She had decided that, while it might be Friday night and everyone was going out tonight, she was going to run a long bath, put cucumbers on her eyes, do a face pack and listen to her audiobook of Geoffrey Boycott Reads a Thousand Years of The Shipping Forecast (unedited version).
She got nicely skagged up and then dove in to start noshing him off, knowing that if she did it well there might be a tenner in it for her and she’d only need to do likewise to another three fetid tramps before she could afford either her next needleful or an appointment at the doctor to find out whether it really was gangrene in her bad arm.
His beret had slipped, and now she saw how bald he was, the sun gleaming off his hairless pate, at least until the top of his head was fully covered by the dung of a passing vulture.
“Oh no?” he leered. “Then explain this!”
He threw down the polaroids of her naked body. Just as he had claimed, she had the birthmark that matched that of the killer. And she had the same huge, round bosoms that each of the witnesses had described. The three detectives were stunned, each staring at the pictures for ten, twenty, thirty seconds, before one of them suddenly uttered a sound that began like surprise but grew into amazement and then orgasmic exultation, and just as he spunked, his two colleagues did the same, all now flopping back in their chairs and barely able to keep their eyes open as the fronts of their trousers went dark and began to glisten.
She was only the vicar’s daughter, but she knew a surprising amount about massive turds as well.
“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 splurged into her Jack and Coke, but she still drank it, the Coke pouring most eagerly, the Jack a bit heavier but still running smoothly, and the semen hanging back for a moment before suddenly slopping out all at once and, yep, all over her face where it belonged.
His friend yelled ‘Action!’, and he took a breath and then sprinted along the high wall and dove off the end toward the lower one, planting his face beautifully on the corner, letting his body slam into the side at a horrible angle, leaving him to slowly peel off and fall a further eighteen feet, giving him an excellent chance of being cast as ‘Mangled man in abandoned industrial estate’ in the upcoming movie which, unbeknownst to him, had in fact been cancelled.
It was a thrushy time, but they got through it.