The wyvern bore down on him. He knew that now was the time to strike, just as she dove in for the kill. He thrust his sword up and between two great scales on her chest, or rather tried to and failed dismally, his rubbish sword bending and breaking, the beast barely slowed by his puny efforts, her great jaws clamping through his throat easily and allowing her young, his erstwhile prey, to swarm in and tear him into digestible shreds.
The provenance of her sumptuous bosom was hard to ascertain definitively, but he suspected that it was augmented by human artifice, indicating a high degree of concupiscence which he felt ought to be rewarded, first with his spunk and then, later, with more of his spunk.
The spear pierced his throat, killing him in seconds and releasing his bowel from its duties, a column of shit quietly slipping free into his brand new lavender pantaloons.
Dave leaned on the fence and sighed. She was going on about her husband’s bad back again, as though Dave worked for the DSS. She didn’t realise that he was hardly going to grass up the scrounging bastard. He might need that excuse himself one day. But her life of lies had made her paranoid, and she went on and on. He found his mind wandering, then his eyes drooping, and though ostensibly awake he even began to snore, and then fell back onto the trampoline which, though old and grimy, was in fabulous working order, and he bounced off it, somersaulting wearily across the garden and into the pond, sinking unconsciously beneath the surface scum into the toxic waste below, his skin quickly dissolving and exposing his muscles, bones and everything else to a slightly slower but equally total annihilation as she tutted and waddled off to bore someone else.
Argh! Her face was downright ghastly. Why was it always like this? The boobs would heave into view first, promising great things, and the promise would be immediately reneged upon by the revelation of the hideous face and the contaminated bombsite of a clunge.
He skidded hard, pressing shit deep into the spandex and staining it a hideous yellow-inflected brown which could make people chunder just from a quick glance.
Where had he done his O-levels? Thrush College? No, and there was no such establishment, but anyone who saw the state of his mouth could be forgiven for thinking it was realer than ‘Real Deal’ Holyfield.
If she spazzed out any harder, her spine was going to snap! Well, not really. It wasn’t that ba-SNAP! Right… OK, it was that bad.
Her bodice sprang open, a button pinging off an exposed heating pipe, the pressure of her heaving bosom simply too much to be contained by that delicate satin garment. The boobs thus exposed, he could scarcely be forgiven for succumbing to his excitement, although it was generally agreed later that he should at least have got the old chap out before it gooped into his vicuña-acrylic mix Y-fronts.