” He asked
the coachmen. “I believe I might know
the sister walking up the orphanage steps, he followed, pointing the way.
“Know her, do yah?” The coachman inquired.
“I believe I do.”
”Well then, surely, so long as it don’t take
you but for a minute as you say. It
draws night fast here, and I want to reach the old monkery
before nightfall."
"Monkery?" Father Archibald asked, we’re going to a monkery? We're not Monks, we
wear a collar not robes."
"I think that means we once wore
collars,”
----
"Sister Mary Joseph, I thought I
recognized you," Omar said as he hurried up the steps.
"Omar !!! You big-black bastard," she squealed
like a school girl 20 + years her younger.
“Where have you been, I thought I lost you."
"Lost me? It’s been what . . . two weeks since I last pummeled your
ass? You mean to tell me that your cock
starved cunt of yours can't wait two
weeks?" He asked as he grabbed hold
of her chin, squeezed her cheeks and wormed a finger in and out of her puckered
lips.
"Yses, (Yes)”
she gargled, with arms flapping, her words slurred by the sluicing action of
his fingers dredging out the saliva that coated her throat.
“I waws war-reed
(I was worried) da’ bastards cut oaff
you balIs,” she somehow managed to spew out as he
wormed a third finger half way down her gullet.
"No, you cock hungry bitch. They don't cut the balls off their prized
bull anymore. They just put him to
pasture. And you? They got you locked up in that cast iron
chastity belt again?" he asked, withdrawing his fingers from her throat
and began wiping them clear of the slobber with her tongue.
“Ahem,” she coughed, “Why ask? It's never stopped you before, you big dicked black bastard,” she croaked, sputtering out the
spittle while her hands, now free, clamped down tight on his cock through his
trousers. The 30 something year old nun
buried beneath her habit might have been a bit discombobulated by the choking,
but her sexual appetite was running at full throttle.
"You're right. But locked up or not, I can promise I'll find
the key to that belt, and then enjoy the pleasure of blasting a tunnel up your
ass all the way up to your tits, while one of those sweet little orphaned tykes
you have under your care licks my balls, and swallows a bucketful of cum."
"Promise? Are you going to beat me, fuck me, roast me
over a grill, and then dunk me in a pail of cum to put out the flame?"
"Oh yes, that’s it. Sing for me, you hyped-up slutty
bitch. The way you invite your own
undoing is music to my ears. So yes, I
will set your ass down upon the fiery grill, and I’ll skew that cunt of yours too.
Then as you sing prettily, I'm going to barbecue your ass while that
little tyke attached to my cock struggles to suck in enough air to
breathe."
“Ummm,” she
groaned breathlessly, “how you kill me with your words. But please, don’t stop now, I hunger so for
the debasement.”
“I’d love nothing more, my lovely. You know well as I that treating you like
shit stokes me as much as it does you. But
given my limited time, right now I need know more about Grimwold,
the monkery, and until I learn more, all this sexual
foreplay will have to wait. I mean, for
all I know Father Barnwell, the Abbot, might not even eat meat!”
"Eat meat?” She laughed. “Sure he does. Scot, Brit, Welsh, even Irish tots - grilled,
baked, or kebab. It’s just that now, in
his elderly years, he has grown so weak and weary that he scarcely rises out of
bed anymore. And while the monks under
his guidance are left alone to do as they please, the lot of them are such
dullards they do little more than sit about pulling their pudd.”
"Huh! Well that’s good for starters.”
“Why do you say that?” She replied, somewhat
puzzled.
“There’s twenty of
them prayerful monks, right? Twice a day
at a minimum, that’s a lot of pudd.”
“Yes, the place reeks of it.”
“Well, think of the upside. Pools of pudd,
milk, food for the babies . . .” he said, ending it there with a wickedly twisted
grin.
“Hm! Yes, sounds quite imaginative. Far more so than how we feed the babies at
“Well, yes, that’s pretty much what I’ve in
mind, only the milk at Grimwold, the monkery, will no doubt have to come from what otherwise
would be left to puddle on the floor.”
It was then that he heard the voice and saw
the coachmen waving his arm, calling him to hurry along. "Got a go, they’re waiting on me. So when can I expect to see you next."
"Well, once you've gotten those Dumb-as-nails
Monks in line, send a courier and I'll stuff a few of those sweet little tarts
into my saddle bag and be on my way."
"Hopefully ones who
won't be missed. Oh, and a boy too! One that’s soft and delicate and pretty in
pink."
"A boy?"
"Yes, that pederast, Oliver, is among
us."
“Oh my. Well, I’m sure the little effeminate will be
burping up milk the day long,” she said laughing as she waved good-by.
---
They arrived at the Monkery
as the sun set upon the moors. The
ages-old gray stone hermitage covered with moss looked more a damp, dark tomb,
than it did a prayerful retreat.
And that sense of gloom was no less
pervasive on the inside as well. And
nowhere more so than around the table where the monks in residence sat fussing
over their ration of mutton and their barley soup.
“It’s no wonder I can’t get it up no more,”
Hester petulantly whined.
“Shut the fuck up, you old buffoon,”
Mortimer angrily replied, “You ain’t got no tail to put it in anyway.”
“There’s always Chessy’s
ass!”
“Fuck you,” Mortimer shouted. “No wonder you smell like shit. You old fag, I ought to . . . ,” he started
to say with a shaking fist as Omar and his gang of five entered the chamber. And as they did, the room suddenly grew
quiet.
“Why the quiet,” Omar Obasi
asked? “Is it because you’ve run out of
things to say, or have you just stopped bitching like a pod of hags on the rag
because of me?”
“If so, then please don’t let me
interfere. If you want to go at one
another for your own inaptitude, go ahead.
Me, I’m going to pursue a more constructive path.”
“Who the fuck are
you?” Mortimer grumbled scornfully, “Some jungle savage come to save us from
our errant ways?”
“My names Omar Obasi,
Father Obasi, and no, I’ve not come to save anyone
but me-self, especially no low life monks.
Now tell me, where can I find Father Barnwell?”
----
When Omar emerged from his meeting with the
feebly old, weak and frail Father Barnwell, he had his gang of five and the 20
monks in residence gather around the table.
“Alright then, hear me out,” he said to one
and all. “Father Barnwell his
relinquished his roll to me. And as such
I deem reorganization is in order. Your
hours of prayer remain the same of course, but the chores will now be shared
amongst you all.”
“Hogg will now assist Friar Wormwood with
the cooking. Oliver will help Hodge and
Finn tend to the mutton pen, and Archibald will help Dungy and Pascoe silo the
barley in the barley bin.
“The rest of you will rotate in and out in
accordance with the schedule.”
“Fuck no,” Mortimer let his concern
known. “If you think I’m to be eating
that slop knowing that brother Hogg has been dripping snot into the mix the day
long, you’re out of your mind.”
“Hum, you might have a point there,
Mortimer,” Omar nodded in agreement.
“Well, perhaps I’ll shift Hogg and Cornelius around.”
“What?” Wilcock, the ruckly robed monk bellowed out, sounding somewhat
perturbed.
“I don’t want that slobbering hunchback
anywhere near my soup. Spitting out
spittle by the mouthful as he does, he’s going to turn what’s already inedible
into a quagmire of puke.”
“And don’t you even think about making
Homer, that human shit ball, the chief Cookie.
Else wise, and hence forth, you’ll never know what went into the making
of those meat balls that go with the noodles.”
“Okay, okay, we’ll discuss that later,” a
thoroughly exasperated Omar sighed.
“Right now I want to talk about Sister Mary Joseph. She comes about to visit Father Barnwell
quite regularly I’m told.”
“Aye, that be true,” Friar Dungey said to a chorus of laughter. “She comes to sit on his face.”
“It’s about the only thing the poor ol’ chap can do anymore,” Brother Antonio followed.
“Aye, but she leaves him content.”
“True enough, like she do everyone. A tongue, a dick, a fist, it makes not a jot
of difference to that insatiable, unholy whore in a habit.
“Yes, well, I’m pleased to say she will
continue to come about quite regularly, though now, no longer alone. She will be bringing along some half-starved
chicks she has under her care who are in dire need of some kind fellows to
sprinkle around the seed to feed.
“You jest!” Friar Tuck scoffed, as if
hearing a bad joke. “Spread the
seed? You mean some place other than on
the floor?
“Yes, in any hole you like,” Omar replied
“Well now, that’s a chore you can sign me up
for,” Tuck chuckled.
“Aye to that,” Friar Horn replied.
“I’ll have them chickies burping up me pudd the
day long,” he followed with a pant, while pulling mightily upon his blood
engorged schlong with both hands, not one, and
completely in the bare.
“Splendid.
It’s good to know our li’l chicklings
will have plenty of seed to feed. As
they say, a full tummy is a very happy tummy.”
“That reminds me,” Omar then followed. “As our li’l chicklings will on occasion require a respite, a time free
of demand to allow the gears to cool, and the depositories to drain, I think
each of you such start saving it up in a cup or a bowl or whatever you have
handy instead off just letting the pudd puddle on the
floor . . .”
Aye, sure,” Friar Horn again piped up. “I got me a piss-pot that might be up to
holding enough of me pudd.”
---
Brothers Dungey
and Finn had scaled the slope to the spot where they could see the length of
the valley through which the coach would be traveling.
They had been scouring over every inch of
the terrain for an hour or more when Dungey gabbed
hold of Finn by the collar and pointed toward a scarcely visible speck off on
the horizon.
“See that?
Is that the coach,” he pointed as he danced about excitedly.
“Aye, I be thinking
so,” Finn replied, scarcely able to contain himself.
“I’d just been looking that way me-self and
saw me nothing.”
“Let’s go tell’ em,
Finn, let’s go before they go off animal-like on one another out of need.”
And they did, sliding and tumbling down the
steep slope along with an avalanche of loosened rocks until reaching the
bottom, and then dashed off as fast as feet could carry them to the Abbey’s
front vestibule.
“They’re coming, they’re coming,” they
shouted excitedly as they ran inside, stripping down to the bare as they did.
“You’ve seen the coach?” Omar asked, “How far away they be?”
“Stick your nose out the door and sniff the
air. It’s already rich with the smell
that fresh, young, untapped cunt coming round the
bend.”
And that’s exactly what Omar did. But as he reached for the latch, Mortimer,
who was already on the outside, pushed open the door with such a force that it
smacked Omar square on the chin, knocking him cold to the floor.
---
Chap 3
Tap,
tap, tap. . . (sound of a typewriter)
“Wake up you dumb fuck,” chief jailer Martin
scowled, and then began to shake Omar to rouse him out of his near comatose
state.
“The prisoner wagon is here waiting to take you off
to Grimwold Prison.
That damp, dark tomb where you’re to serve out your
twenty years. And I for one will
be damn glad to see your smelly ass go.”
“I say aye
to that,” Deputy Mary Joseph, the cellblock turnkey, said from behind.
As Omar Obasi slowly awakened, he pressed his hand on the side of
his head where the painful throbbing was most acute.”
“I told
you, you lout, get up, and stop the stalling or you’ll earn yourself another
clobbering.”
Slowly,
Omar managed to sit up on the side of the bottom bunk in the cell he occupied.
“Where am
I? What’s going on?”
“Shut the
fuck up. You know damn well where you
are and what’cha done, and where you’re going to
spend your next twenty years.”
“And trust me on this, you lout, Grimwold Prison, that damp, dark tomb where you’re going to
be sent is nothing less than pure hell. Even worse for a tight ass cutie like you. The line of fuckers waiting their turn to
tear up your ass will be winding down the cellblock 24/7.”
“Now turn
around so I can cuff your hands.”
Which he
did, while the near riotous clamor going on about him rose to a fevered pitch.
“Fry in
hell,” Jereoma Hogg shouted out while banging his cup
against the bars of his cell.
“That’s
right, fuck head,” shouted Cedric Cornelius from the cell across. “This here jail ain’t
fit for no cherry poachers the likes of you.”
“Aye, get
the fuck out,” Horace Archibald called from a cell further on. “We only got room for respectable criminals
here.”
And then when cuffed and led down the corridor
between the cells where the faces of Cornelius and Hogg and and
Archibald and the whole lot of that
“Band of Despicables” could be seen yelling and
poking their heads through the bars, he wondered how real all this could
be. Was all this just a bad dream, or
had that head-on collision with the door do a bit more to him than just knock
him out cold?
---
Tap, tap, tap. . . (The typing goes on)
“Daddy, Daddy, wake up, you fell
asleep and your head crashed down onto the keyboard. Can’t you hear the beeping?” My daughter Peggy sounded off the alarm,
while tugging upon my sleeve as she did.
“Yes, yes, I’m awake, thank you
cuddle-bug, I’m fine,” he said while rubbing the side of his head where the
painful throbbing was most acute.”
“You okay, Daddy, want me to kiss
it for you to make it feel better?”
“That’s okay, Pumpkin. I already
have a warehouse full of your kisses I can use when I need them. Now, why aren’t you in bed?”
“I was, Papa, but I had to go to
the potty, cuz, well, you know, I was still leaking,
and that’s when I saw you sleeping and the computer going crazy, and had to see
if you were alright.”
“Thank you, li’l
Bunny, that was two-tons of sweet of you. But as you can see I’m fine. Now to bed with you, and I promise I’ll be
following you shortly.”
“Okay, Papa, but don’t fall asleep
again. Promise?”
“Promise,” I said as I hooked
thumbs with her, then watched her leave, with Rocky’s snout buried up her bare naked butt.
“Okay, now back to you, Omar Obasi,” Nathan Murphy then turned to say to the blinking
curser at the end of the story he’d been writing late into the night.
“I’m afraid it’s beddy-bye time for you too, buddy,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow, after a nights rest, we’ll
figure out what’s to be done with you.
The way I got it written I’m sending you off to jail, and to be honest with
you, that’s just not working for me.”
“I
think I need re-think this thing. Get
you on an alternate path, one that leads to another remote retreat, fashioned
to the likes of the infamous Château de Silling.”
(<- look it up:)
“Well,
what you think, Bud? You think you might
like that? I mean just think of all the
possibilities. We could double those 180
days of depravity with no problem at all.
Course, I might end up with my head in a noose, but it'll sell a hell of
a lot more books.”
“But,
all that will have to wait until I get me some rest. That is, if I get any rest at all
tonight. For you, for me, it’s just a
matter of turning out the lights, but for my energized bunny, who doesn’t require a wind-up, she just keeps on ticking day
in, day out, 24/7.
“Oooooo,” Nathan heard his Bunny coo ever so sweetly from
her bedroom across the hall. “Oh, my,
that was so nice, Rocky, but now you have to move over because it’s daddy time, not your time now.”
“See
what I mean, Omar? There’s no off switch
on my energized bunny. She just goes on
and on and on . . .”
“And
the leaking too! Trust me buddy when I say the parquet floor is
forever riddled with trails of the stuff that follow her every move. Of course, I’m not one to complain. I don’t think you’ll hear Rocky squawking much
about it either. I mean, you never know when a fella might be needing to find her
on the quick.”
(*_*)
Das Ende
Hunsi
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