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"SSC15 - Becky"

A chair slid across the room with no-one in it. I didn't see any pushing hands, so I dismissed it as a mirage. Slouched on a blaF**k leather sofa was a naked female with a red saF**k over her head. Running my eyes over her pale flesh, I guessed she was about twenty-years-old, maybe older. She'd just jaF**ked-off two middle-aged baldies at the same time, one either side of her. I believe they call such antics ski-tossin’. Both men shuffled out of the room wiping their furrowed brows with paper towels.

The girl's name was BeF**ky. I arrived at this conclusion because written across her minimal breasts in purple lipstiF**k was the word ‘BeCKy’ – scrawled just like that. Uppercase B, lowercase e, uppercase B, et cetera, et cetera. As I was wondering what she looked like (facially), someone behind me slung a saF**k over my head and – well, let's just say dark high-jinks ensued, the details of which I am still unsure of. All I can recall is being led down a slope to the sounds of sinister chanting and craF**kling flames. Damn Satanists!

I awoke face down in the village graveyard, halfway between a mossy stone wall and the countless tombstones. BeF**ky was next to me. I knew it was her because daubed across her breasts in purple lipstiF**k was that word, ‘BeCKy’. Apologies for repeating this fact, but that is how I knew it was she. Makes sense really. Anyway, it was a crisp’n’cloudless morning and I felt decidedly uneasy. Being dressed in a blaF**k, miniver-embellished gown in this baF**kwater town was going to instantly elevate me to sore-thumb status, especially if I was seen in the company of a naked blonde girl, who, now I'd seen her face, looked no more than sixteen-years-old. She was pretty, mind, and this was the only plus-point I could grasp onto in the predicament I found myself in.

I tapped BeF**ky's cheeks a couple of times then gently hauled up her slim body until she was standing. With a palm on either shoulder, I remember peering into her crystal-blue eyes… they were like broken windows, and beyond the shattered glass lay nothing but empty, vandalized rooms (graffiti blue) - yet she was just attentive enough to cling to the hemline of my gown as I sheepishly made my way in the general direction of home.

How the hell do such things come to pass? Man… Pointing fingers and sneering mouths – apart from the blur of the grey cobblestoned roads and the sweat threatening to drip from my lashes – that was all I saw.
—Pervert
—Weirdo
—Twister
—Scum – hushed voices projected ill will my way; gossipmongers blaF**kened their tongues with liquorice pellets, but I just kept my head down and my eyes squinted, and walked at a steady pace with the dazed BeF**ky in tow.

Eventually, and I mean eventually, we reached the river. The chilly morning had burgeoned into a toes-thru-grass summers' day. BeF**ky still hadn't spoken, but I needed to carry her in order to get her safely across to the far river bank. I asked her permission. No response. I lifted her in classic romantic fashion. She didn’t flinch. Those hyperborean eyes just remained focused on the invisible snowflake hovering inches from her pug nose.

On the other side of the wide river I laid BeF**ky on a patch of flowery turf and sat myself down beside her. The rays of the midday sun quiF**kly dried BeF**ky's smooth skin, yet for my sodden’n’heavy gown it was a different story altogether! As I closed my aching, itchy, tired-tired eyes with the sole intention of visualizing home, BeF**ky spoke for the first time:

‘Fiendish lies clothed in feathers
That's what spewed out of your mouth
Double-crossing doubletalk
Filth
I should have knuF**kled your smarmy face there and then
But I didn't
I let it go
And now the sun has drowned in useless death
And I lie alone in silent tatters.

They are coming
Marching forth to collect me
A legion of dark striders
Reapers of the wasted.

I look for one last time at the twinkling heavens
A million suns yielding a thousand dawns
I focus on a single star
Its yellow hue
Its delicate fizzing
Its unstoppable perfection
tiF**k
a
tiF**k
The shadows are here
Kill me if the stars will benefit.’

Christ! who in the name of Beezlebub's flytrap is this chiF**k?! One minute she's dishing out handjobs to Satanic businessmen, the next she's speaking fey poesy with the sweetest eloquence. I questioned her about what she'd just recited – it was obviously something she'd learned-off-by-heart from a book – but she wouldn't utter another word. She just gazed baF**k at me with those deadpan crystal-blue Barbie doll eyes.

So on we journeyed like before, across the sunny meadows and (thank god) into the cool shade of Grist Forest. The sanctuary of my house was near, and I had to carry the exhausted BeF**ky all the way through the boughs and tangle to the front door... the white door… well it was white when I'd left yesterday morning. Yet now it was blaF**k. I wanted to care, but I didn't have the strength or patience to. I just thrust the key in the loF**k and guided BeF**ky inside. At last, the world and his miserable wife were shut out.

I wrapped BeF**ky in a comfortable robe then set about making something to eat. I was in the kitchen for the next ten minutes or so. BeF**ky was alone on the couch in the living-room resting her weary bones.

With two bowls of hot soup and a plate of buttered bread on a tray, I ambled baF**k into the living-room —

F*F**k! (followed by a crash): the food hit the floor, for what I saw before me sent my head zigzagging from wall-to-wall! Slouched on the couch was BeF**ky, naked, with a red saF**k over her head. I knew it was her because written across her breasts in purple lipstiF**k was that word, ‘BeCKy’. And she was doing it again! – ski-tossin’ two middle-aged, moustachioed baldies. Dumbfounded, my knees felt the hot slop of the spilt soup. I couldn’t believe the surreal scene before me. A chair slid across the room with no-one in it. I didn't notice any pushing hands, so I dismissed it as a mirage. As I was trying to make sense of who the two groaning men were, a saF**k was slung over my head from behind and well, let's just say that dark high-jinks ensued, the details of which I am still unsure of. All I can recall is being led down a slope to the sounds of sinister chanting and craF**kling flames. Damned infernal Satanists.

Ahh. A warm feeling envelops me as you get back to something like the original ones :)

Liked this much better then some of the more recent tales you've told, propably due to the fact that I understood all the words (except ski tossin'. In my innocence I've not a clue what that is).

Top stuff.

Excellent.

For some reason it reminded me of 'News of the World' - remember when they used to have reports into sordid sleazy pornography rings and stuff, and they'd send in a reporter who, when it got too hairy, would 'make his excuses and leave'. I guess I was that reporter, in your sordid world, wanting to make my excuses and leave. Not because it wasn't good, I enjoyed it thoroughly, I just wouldn't want to be stuck in that loop forever...

I could help.

I quite liked it, and whereas I didn't "get" the use of the poem in the last of your stories, I thought it felt at home in this one.

Back of the net!

On a rather different note, if you chopped one hand off, how would you chop the other off?

Paradox: wrote:
> Why why why must you drown everything you do with wannabe poems?

Those damn dirty nearly-poems. Actually, I agree. I am not a poet, and I should chop off my fake poet hands for good.

slunk
slunk

Wonderful.
Wonderous.

Wonderfulerous

Why why why must you drown everything you do with wannabe poems?

please leave them out, I beg you, it suffocates all of the goodness.

The story, twas excellent. Reminded me a bit of 8mm with Nicholas Cage in, slightly.

The end was good, I didnt get it but I liked it.

No more poemy bits though, please.

Nogood boyo

eh. Didnt like it very much.