She was bent over the bonnet of a car and she was getting bummed hard. That was all well and good – indeed, she had specifically requested it – but, of all the vehicles they could have chosen… well, let’s just say that if it had been a good, sturdy, four-wheeled Talbot Horizon instead of a Reliant Robin, he wouldn’t have ended up with crud all over his Johnson and she wouldn’t have ended up with her horribly scarred face splodging into a urine-soaked nettle patch.
Yes, he had been told that this kind of surgery was not guaranteed to work perfectly, and he had signed a form saying that he understood the risk of his buttocks collapsing and bloody silicone gel draining from them down his stockinged legs, but still, he hadn’t really thought it would happen, least of all while he was giving the annual Reith Lecture.
Little Jamie was running around, Jayden was following him, Katie had just pooed in her nappy and now mother was calling for help from upstairs too, and if she was calling while the kids were going mad, that meant it was urgent. Now she saw smoke coming from the oven. Shit! She’d forgotten about their waffles. Oh, God. And it was raining. The washing had to be dry for this evening. Then her phone started ringing, and it was her boss. He never usually rang. Just as she was about to answer it, she heard a sharp rap on the front door and a face trying to poke through the letterbox. The bailiff! Oh, God. And he’d definitely seen her already. Her mum called again. She told Katie to just stay still for a moment. She thought of getting Jamie to bring in the washing but then almost laughed at the idea. She began to scurry upstairs. But then the smoke alarm went off, and it was piercingly loud. Suddenly, near the bottom of the stairs, she found herself losing control, and turd after turd plunged out of her arse, into and through her knickers and fell free to flop indecorously into the puddle of piss she had poured forth at the same time.
His lips exploded! Well, that will happen if you pay the lowest possible price in Dhaka to get them ‘done’, or so he had been told over the crackling phone line by his concerned mother, but had he listened? Had he fuck. Ah, man, it really hurt too. Still, perhaps he could distract people by getting some more botox in his already-bulging forehead, or maybe in the hideously rigid flesh around his eyes.
He turned his eyes away from the film just enough to see her glancing at him at the same moment. They both grinned as they realised that this thing was happening, turned to face one another and moved in for a kiss, but, with dreadful inevitability, the side of his face nearest her suddenly collapsed in a frightful attack of Bell’s Palsy, leaving him not only in poor shape for a kiss but also struggling to stop popcorn and Tizer falling and dribbling from his mouth and down onto her white Kappa tracksuit top as she screamed and withdrew in disgust.
The whistle blew again and they had to end their embrace. She kissed him one last time on the lips and tried to smile as she let him go. He backed away, waving, then turned and jogged to jump onto the train as it began to steam away. An older couple just near them had gone through the same wistful routine. The old man broke from his loved one too, and ran to leap onto the train, but he had left it a moment too late, and even as he tried to muster a sprint, the carriage door moved just ahead of him. He ran faster than he thought possible, but he was losing ground, and as he frantically tried to catch any handhold he ran over a dozing dog, fell onto a most unfortunately-placed oil slick and slid sideways under the train, the wheels running over and through him, mangling his flesh and bones, rendering him an unsalvageable mess and, to cap it all off, drawing from his sagging rear a huge, noxious grunt and, the subsequent silence suggested, a thick final turd to complete the morbid humiliation.
She presented her sizeable jugs to him, and he fumbled with them both, creaming himself wantonly, absolutely covering the front of his pants and trousers in that thick white stuff and leaving him only the merest dribble left to pour onto his spotted dick.
He had been repeatedly told that ‘always be moving forward’ was the key tenet of freerunning, yet he found it increasingly difficult to do so as both his ankles shattered, he crumpled awkwardly between two buildings, his screams of agony were unheeded, and darkness fell.
“Na-na, na-na, na-na, na-na na-na-na, baby give it up, give it up, baby give it up,” he sang enthusiastically, and he was in tune too, at least with the melodic harmonies of the song, though not his own bowel control (he defecated).
He bit into the apple, enjoying a huge chunk of sweet, crunchy flesh and hungrily swallowing it in his lust for more. The second bite, though, was composed mostly of the hidden brown mush at the apple’s heart, yet he didn’t realise until he swallowed and the rotting stuff hit the back of his throat, suddenly prompting him to hurl it back out with a whole lot more in train, not just apple flesh but also the previous pack of bacon-flavoured Skips and, after another big heave, an old galosh.