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It’d been a tough day, you know. Woke up, got out of bed, brushed my teeth, stood around for a few hours, shouted a bit. It’s tough being the devil. You get all this hatred thrown at you as if you’re super evil when you really don’t give a damn. I mean if you were getting paid this amount of money, you’d do it too. I’ve got enough diamonds to make Rik Waller an encrusted belt, for heavens sake.
So you know, normal day, sitting around, playing a game of squares with Adolf (though he calls it ‘chambers’) when a new bloke gets brought in. Calls himself Emmanuel. Died on a cross a couple of thousand years ago and claimed that God was his Dad. The DNA test must’ve come through because he looked pretty depressed – no longer to gold wearing playboy he once was, but still had that hair. At least he’s still got some sense of humour. He cried and moaned about being a messiah as the guards brought him close. ‘Got free reign over this one, Luce’, the first one said to me. He’s been working here a decade and I still don’t know his name. They all come and go so quickly, nowadays. ‘Safe, bro’ was my natural reply. This is something I’d been waiting for for quite a while, now – free reign over one of the higher-class homeboys. It puts a bit of creativity into your life every once in a while. If I worked this one out well, I might get choice over Kilroy’s punishment when he comes down for a drink.
Anyway, I remembered reading a book a millennia or two ago which this fraudster had cooked up to try and pass himself as the son of god – The Bible it was called, you might have heard of it. There was something in it that, to this day, annoys me. The fact that the Jesus fellow is an absolute nobface. ‘Waaa, let’s help lepers and cripples’. Wait; let’s think about this, Emmanuel. Instead of writing a boring, crappy book about how you’ve saved people, why don’t you just go out and do it? I may not be the kindest of guys, but if it’s a choice between staying home and writing fiction about touching some blind ho or actually going out and doing it, I’ll go out and do it. Usually, you can trick them into thinking you’re going to cure them, then once you’re done and their still blind, you can sneak off without them noticing. And there’s the added bonus that she won’t be able to recognise the baby’s yours 9 months later.
So, after a long nights sleep with the wife (we don’t get to see each other very much, see – she still works on the over world), I awoke and asked her if she had any ideas for God’s fake son. ‘Erm… wasn’t there something in there about him being a wimp?’
’The whole book is about him being a wimp, Carol’
’Well do something about that, then… Right, I’ve got to go or I’ll miss the start of filming of Strictly come dancing… kiss kiss’
And with that (and an incredibly large maths sum) she was gone, which left me with a lot of thinking to do. I knew he didn’t like touching people – the fact he wrote a whole book about faking he did it showed that. I also knew he dreamed of touching tramps, cripples and all those other lesser life forms. Suddenly, from nowhere, came this great idea. Oh yes.
‘You’ve got your fake I.D.?’
’Mother Theresa. Check’
‘And the web cam?’
‘Safely concealed in the hat’
‘Have a good time… enjoy sweet revenge – and grab me some of those angel cakes, yeah?’
‘I’ll try’
Okay, so it wasn’t much of a punishment, but, damn, I wanted those angel cakes. And I’d be able to film it all through the web cam and sell it on ebay at insane prices afterwards – those sick feckers will buy anything. I watched intently on our specially created Yahoo messenger connection, computer recording every screen shot, briefly popping into ‘BOOOBS ON CAM!***’ to ask showmegirl_xxx to get her (or, judging by the facial hair) his ass on cam ever so often, just to keep myself entertained. I watch him sneak past security at the gates, but by that time it was 3 o’clock and I’ve always got to settle down before the wife comes on. Make myself a cuppa, get some bourbons out and sit down just in time for the countdown theme. By the time the countdown conundrum had been on (and I had my 9 letter word), it was time to get back to the computer.
When I got back, I thought Yahoo had crashed – but the fact the Gina_007 was excreting into a bucket (for my pleasure, apparently) discredited that idea. All that the my cam link with Emmanuel’s hat showed was a forest at night time (even at midnight up there it was still light) Out of nowhere, our cam changed position – someone had found it. It was lifted up to show The woods where horrible rotting bodies lay on the floor and I just stood there with my mouth gapping at them . Emmanuel had done his job. He’s stabbed those angels up good and, by the looks of it, stolen any cakes of which they may have had. I could never stand that ‘Hark’ crap anyway.
So you know, normal day, sitting around, playing a game of squares with Adolf (though he calls it ‘chambers’) when a new bloke gets brought in. Calls himself Emmanuel. Died on a cross a couple of thousand years ago and claimed that God was his Dad. The DNA test must’ve come through because he looked pretty depressed – no longer to gold wearing playboy he once was, but still had that hair. At least he’s still got some sense of humour. He cried and moaned about being a messiah as the guards brought him close. ‘Got free reign over this one, Luce’, the first one said to me. He’s been working here a decade and I still don’t know his name. They all come and go so quickly, nowadays. ‘Safe, bro’ was my natural reply. This is something I’d been waiting for for quite a while, now – free reign over one of the higher-class homeboys. It puts a bit of creativity into your life every once in a while. If I worked this one out well, I might get choice over Kilroy’s punishment when he comes down for a drink.
Anyway, I remembered reading a book a millennia or two ago which this fraudster had cooked up to try and pass himself as the son of god – The Bible it was called, you might have heard of it. There was something in it that, to this day, annoys me. The fact that the Jesus fellow is an absolute nobface. ‘Waaa, let’s help lepers and cripples’. Wait; let’s think about this, Emmanuel. Instead of writing a boring, crappy book about how you’ve saved people, why don’t you just go out and do it? I may not be the kindest of guys, but if it’s a choice between staying home and writing fiction about touching some blind ho or actually going out and doing it, I’ll go out and do it. Usually, you can trick them into thinking you’re going to cure them, then once you’re done and their still blind, you can sneak off without them noticing. And there’s the added bonus that she won’t be able to recognise the baby’s yours 9 months later.
So, after a long nights sleep with the wife (we don’t get to see each other very much, see – she still works on the over world), I awoke and asked her if she had any ideas for God’s fake son. ‘Erm… wasn’t there something in there about him being a wimp?’
’The whole book is about him being a wimp, Carol’
’Well do something about that, then… Right, I’ve got to go or I’ll miss the start of filming of Strictly come dancing… kiss kiss’
And with that (and an incredibly large maths sum) she was gone, which left me with a lot of thinking to do. I knew he didn’t like touching people – the fact he wrote a whole book about faking he did it showed that. I also knew he dreamed of touching tramps, cripples and all those other lesser life forms. Suddenly, from nowhere, came this great idea. Oh yes.
‘You’ve got your fake I.D.?’
’Mother Theresa. Check’
‘And the web cam?’
‘Safely concealed in the hat’
‘Have a good time… enjoy sweet revenge – and grab me some of those angel cakes, yeah?’
‘I’ll try’
Okay, so it wasn’t much of a punishment, but, damn, I wanted those angel cakes. And I’d be able to film it all through the web cam and sell it on ebay at insane prices afterwards – those sick feckers will buy anything. I watched intently on our specially created Yahoo messenger connection, computer recording every screen shot, briefly popping into ‘BOOOBS ON CAM!***’ to ask showmegirl_xxx to get her (or, judging by the facial hair) his ass on cam ever so often, just to keep myself entertained. I watch him sneak past security at the gates, but by that time it was 3 o’clock and I’ve always got to settle down before the wife comes on. Make myself a cuppa, get some bourbons out and sit down just in time for the countdown theme. By the time the countdown conundrum had been on (and I had my 9 letter word), it was time to get back to the computer.
When I got back, I thought Yahoo had crashed – but the fact the Gina_007 was excreting into a bucket (for my pleasure, apparently) discredited that idea. All that the my cam link with Emmanuel’s hat showed was a forest at night time (even at midnight up there it was still light) Out of nowhere, our cam changed position – someone had found it. It was lifted up to show The woods where horrible rotting bodies lay on the floor and I just stood there with my mouth gapping at them . Emmanuel had done his job. He’s stabbed those angels up good and, by the looks of it, stolen any cakes of which they may have had. I could never stand that ‘Hark’ crap anyway.
It’d been a tough day, you know. Woke up, got out of bed, brushed my teeth, stood around for a few hours, shouted a bit. It’s tough being the devil. You get all this hatred thrown at you as if you’re super evil when you really don’t give a damn. I mean if you were getting paid this amount of money, you’d do it too. I’ve got enough diamonds to make Rik Waller an encrusted belt, for heavens sake.
So you know, normal day, sitting around, playing a game of squares with Adolf (though he calls it ‘chambers’) when a new bloke gets brought in. Calls himself Emmanuel. Died on a cross a couple of thousand years ago and claimed that God was his Dad. The DNA test must’ve come through because he looked pretty depressed – no longer to gold wearing playboy he once was, but still had that hair. At least he’s still got some sense of humour. He cried and moaned about being a messiah as the guards brought him close. ‘Got free reign over this one, Luce’, the first one said to me. He’s been working here a decade and I still don’t know his name. They all come and go so quickly, nowadays. ‘Safe, bro’ was my natural reply. This is something I’d been waiting for for quite a while, now – free reign over one of the higher-class homeboys. It puts a bit of creativity into your life every once in a while. If I worked this one out well, I might get choice over Kilroy’s punishment when he comes down for a drink.
Anyway, I remembered reading a book a millennia or two ago which this fraudster had cooked up to try and pass himself as the son of god – The Bible it was called, you might have heard of it. There was something in it that, to this day, annoys me. The fact that the Jesus fellow is an absolute nobface. ‘Waaa, let’s help lepers and cripples’. Wait; let’s think about this, Emmanuel. Instead of writing a boring, crappy book about how you’ve saved people, why don’t you just go out and do it? I may not be the kindest of guys, but if it’s a choice between staying home and writing fiction about touching some blind ho or actually going out and doing it, I’ll go out and do it. Usually, you can trick them into thinking you’re going to cure them, then once you’re done and their still blind, you can sneak off without them noticing. And there’s the added bonus that she won’t be able to recognise the baby’s yours 9 months later.
So, after a long nights sleep with the wife (we don’t get to see each other very much, see – she still works on the over world), I awoke and asked her if she had any ideas for God’s fake son. ‘Erm… wasn’t there something in there about him being a wimp?’
’The whole book is about him being a wimp, Carol’
’Well do something about that, then… Right, I’ve got to go or I’ll miss the start of filming of Strictly come dancing… kiss kiss’
And with that (and an incredibly large maths sum) she was gone, which left me with a lot of thinking to do. I knew he didn’t like touching people – the fact he wrote a whole book about faking he did it showed that. I also knew he dreamed of touching tramps, cripples and all those other lesser life forms. Suddenly, from nowhere, came this great idea. Oh yes.
‘You’ve got your fake I.D.?’
’Mother Theresa. Check’
‘And the web cam?’
‘Safely concealed in the hat’
‘Have a good time… enjoy sweet revenge – and grab me some of those angel cakes, yeah?’
‘I’ll try’
Okay, so it wasn’t much of a punishment, but, damn, I wanted those angel cakes. And I’d be able to film it all through the web cam and sell it on ebay at insane prices afterwards – those sick feckers will buy anything. I watched intently on our specially created Yahoo messenger connection, computer recording every screen shot, briefly popping into ‘BOOOBS ON CAM!***’ to ask showmegirl_xxx to get her (or, judging by the facial hair) his ass on cam ever so often, just to keep myself entertained. I watch him sneak past security at the gates, but by that time it was 3 o’clock and I’ve always got to settle down before the wife comes on. Make myself a cuppa, get some bourbons out and sit down just in time for the countdown theme. By the time the countdown conundrum had been on (and I had my 9 letter word), it was time to get back to the computer.
When I got back, I thought Yahoo had crashed – but the fact the Gina_007 was excreting into a bucket (for my pleasure, apparently) discredited that idea. All that the my cam link with Emmanuel’s hat showed was a forest at night time (even at midnight up there it was still light) Out of nowhere, our cam changed position – someone had found it. It was lifted up to show The woods where horrible rotting bodies lay on the floor and I just stood there with my mouth gapping at them . Emmanuel had done his job. He’s stabbed those angels up good and, by the looks of it, stolen any cakes of which they may have had. I could never stand that ‘Hark’ crap anyway.
So you know, normal day, sitting around, playing a game of squares with Adolf (though he calls it ‘chambers’) when a new bloke gets brought in. Calls himself Emmanuel. Died on a cross a couple of thousand years ago and claimed that God was his Dad. The DNA test must’ve come through because he looked pretty depressed – no longer to gold wearing playboy he once was, but still had that hair. At least he’s still got some sense of humour. He cried and moaned about being a messiah as the guards brought him close. ‘Got free reign over this one, Luce’, the first one said to me. He’s been working here a decade and I still don’t know his name. They all come and go so quickly, nowadays. ‘Safe, bro’ was my natural reply. This is something I’d been waiting for for quite a while, now – free reign over one of the higher-class homeboys. It puts a bit of creativity into your life every once in a while. If I worked this one out well, I might get choice over Kilroy’s punishment when he comes down for a drink.
Anyway, I remembered reading a book a millennia or two ago which this fraudster had cooked up to try and pass himself as the son of god – The Bible it was called, you might have heard of it. There was something in it that, to this day, annoys me. The fact that the Jesus fellow is an absolute nobface. ‘Waaa, let’s help lepers and cripples’. Wait; let’s think about this, Emmanuel. Instead of writing a boring, crappy book about how you’ve saved people, why don’t you just go out and do it? I may not be the kindest of guys, but if it’s a choice between staying home and writing fiction about touching some blind ho or actually going out and doing it, I’ll go out and do it. Usually, you can trick them into thinking you’re going to cure them, then once you’re done and their still blind, you can sneak off without them noticing. And there’s the added bonus that she won’t be able to recognise the baby’s yours 9 months later.
So, after a long nights sleep with the wife (we don’t get to see each other very much, see – she still works on the over world), I awoke and asked her if she had any ideas for God’s fake son. ‘Erm… wasn’t there something in there about him being a wimp?’
’The whole book is about him being a wimp, Carol’
’Well do something about that, then… Right, I’ve got to go or I’ll miss the start of filming of Strictly come dancing… kiss kiss’
And with that (and an incredibly large maths sum) she was gone, which left me with a lot of thinking to do. I knew he didn’t like touching people – the fact he wrote a whole book about faking he did it showed that. I also knew he dreamed of touching tramps, cripples and all those other lesser life forms. Suddenly, from nowhere, came this great idea. Oh yes.
‘You’ve got your fake I.D.?’
’Mother Theresa. Check’
‘And the web cam?’
‘Safely concealed in the hat’
‘Have a good time… enjoy sweet revenge – and grab me some of those angel cakes, yeah?’
‘I’ll try’
Okay, so it wasn’t much of a punishment, but, damn, I wanted those angel cakes. And I’d be able to film it all through the web cam and sell it on ebay at insane prices afterwards – those sick feckers will buy anything. I watched intently on our specially created Yahoo messenger connection, computer recording every screen shot, briefly popping into ‘BOOOBS ON CAM!***’ to ask showmegirl_xxx to get her (or, judging by the facial hair) his ass on cam ever so often, just to keep myself entertained. I watch him sneak past security at the gates, but by that time it was 3 o’clock and I’ve always got to settle down before the wife comes on. Make myself a cuppa, get some bourbons out and sit down just in time for the countdown theme. By the time the countdown conundrum had been on (and I had my 9 letter word), it was time to get back to the computer.
When I got back, I thought Yahoo had crashed – but the fact the Gina_007 was excreting into a bucket (for my pleasure, apparently) discredited that idea. All that the my cam link with Emmanuel’s hat showed was a forest at night time (even at midnight up there it was still light) Out of nowhere, our cam changed position – someone had found it. It was lifted up to show The woods where horrible rotting bodies lay on the floor and I just stood there with my mouth gapping at them . Emmanuel had done his job. He’s stabbed those angels up good and, by the looks of it, stolen any cakes of which they may have had. I could never stand that ‘Hark’ crap anyway.
Brilliant.
I didn't quite follow it, but it's reasonably well written, and I like the style. Don't think crossbob will though.
Cool that was good mate you might win!
crossbob please enter your own story competition i cant wit for you to think of a new inspirational chrcter. And make it a woman. I'm lonely, and the only pleasure i get is watching them wrestle.