By the Author of…
‘The Absurdity of Pigeon Feed’
Fifth Instalment of silliness.
The fifth installment of Indica Mc Lemmon and Tio Tonto in Fidel’s Evil Plan.
They trudged onward, Che suspended on a stretcher gasping for air, abusing one of the last of his inhaler’s and trying to regain a semblance of normal breathing amid the dust laden air.
The sand canyons had been a big shit, the sadness and terror had left them drained. Struggling against the rhythmic rocking of the stretcher he fumbled though the yellowing torn pages that his men had found in the around the ravaged skeleton, may be they would shed some light on the tragedy that had befallen them. Now the situation was all in all desperate, nothing in the boy scouts manual or all the survival courses he’d suffered had prepared him for this. Yes, they were suffering, suffering terribly, finally Che was in his element, doing what he was made for, doing what he did best.
A caravan of camels approached in their direction but halted to survey them from a high dune ridge. Drovers pointed fiercely at them and began yelling hysterically. Some goaded their stead’s to turn about whilst others scuffled around unable to control their groaning complaints. Chattering in high unintelligible voices it seemed as if something had provoked an argument, it rippled though them, inevitably giving way to angry shouted curses.
Canes swished though the air landing on faces and flanks of the distraught camels. In response many screamed with anguish and spat their filthy spray around. A collective consensus of camel hysteria finally unleashed a riot of pissing and shitting before they stampeded over the horizon despite Che’s suffering desperadoes frantic imploring.
Stoically Che took one of the grimy pages and read….
First the Jeep, no exhaust… insufferable pollution, honestly, really insufferable.
One week flopping about on cantankerous foul camel…..noxious unending farting…..what an unforgivable atrocious antisocial disposition for any living creature…..My foulest experience ever.
Sociologically, it goes to say a lot about the unmannerly distrustful disposition of the Arab owners and their short tempers. No surprise, I’m the first to study these animals and there contrary evolution.
“some kind of capitalist scientist out of touch with the proletariat, but he’s right about camels and the Arabs” Che picked another paper this one in fading type.
New research published, Cambridge professors.
Frankly, no surprise to me. Rather amusing…..data refers to area in which I shall be encumbered investigating camels.
Research on Sauropods, Diplodocus, (the largest of the dinosaurs), trundled around grazing here, Mesozoic period 150 to 65.5 million years ago.
Extensive studies correlate size, calculate density of population, digestion diet….. Excitingly explosive conclusions.
Size, 20-45 tonnes…Big?..even in comparison to my wife!
Digestion tracts on industrial level….with out a doubt similar to wife?
Fact: vegetation of period contained vast quantities of cannaboids. Exasperated appetite….infinite in the case of wife, without the cannabis! Digestion system proposed to support body mass:
Microbial fermenting type stomachs to aid the digestion. Undoubtedly the same as camels and wife.
Result…evolution under the influence of a cocktail of alcohol+dope?? ha ha.
Methane: produced on scale unsurpassed in the history of planet… Obviously have no study data on my wife!
Conclusion:
Extinction: not the result of meteorite impact.
Extinction cause, ignition of methane by lightning… resulting in Yucatan creator…global dimming.
Wonder if same can be achieved with wife?
Che wondered the same as he took another hit on his inhaler and fumbled for another crumpled sheet of paper.
An Australian company dealing in carbon emissions, propose the culling of 1.2 million non indigenous feral camels to reduce methane emissions.
Australia’s answer to Kyoto treaty!! Ha Ha.
The feral camels are responsible for equivalent 1.5 million metric tonnes of carbon emissions annually.
The local population sharing the camel saturated terrain’s known as “Rotten Thousand Egg Basin” applaud the programs proposals, code named, “operation omelette”.
Local population lobby courts of human rights.
May be I can lobby them on the same grounds regarding my beloved wife!!!
Largest contributory factor in ozone depletion.
Immense ozone layer hole over the south pole grows directly proportional to the camel population.
I suspect the presence of an ozone hole directly over my beloved!
Che threw the remnants of one of Cubans finest away and took a puff on his inhaler. The rest of the papers were illegible.
The camels didn’t like it!!, that much was obvious, but they didn’t like the stinking filthy goat tanning factory either where they spent most of their time stabled. It’s terrible smell combined with their own considerable ceaseless potent farting made the area unbearable to passers by ten miles up wind.
The camels endured each day endlessly sucking in and spitting out the stables stench of toxic debilitating gases, but they never truly got used to it, constantly yearning for the vast open desert and its pure uncontaminated air.
That smell of the stables now held little in comparison to the smell they had to contended with, the vast sand dunes themselves seemed to be closing their ranks, cringing, the sand rippling in response. The smell was hundreds of times more potent, in fact simply indescribable.
It was told by an aged sun shrunken traveller who pass though thet desert, that the only smell worse than a dead goat tanning factory is that of a wailing whaling ship. He couldn’t imagine that, Ali had never seen one, let alone smelt a dead whale or heard a fisherman wailing in distress from the smell of dead whales. It probably had a very fishy dead fish smell he thought. But then again he’d never smelt a fishy fish alive or dead.
Right now Ali himself was choking, gagging on the tear provoking smell,…. uncontrollably gagging, the camels were farting unnaturally biting their riders and spitting viscously to rid the putrid taste from their mouths.
This smell had nothing to do with dead fly bloated, stinking, putrefying bodies of goats nor of fishy fish dead whales for that matter, I mean, this just wasn’t, couldn’t be natural no?
His grandfather had taught him in his old age of the evil demons that dwelt in the desert hidden within the yellow dust filthy “haboob’s”, with their dreadful god fearing vomit shit smell and diabolical tricks.
Ali’s camel enthusiastically and repeatedly tried to turn and bite him any which way it could, spraying its green slimy spit in all directions as they broached the summit of a dune. He pulled him back noticing copious tears running down its checks, the camel struggling to blink them away, it was suffering from extreme distress that much was obvious. It was bloody crying! Tears running down its cheeks and dripped to the sand below.
It was crying from the dreadful smell that killed the air dead!
Down in the valley struggled the dirt dirty filthy devils, now and again one of them broke away to squat, defecating and screaming a spine chilling mystical ear piercing chant marking their territory as a no man’s land.
It seemed as if the devils were all but naked, rag bedraggled bodies a bright pink glow in the sunlight, they staggered sluggishly along in a strange ceremonial manner, hobbling, stumbling, their legs stretched apart uttering strange excruciating groans.
Ali’s camel bucked and turned about again, a whiplash of tears flew about it drenching the sand, it’s mind connecting the unsupportable smell with a certain horrifying annihilation, it pissed and defecated abundantly there and then.
Put a little more concisely, it Fucking freaked out.
Ali had seen enough of these horrendous demons, he was fucking terrified as well, tears now clouded his own eyes running down his cheeks. Shouting a curse “A thousand farts of flatulent camels on you” at the devils below he flicked his cane to the camels flanks furiously, ferociously, furiously, sadistically. No matter which, total panic had seized him and his companions. They turned about spinning on cringing sand grains and galloped away down wind as fast as possible. May be, may be they could escape some how.
Che’s men waved and jeered franticly imploring rescue but the Arab camel train rapidly disappeared into the distance, it was the third camel train that had done the same. What was wrong with them!? Fucking fuzzy wuzzies.
Dehydration had taken it’s toll, they were now five bedraggled thirsty desperate souls. They’d thrown away every thing they were unable to carry including their useless sand blocked fire arms.
All the chocolate, beans, liquorish and water had been consumed the previous day.
Che was not improving, he’d gotten though another two inhalers controlling the curse of his life, Asthma. It seemed to have the habit of debilitating him at exactly the wrong moment, be it on a mission of national importance or a few seconds before orgasm whilst liberating the sexual libido of some bourgeoisie princes or the other. The sky maintained its mustard post apocalyptic colour, dust thick. But they were close to the dig now.
Ahmid had finished his morning prayers, raising his head his attention was caught by the groaning site hut door swinging too and throw. He scuttled off leaving his confederates of the humanitarian flight team, taking the opportunity to catch up on his diary. Entering into the gloom of the hut he spied a table and set his diary upon it….
It had all begun when he’d picked the dirty damp paper from the gutter, his eye by sheer chance caught the job offer, which was obliviously a sign from God.
The money was crazy, all training free, health cover for his family, pensions and accommodation for them for life. “A short contract” it said. The job description was not too clear but it stated in capital letters, “No previous experience necessary….secure life time employment”.
More than a bit contradictory, but what did Ahmid care he was finished with the poverty of the streets of Deli. He had to secure this job and escape to a new life.
He some how passed the intensive interview impressing them with his loving obedient fealty to God. Just a matter of days latter he was flying free to a deserted location high in the mountains of Pakistan.
So frilled with his turn of fortune was he that he threw himself with total dedication and blind obedience at the challenges facing him. The training was hard and demanded his total dedication, he was treated kindly by the his trainers who were farther like kind, but stern when it came to his lessons and prayers.
So he took to flying like he was born for it. Day after day the lessons increased his knowledge, he enjoyed the freedom in the clouds he was loving the whole experience, but for one inconsistency, he was never taught how to land. They said that bit was the easiest bit, too easy, it really wasn’t to be bothered with.
After six months the day came when he had to attend a private interview, there his teachers explained that after performing Gods work he was to be a martyr. His reward was to be paradise, married to 72 dark eyed virgins and he would become very famous for his sacrifices to gods wishes.
It was at that point that he started to dream of the book he would write, the Hollywood film that would follow bringing him untold wealth.
After his martyrdom he would publish it, there would be book signings, lectures, his life would be perfect, riches and family. A long life of caring for his loved ones, his mind ran wild with his dreams hardly able to contain himself waiting for this great day of his martyrdom when he would begin his new happy life.
His training had been completed in record time and they had been sent here to this archaeological dig by the great Al Fuk-eda to condition their minds and bodies with hard labour to purify themselves before the great day came.
As he finished his entry for the day he sat back and the loose legged stool on which he sat complained a bit, complained fervently then twisted and collapsed, he followed it to the floor and giggled at the scene pushing himself upright as an unusual brilliant light caught his eye from under the table. He bent there and retrieved a handful of blistering bright glistering gems, a necklace of gems in curious shapes rather like the shape of his own precious scrotum.
The gods wouldn’t leave him alone, heaping more and more good fortune on him, surely he was touched by them. With this gift, on top of the seventy two wide eyed virgins, on top of the martyrdom, on top of his fame, on top of his book, his Hollywood movie, his life was a dream of fabulous good fortune.
He held the prize in his hand, another step forwards to a glorious future and then feeling light headed he decided to close his tired eyes for a few minuets.
The clothes, bodies, guns had disappeared, The Pope was efficient systemically as ever, he scoured the area and declared, “someone’ll pay with worthless life, no a one mess me boy”
Tio Tonto was still breathing sighs of relief, not knowing which sigh may be his last, good, good, the guns out of the way was a gift from heaven as far as his future quality of life was concerned. He had to placate him, yes, if he could build some kind of relation with him?
“This is such a weird place man, I wouldn’t be surprised if your clothes hadn’t been taken off for top of the line laundering.” he joked
The Pope gave a sideways glance of contemptible menace. “Find some a thing to cover your tools o I rip em off.
“Yeah yeah, you are quite right really, really we have to maintain some kind of decency, dignity right, I mean YOU are quite right, yes, got you, yes.”
“shut a fuck up”
They looked around and came up with different solutions the Pope fashioned banana skins to lace around his mid drift and hang down covering his modesty. Tonto chose, would you believe fig like leaves and a creeper.
“Lets a out o this poofta palace before I kill a some one, I still got a itch.”
Tonto jumped to attention and obediently followed the Pope. The tunnel was long and gloomy with many turning’s, twenty minuets later they were approaching the brightness of daylight.
As Tonto wandered along his mind tried to reason why he was still alive, he tried employing different philosophical tools, rationality, Plato’s logic, Game theory but he wasn’t too good at that thinking kind of stuff, “Anyway, I mean, a homicidal maniac in a banana skirt clutching a flea bitten teddy bear. What the fuck.”
“or may be my lucks changed, he’s simply lost his mind, oxygen starvation of the brain or he feels some kind of debt for his life na? Fuck, I’m alive, what the fuck”
The fruit he’d eaten started to rumble in his stomach a common problem for him, his digestive tract sent it’s disapproval of the fruit to his anus and he let squeak a little one as they strode into intense sunlight in a neglected corner of the ruins. Motifs of the extended scrotum sect adorned the walls along with those mystical spirals that fine craftsmanship had etched untold millennium before.
“What are we going to do?” he enquired politely.
The Pope remain silent he seemed to be concentrating on something, a noise, he turned right following it into a day lit open passage way which rose slowly.
Now a distant voice was audible in the distance. The Pope responded immediately.
“Fucking kill bastards, robbed a my suit. Leave a man no a dignity I’ll strip skin. I pull neck.” The Pope appeared to be a man of few well chosen colourful words.
He tossed the bear at Tonto, he didn’t realise he’d been carrying it, his rage growing with each step as the noise grew louder, a drunken slurring, not really following any tempo.
The Pope strove on purposefully, leaving Tonto straggling behind so he double paced to catch up but only lagged further behind. The passageway was now became an ancient street of dwellings with ruined tumbled down walls shoulder high.
The slurring grew louder, it was Indica, off his head and out of his mind, in fact his minds tenancy these days was so infrequent as to warrant a temporary forwarding address.
At an intersection of streets a hand attached to a black suit flashed out from the shadows grabbing Tonto by the neck, thrusting him high against a wall, he dropped the bear and held the vial vile high in the air.
The dirty smoke stained hand was strangling him with it’s iron vice grip.
Pummelling the Cuban suit with his other hand had no effect, air was no longer arriving to fill his lungs he was loosing.. he audibly farted as on the other side of the wall Indica amused himself.
He had his whip in hand lounging in a deck chair with sun parasol above, empty tequila bottles strewn about, the loud fart like sound stalled him a second, seemingly familiar, before he dismissed it and continued. He’d been practising his wrist action all afternoon with the bottles precariously placed on the wall… Indica was in a dreadful state, a mess, high on ecstasy for five straight days, he had very little idea of where he was or what the fuck he was doing. He probably didn’t give a shit either.
He flicked his whip at the bottle topped wall and it returned with a glass vile which fell to his lap. He only just noticed the vile as he was already into a return hit, but now the vial held all his available concentrated attention. In the mean time, the whip had by happen chance coiled it self around the neck of the Cuban suit, Indica yanked back eager to examine the contents of the vile, the sudden resistance to the whip collapsed his deck chair but he instinctively held on to the whip. Result, one Cuban suits neck snapped with a resounding crack and amazing proficiency.
Indica had no idea what had happened, his eyes were hunger fixed on the vile, that could only mean one thing, drugs. So snapping the top off, he downed it in one, just as a huge Cuban dressed in banana leaves rounded the corner.
In a rage The Pope strode towards him evil purpose in his eyes.
Tonto having shacken off the suited corpse rounded the corner gasping for breath with the flea bitten pudgy brown bear clasped to his chest.
But Indica was already high in the air, the Popes hand held him suspended, a puppet dangling, strangling and crushing his wind pipe, his powerful right hit Indica in his still enormous throbbing swollen balls.
A snapping jab, his well practiced favourite a warm up for more intimate torture and it was charged with all his herculean muscular power.
A scream of screams commanded the air, cut though it, silenced nature’s hum and filled the air with a shrilling whining pitiful distress.
In all those years on the confession line the Pope had never ever heard anyone filled with such pitiful anguish, the bare bones of a soul moving from desperation to total resignation of its horrendous fate.
It shocked The Pope, he trembled, horrific images of all his victims on a speeded up confession line seemed to cry out to him at once, a unified pathos, a plea to respect the sanctity of life, a cry for the family misery he had inflicted, a cry for the children he had orphaned. Now he yearned to let each and every one of those victims free, free from what were his own, evil, cruel, ignorant hands. To liberate their souls from their dyeing suffrage, pain and hopelessness. To lay to rest their mangled desecrated corpses, he wanted to undo everything, Yes undo everything, every single evil deed of his life’s work. The Pope dropped Indica.
He staggered back overwhelmed, his mind screaming escape from its incriminations, accusations, of the tortured inferno that had been his life’s work.
Tonto arrived Hmm… “Hey Indica may I present to you my good friend The Pope.”
Indica stared upwards vacant, then his eyes focused, then he lost consciousness.
“Ah…ha, probably not the best moment for that I guess.” Mused Tonto.
The Pope was on his knees hands covering his face crying uncontrollably, a baby lost in it’s own private world of hysterical self pity.
Ahmid awoke to pain, pain he’d never before known, his eyes lowered to the source and his jaw fell open, ripping his bursting clothes away revealed a sight that no man should suffer to see. His balls were enormous, humongous, swollen, throbbing red and over run by small sucking white snails.
Panic filled his brain, he crawled to the door, tears washing his face, what he saw was something from nightmares. The recreation area for the workers was a slaughter house of dead and semi naked wounded, some crawling in desperation to the “Never land” of hope, all of them had huge grotesque distended scrotum’s plastered in white small snails.
A terrifying chorus of pain filled groans incessantly bombarded his ears.
“Ahmid, Ahmid help me for the love of god, help me” Ahmid pulled himself to the source of the pleas to find his beloved friend and confident Alle…”I’m sorry really sorry, I didn’t mean….well I couldn’t help…I took it, I took it, forgive me Ahmid.”
“What did you take?”
“That cursed devils necklace.”
“I showed it to Acba, he took it from me, stole it from me and was murdered for it. Now look,” signing the hell around them, “what did I do?”
“There was a riot, they all wanted it, none wanted to share. Our greed has destroyed us all, look,… look around, look at the blood and horror, the curse has worked it’s way on all of those who touched it, who craved it. All will die a horrible death Ahmid, God has looked into our souls and what he’s seen has unleashed his vengeful wroth.”
“I came here with you to work gods word Ahmid. No one but me new of the true nature of our mission, so it was I alone who deceived you all, but I had to do it in the name of our beloved God.”
“Ahmid we were here hiding before our mission, we were to sacrifice our lives for the truth and glory of our God.”
“We weren’t here to fly humanitarian relief aid flights, like I told you all. We were to destroy the twin pillars of capitalism, the symbol of the westerns worlds decadence it’s den of inequity, it’s betrayal of all that God stands for in his glory. Yes, I Lied, we were to fly our aircraft into the twin O.Bz-C.Bz on Oxford street in the infidels land of the British martyring ourselves in the name of God.”
Ahmid’s dreams collapsed, imploded, popped. It had all been lies, lies, lies, he didn’t understand this terrible world and wanted out, he embraced his distraught friend and said,
“But I don’t understand, O.Bz – C.Bz? What about my book the movie?, my martyrdom and the virgins?
Especially the 72 wide eyed virgins?”………..
Fatty Chole started his first burger bar van in Finsbury park road, a happy good humoured overly large man who was said to eat more than he served.
He got….. BIGGER.
When people talk about expanding their business, they are normally referring to its business potential, but in the case of Fatty… he had said this as a matter of literal fact as he simply could no longer access the interior of the burger van.
A triple width isle was required.
The customized enlarged van caused crowds of curious lonely social out casts to descend on the bar, soon the scene around it began to look like something akin to an air crash disaster scene.
It became a magnet for all the sight seeking weird-os that crawl out from the shadow land of low self esteem. Seeking to be the first to pass on precious inconsequential information that might aid them in elevating their prestige within pathetic social peer groups.
In this case the precious gem of information was the truly scandalous unbelievable physical dimensions of Fatty.
In consequence, rumours grew, clandestinely whispered, endlessly exaggerated in their circulation, debating the validity of Fatties size, but it was one of those very rare cases where the hype was actually born out by the reality. The second such example since Bruce Springsteen.
No matter Fatties weight, the clientèle overwhelmed his capacity to keep up with the demand for his burgers, there was no longer time to eat in between clients.
Business grew along with Fatty, those extra slices of bacon on top of triple burgers became lashings of half cooked bacon, blocks of creamed cheese, tripe, cream sauces with pig lard and cow drippings. It was time to make a bold move he was advised, and so he decided to open the first retail outlet of what would become a world wide monopoly in record time.
Deciding to ignore pleas from friends, acquaintances alike to call the business the “Fat Fatty Fats Burger Bar”. He opted for the more contentious name of………….
“THE OBESCITY BURGER CHOLESTERAL BAR.”
Which was abbreviated to catchy O.Bz.-C.Bz
This came at a time when medical science had just revealed the dire consequences of a high cholesterol diet to the heart and hence life. Fatty mused “Life is a “gamble” nothing more, its so much fun and so is the cholesterol roulette wheel, come on jump on, lets slag up those arteries to a mere squirt, rip those flapping heart valves apart, damp those heart muscles down to a mere irregular flutter”.
There was no holding him back now. The press clamoured for wide angled photos and quotes as he franchised his business.
But when he advertised his product as having,
“A guarantee of certain death at an early age from all cholesterol related cardio vascular diseases”.
The media went crazy, he had the curious, the dedicated, fat and the thin, arriving in droves. They all left with their cholesterol time bomb months advanced and their hunger sated.
Fatty and his food chain eventually gave birth to spin off businesses, the greatest success being the popular…
“Pure Cholesterol Consumption Competition” a big brother scenario centred around the gross gluttony of obese contestants, although the sex scenes were severely edited as unpalatable to the masses, it still arrived to a world wide stage of one hundred millions viewers, bumping the Simpson’s and dragons den into well deserved obscurity.
The politically correct, “The Big campaign against the Discrimination of Slightly Overly Large and Upwards People”, wanted to close him down for running a business based, as they saw it on discriminatory propaganda aimed at ridiculing the obese, but one look at its owner, his weight and eating habits refuted all of their carefully planed accusations.
The franchise won various awards for its interior design. Check outs that even allowed Fatty to wobble though them unhindered, he provided over sized chairs to accommodate its more dedicated customers, reinforced toilet facilities together with doors to accommodate all. The toilets contained innovative sanitary receptacles for its bulimic clients with mouthwash facilities all located beside privacy booths to hide the shame of their uncontrollable copious consumption of his burgers.
His final genius was to gain a pharmaceutical licence to dispense statin’s directly to the public at all of his outlets shooting down complaints from the multitude of medical foundations trying to close him down.
If you could eat three O.Bz-C.Bz. in an hour with out puking, you got an extra free, (bulimic’s excluded), but no one, no one including the owner ever achieved such an unimaginable feat of gluttony.
The business went viral, it was the ultimate decadence in calorific cholesterol soaked cuisine, the addicted gluttonous human debris produced provoked the “twelve lighter steps program” self help group to quickly cover the country, which were in the main totally unsuccessful in weaning its members off the burgers, in fact in its third year there was still not one soul prepared to honestly pick up his one month clean star.
The health issues regarding the franchise became even more notorious than the Catholic condoned Aids epidemic in Africa, the World Health Organisation ruled it the public health enemy No. One.
Each casualty hit the headlines, there were exploding hearts, stomachs and respiratory failures. Medical Emergency Teams parked adjacent to the out lets awaiting the constant flow of near and out right deaths. Fatties in house retained lawyers became famed for their callousness in defence of the food chain
With outlets in sixty five countries including Biafra, which was about as sick a joke as one could make, although the business still made a profit, frequented by the corrupt elite, (Idi Amin flew in twice a week for a quick bight, two burgers with all the trappings and several take a ways).
Fatty became rich.
He commented, “Well yeah O.K., So I’m only the seventeenth richest man on the planet but I won the Guinness book of record as the worlds fattest man “hands down”. “I’m no egoist, “to be the worlds best and first only once, is enough for me”.
This was the gluttonous capitalistic monstrosity of decadence that had been the target of Al Fuk-eda, as far as he was concerned, it represented the pinnacle of western societies capitalistic debauchery and as such it was a legitimate target for destruction.
Tio had pleaded with The Pope for twenty minuet’s before he had consented to help, his main complaint was not over helping, he just didn’t want to come anywhere near Indicas naked body, but now he tentatively grasped his bare shoulders forcing him down doubled over a suitable rounded boulder his head laying between his banana leaved frocked waist.
Tio took the super spears flame thrower lighter and pulling Indica’s balls from between his legs in a tricky dexterous pincer movement using thumb and forefinger. The operation began, roasting away the remaining snails plastered to the rear of Indica’s scrotum.
The smell and Indica’s constant unconscious efforts to escape the heat of the flame sent him too and throwing between him self and The Pope, so what with his writhing groaning it rendered the operation instantly forgettable. The Pope constantly protested pulling and pushing Indica around to counteract his writhing s.
The operation was nearly completed and as if in celebratory acknowledgement Indica relaxed, then awakened screaming at his pain and causing him to fart prodigiously!
Tio’s cognitive circuitry instantly processed the inputting data and sent an “all events evasion action” alarm to his central nervous system which responded by flooding his body with adrenalin. Quite a good manoeuvre all in all, but there was a side effect, a tensioning in his gut which rapturously, instantly expelled all the gaseous ballast stored in his larger intestines. The super spears lighter then did what it did best, the explosion was expansive and instantaneous, needless to say stimulating to all parties present, leaving the three of them with little need to attend to excess’s of private hair growth for many a month to come.
They had arrived placing Che’s stretcher close to the rim of the crater. Cono went off on a reconnaissance searching for water and anything else that may be useful. The group was in a bad way Che was semi lucid, but with the return of cono carrying fresh water their recovery was rapid and within two hours Che was sitting up ready to take command.
They had to secure Fidels bear no matter what, that was the primary objective of operation “Desert Wind” nothing else mattered, the D.N.A was in its pampas, he was the only one apart from Fidel with this intelligence, he just hoped they were in time and that the red herring vile had done its work.
He shifted over to the rim of the excavation and with his high power binoculars and surveyed the scene below.
As he focussed the fine precision glass he pointed them in the direction from which a constant groaning and pleas for help came from, the focus snapped an image into being. Two gay Arab labourers embracing each other naked from the waste down crying hysterically, whilst around them lay seventy or eighty bodies some obviously departed for the next world, judging by the blood stained earth around them.
Limbs were severed, knives, axes, shovels protruded from their savaged bodies, clubs lay in the hands of the dead, “Some serious shit had gone down here, but what had started the massacre”.
Some where crawling, all were naked below the waste and what shockingly caught his attention now, was frankly beyond belief, they all had balls far beyond elephant size.
He moved the binoculars around the area, “fuck a what a the fuck” his words mumbled past his lips. What he saw was incredible, he simply couldn’t believe his eyes.
The living and dead were all afflicted alike, the unlucky living writhed in uncontrollable pain sobbing, others were simply uncontrollably crying calling for their mothers and others seemed to be crawling aimlessly having been forced to abandoned their minds due to pain, their huge grotesque balls left large gouged rutted trails in the dust behind them.
All of them stretched out their legs to the maximum to accommodate the rampant cancer that lay between.
A group of three now caught his attention on the other side of the excavation he flicked the lenses around to the source refocusing, the first thing he saw was The Pope, “thank god” he thought, before he realised that he was dressed in banana leaves and bending over a naked body.
“oh man this a place is so a fucked up a man”
Che could now see that the man straddling the boulder from the positioning of the bodies seemed to be giving an enthusiastic blow job, The Pope had him by the shoulders pushing and pulling at the body, “My god I just a cant believe, The Pope a poof no!, but what a the fuck”, his mind was in complete confusion nothing seemed real here “The Pope getting a blow job man!” but then a scream echoed around the excavation and the face of Indica Mc lemmon appeared from the banana leaves between The Popes legs. “No, Oh a No”,
“The Pope and Indica?”
He panned to the pudgy man at the other end of Mc lemmon and felt an incredulity cross his mind until he understood, the pudgy one although dressed for an orgy in fig leaves had a flame thrower of some kind in his hand and was torturing Indica burning his balls.
“Now that’s more like it” thought Che, the scene now made better sense, he felt guilty for thinking of The Pope as he had. The Pope would always be the same, given a chance to inflict pain and horror he would always be out there ahead of the others camping out at the head of the queue, top of the class.
A huge ball of red flame suddenly exploded enveloping the pudgy one and Indica, “Fuck” thought Che “They’re not fucking about down there, Guess we can relax The Popes got things under control”.
Tio jumped back the hair on his chest had disappeared his fig leaves had curled at the intense heat, he swiped at his body instinctively as The Pope brushed away the remnants of his eyelashes and chest hair.
“Hey Che I found some salt tablets on the dashboard of the Jeep over there, take this you need it”. Che knocked back the ecstasy pill, one of the last from Indica’s stash and passed the glasses to cono…a few minutes latter he was giggling a bit weirdly and said, “wow man that’s some wild party down there. What we do”.Che looked over smiled and said, “tell every one to relax, get a good nights sleep, it seems like everything’s under control. The Popes on the job!”
But the reality was that not one of Ches team were under control and nor would they be for the next forty eight hours.
Dawn broke, Tonto and The Pope shouldered Indica between them, they were making their way towards the incline when Tio broke away for a moment stooping to retrieve something strewn in the dust.
Che heard a Jeep door slam, he rose a little to stare over the top of a wall, watching them laughing yeah, great The Popes got the bear. Great we can get out o here but we just gotta finish this party first, he continued to juggle bare full breasted cono up and down on his dick. He was raving like a loony as were the rest of his men, everything seemed so great, the dawn, yeah, the desert, yeah, wow man this was some kind of scene going down here yeah, I mean a real a groovy scene man…..he took another shot from his inhaler then lit one of Cubans finest and disappeared…..
All rights reserved, copyright Tom Tomlinson. 19.5.2012.
By the Author of..
‘The Absurdity of Pigeon Feed’
If some one enjoys this nonsense or not please drop me a line with your comments to tio_tom_tomlinson7@hotmail.com
