For too too long I had sat at home with my pets, the bold cat, Jasper and the mirth fuelled dog, Argos, and contemplated my role in the fall of the pastime of stumbling over fen and hill. Perhaps, thought I, my extreme and militant views regarding the right to every Man and Woman to traverse o'er stile with style had brought some public mistrust to the pasttime.
Yet as I strolled among the thicket and bramble with my beard proud, my gait erect and my chaffer polished, I felt a wave of what could only be described as devine clarity.
The Anarchist Rambling movement must be steppped up!
It must be washed upon the shore of ignorance and disdain.
I must yank men in their motorcars and heavy haulage lorries and get them to acknowledge the beauty of a Wild Spunkflower at crimson dusk. I must march into every woman's typist school and etiquette and posture class, grab them by hair and tit and show them the unequalled delight of inhaling the victorious odour of the first sheep dip of Spring.
Yes. I must prevail.
Out of the ashes rises the phoenix of the militant rambling cause.
I marched down The Crags of Cuntflipe with a song in my heart and a salty taste of climax in my mouth.
We shall prevail, brothers and sisters in rambling.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
]]>Our organisation, like a moth from some ancient cocoon, stirred and threatened to return and cast its bonds asunder.
Tall and long is the tale that will soon be told.
Vive Le A.R.S.E
]]>--a harsh yellow light shone upon a brick wall and I saw his feet run up a steel staircase --
-- a fire exit door swung shut --
-- I tore up the stairs like a lithe cat after some cod that's been lightly dunked in cream --
--suddenly--
--I tore open the door and ran in, intending to lunge upon whatever was there with extreme brute force...and then put a donk on it--
--then--
--a gun shot from within--
--was I too late to catch him?
]]>The sun was rising over the Campsies and beckoned a new dawn upon the horrendous murder of this once proud and erect gentleman. A thin triangular toblerone of light cut through the dank, heavy curtains like a rapier through soft camembert and shimmered a little, sad morsel of life into one of his still opened eyes.
Being not forensically savvy, I could not offer speculated musings upon the manner of Curbishley’s demise, but I hedged a flimsy bet that the jagged shard of walking cane inserted seemingly violently into his perianal area did nothing to slow his passing.
I turned his body over, leaving the stick in his hinterhole. Jasper was lapping at one of his frontal wounds. I rapped him in his lion-like cat façade and examined the wound more clearly. In his upper chest, at the left side was a strange looking entry wound – a pulsating, bloodied gash no less! Strange was the implement that had forced entry into this old man’s body.
I was about to finger the hole to locate bullet fragments when I heard the pithy sound of a door creaking.
It had yet to occur to me that the perpetrator of this deed of horror: this occidare, may very well still be at the scene in the dim shadows of morning.
I had time to leap into the confined space between the refrigerator and the kitchen door before person or persons most foul began slowly to ease it open…
]]>As the dim shackles of night were cast asunder and the liberated dew of morning came running naked from its internment, alone was I in my hinterwear, nose pressed curiously against the vents of my vestibule and chamber assessing the extent of the arid whiffs of shame.
Deftly, I crept like an otter through the grey lit halls of my abode, past the horror knocking shop of old Mrs Fairweather as she brought another navvy to his hopeless climax for cash. Still the whiff endured.
I followed its calling down the steps, my hands groping against the banister and tiled wall. I felt my way precariously like a first time sex pest, grasping at petticoat and bloomers. A shard of sunlight cut through the darkness like a prism of contentment. The light fell on the door of apartment number 69 – old man Curbishley’s hovel.
Curbishley, a former academic and one time trustee of the now defunct Ramblers Engineers And Rotary Polemic And Skilled Structural Artist Group Endeavours, lived alone and ventured out only to pick up the Morning Star and whistle venom at the scantly clad milk white legs of priss school mams.
The smell, now almost knocking me out of my paisley patterned slippers, issued forth from under the door like a badly timed quip at a spastic fundraiser. Jasper, my erstwhile cat companion and procurer of much lols came between my legs and nudged the door ajar with his lion-like face.
I followed my cat inside. I turned into the kitchen and called Curbishley’s moniker into the darkness.
I heard a simple miaow as if Jasper had reached the conclusion of a letter chock full of heartache from his sweetheart back home whom he pined endlessly for in some muddy trench in Europe. But this was no noise of wartime cat heartache. This was Jasper’s oft used croak to inform your humble narrator of some great ill.
I met the source of the rotten pong at last -
- the badly decomposing body of Charles M Curbishley.
RB
]]>It’s been there for around sixteen minutes and it is driving me to utter distraction.
Unfortunately, it reeks not of mint nor embergrass nor wild spunk flowers but is more reminiscent of stale crayfish sprinkled with the mushy stomach bile of a victim of Ebola.
I am simply at mine wit's end as to its origin. In my youth, I spent several years as a farm hand and am no stranger to pongs universal. However this acrid stink is tearing me from my merry musings.
Must find the source.
Smells like shit cheese.
]]>RB
]]>However, back onto the subject of rambling, a veritable pastime which may empower and deflower the mid-day walker to such degree that he may exact a firm level of glee, gait and gaiety.
We ramble. We ramble. Why do we ramble? We cross over fence and fen to enoble the spirit. To fill the lungs with crisp atominons of airfresh and taste the scent of honeysuckle, the rimflower and the quiverhorse into our souls.
We ramble, not because we can, but because we must.
But moving back to the anus..."
Rambling in the Eighteenth Century, and Musings on Defecation by Sir Quicey Nice IV
]]>Regular readers of this walker's oeuvre may be able to tell you that at one time there was nothing more noble to the hinterland trekking cause, nothing more reassuring, more impenterable and more tighter than A.R.S.E.
In dark times ladies and gentlekind, we begate our greatest members in the hard struggle to free this nation's walkways, fords and bramble paths from the crushing fist of privately controlled tyranny. Our members were murdered, had their reputations smeared and their berghaus defecated upon. Yet never did we crumble in spirit. Our members may have scattered beyond the fields of justice. But with such names as Alex J Walker, Buck Tremaine and Findlay Vinecreep upon mine shield, I shall set forth to rebrand A.R.S.E. We can rise again. We can break free from the amistad of barbed field gates, streams deliberatey polluted with nematode worms and lusty, erect bulls. We can embark on the long, lonely road to freedom once more!
Over stile with style!
Up the A.R.S.E!
Bob Rambling.
]]>Attached to the rock twas afixed a message,
"Welcum (sic) back, Bob. Your (sic) dead you total cunt. There (sic) going to kill you. Cunt. You and ure (sic) kind make me sic (sic)."
Normal service resumeth.
]]>The door, heavy and unlubed creaked on its hinges and took some mighty thrust to ejaculate the heavymound of newspapers and junk mail which had accumulated under the letter slit.
Under a quilt of cobwebs, dust and heavy funk, I could make out my old furniture - the old Edwardian globe given me by Alex J Walker, the fine oak drinks cabinet left to me by Great Uncle Ricktawd Rambling before he lost his face in the Boer skirmish and, most lovingly of all - my old antique gramophone.
I put on Ayn Rand's best accordian melodies and lit myself a pipe - ease myself back in nicely.
RB
]]>I tamed the prick and rode upon his back across the valley to safety.
Ha!
Rambling Bob returns!
]]>I was in the midst of a snow storm, the coldness of which, piercing my uncovered neck soon became a warmth. I was slipping into delirium.
I fancied that I saw a giant pineapple and Max Bygraves.
I had to get out of the Precumia quickly or soon I would be nothing more than a frozen rambler – never to be found.
Naturally I had heard tale of the abominable creature which roamed the mountain pass near the four fingered gulley. The direction I had to take to get homeward. The terror of the Precumia monster had to be faced. I had no option. I pushed on.
]]>Some minute and frankly scrotal faced young Japanese looking boy, with a rather contentious irksome face tried to chop me in sectons, and there, above me, Jez Winklepicker, trusted friend and one of the founding members of Anarchist Ramblers of Scotland and England, stood above me, ready to hammer the final blow home.
The grotesque little fuckarse - Willing to sacrifice the glorious and guilded name of A.R.S.E for his own personal oneupmanship.
The Judas little rimmer.
I found some inner strength. I thought of Jasper and Argos. I must survive for their sakes - for them and rambling, and you, dear reader.
I raised myself from my back and thrust the hilt of the bollock ninja's sword right through the centre of his ball-dome. I then leapt to my nimble ramble feet and, turning to Jez, who now cowered back in frightened whimperment, I thoroughly and precisely proceeded to cunt him in the bastard.
Soon he was but a distant, guilty smudge on the cave floor.
But the greatest enemy keeping me from my beloved pets and the smell of wild spunk flowers lay ahead.
The craggy rocks of the mountains of Precumia.
I had won the battle, but the war still lay precariously on the rim of the great teacup of fate. Would I escape into the saucer of glory?
Or fall back into the tealeaves of failure?
Time, as every rambler knows, would soon tell.
Rambling Bob Esq
]]>My first thoughts, randomly, were about my love, and the fine Ramblers Broth she would cook over open flame. How I longed to taste that soupy glory with the wonderment of the wild spunk flower stock, which told of vast expanse and no cars.
Then I remembered the cave and Bob...and Hom-Ken.
I rose slow tense. My kneecaps felt slippery and I stumbled. I became acutely aware of my two cave companions grappling on the floor. I wanted to help but my arms had gone numb way.
Hom-Ken held his blade over Bob and pinned him to the floor with his knees on his thin empty vessel chest. I had to save Bob or rambling was over!
I picked up a rock. I could cave his skull in and save the day!
I Jez could be the hero of ramblers everywhere!
I, Jez!
I!
If I killed him. This blog would be mine. Mine
The Adventures of Rambling Jez!
Why should I surrender it to him?
It's mine. It's mine!
I raised the rock, Hom-Ken smiled and eased off. He knew. He knew.
Bob look quiz like and destroyed. Rambling could be mine!
I CAN HAS A RAMBLING!
]]>Trepidation t'were mein footfalls filled.
In the darkness something brushes against my bearded face - it could have been some bizarre strain of fookercreepers evolved to survive sans photosynthesis in this dark, grey place. The annexe cave of rim. Or it could have been the spiderweb of some fell arachnid funkbeast - or it could have been candy floss left by some erstwhile scout group, but I doubted this greatly. If it was going to be something, it was going to be something proper annoying like - well, I digress. I drove on...
Hom-ken was behind me I knew that much. But I hadn't seen that forboding dot behind me for three days. I drove on. Hunger tore at my gut like a wild hinterbeast. Thirst burned my thorax like sulphunk acid. Hunger and thirst had claimed me as their bitch. I didn't like being a bitch. It wasn't nice.
I felt my way like a blind pervert. Crevasses shaped my footing. Small ditches and decaying rock made the going tough, and the strange crispy sounds under my bare feet were disconcerting and a total hassle.
And then, by perchancery, I came like liquid milk upon a small crevice off the main route of the ancient cave ways. I had to turn my body quick-style into the sharp space, from which a kink of light came and a strange human musk - the smell of sweat and hair and too much crying.
And there. There. In the darkness. Rambling Bob.
His eyes, thin and with little behind them searched me for signs of hostility or friendship. Neither of which, judging by his emaciated man frame - he would be able to do anything about.
I reached out. Offered him something human. He sighed - relieved, finished.
"I never...I never"
"Don't try to speak, Bob. Take mein hand. Sorry my speach diverts to German when I am distressed"
"I never doubted you'd come, Jez"
"Mein ramblor colleaguen freshen" I wept.
My heart was lifted by his acknowledgement. It gave me added strength. I cradled him in my arms like a small ostrich.
"Jez..." He spluttered.
"Sssh. Ich bein back"
"The, the..."
"Nein, Bob. Rest now."
"No, no, you have to..."
"Sssh" I shook him like I was soothing a child gonk.
"Jez. My beard is caught in your belt"
I looked down and saw that this was true. His long, Bible beard had caught in my rope belt. We shared a laugh.
Then the blade.
It cut deep into my shoulder.
I dropped Bob and fell. Blood, crimson blood in the darkness.
Hom-Ken.
The Scroturai assassin.
The relentless pursuer.
The death in his eyes.
The total hassle.
Jez
]]>Rambling Bob resides there in misery, and it is my sworn duty to find our faithful narrator.
I wrapped a scarf around my head to protect my eyes from a vicious stenchwind which had blown in from the eastern goidian urals.
I chanced a kinky glance back down at my footsteps and saw Hom-Ken, a mere dot in the misty distance, stalking me. One of our ends would come upon this rocky region. I prayed it would not be mine.
I could barely make out the annexe cave of rim some one hundred feet above the plains. I could reach Rambling Bob before long. Hom-Ken upon my tail. I feared doom fast approaching. I thought of an old ramblers' ode to keep me spirits up as I climbed the final stretch...
Forever, we trek
Under bridges of starlight
Combed, like sandpiper eggs
Kept like men.
Yonder light shall guide thee fair
Oh how brittle the keen eyes of Trekkers be
Undulating and shimmering.
Yonder, will our gifted dwell
O'er mountain glade and shining brook
Under a bridge of crispy dreams
Unspoken vows of ramble whims
Trembling, tumbling - honest mirth
Taken from the cradle of Atlas' clasp
Ending never
Returning often
Clasped in golden light
Under and over stile
Never looking back
Til glory, or doom.
Jez
]]>One solitary shard of light cut through a small nook between a boarded up window. I heard a groan and I stepped forward. The General, his bald head just visible in the shadows, sat cross legged on a bamboo mat. His voice cracked, quiet, restrained, but with underlying menace, like a lynx.
"I have been expecting you," he growled.
"Oh yeah?" I responded.
"Hmm," he replied.
"And what-"
"Be seated ramble friend," he interjected.
I sat, like he, cross legged on the bare floor. I heard a scurry - a rat perhaps.
"And what did you expect to happen when I got here?" I continued.
"Wiser men than I hath fallen by a falling Elm." He vexed.
"What does than mean?" I queried.
"It means, it means that sometimes to find your goal, you must dodge cascading wonderment." He announced.
"Nope. I'm still not getting the analogy." I fixed.
"Rather, one, regardless of stature, may find the crossing tough on light tredding." He rambled.
"Yes, again. This would fall under the nonsense I mentioned previously." I reminded him.
The General smiled in the darkness, and began rocking back and forth gently.
This continued for at least an hour and a half before he spoke again.
"You have been sent by others to kill me, have you not?" He mentioned.
"I see no reason to trick nor fool you, General. This was my mission." I responded in frank honesty.
"Yes." He added.
"Yes." I concurred.
"Then what are you waiting for? You have me alone. Do it now." He proffered.
"I wish that not." I declined.
"Then, what of your other mission? That of the dark haired rambler who crossed these borders in the darkness of last winter." He added expositionally.
I sat forward. My eyes met his. The light from the nook had dimmed, and now only our eyes shone in the darkness.
"He, Rambling Bob may be found in the Annexe Cave of Rim, four miles North of here." He said to me bluntly.
"I thank you General. But, what, pray do you require in return for this information?" I pondered.
"That I may die as a soldier. Not like a dog. Not like a dog. Or wilderbeast." He explained mournfully and with little jest.
"That, I can grant."
"Yes. Thank you."
He was at peace. I sensed his release.
I knew what he meant. He should be killed in hounourable terms. He was not a man, despite his horrors, to be despatched in any way other than which his class should allow. I would go off, into the jungle and return to kill him. I would stalk him anew. And kill him with the grace that he deserved. I stood up and I bowed. The Great General nodded serenely and turned away.
At that moment, a flash of something glinted in the darkness of the hut. I saw the thin eyes of Hom-Ken. He cast me aside and too late - I knew what was happening...
"HHHHOM-KKKKENNNNN NOOOOOOOOOOO"
But it was too late. Hom-Ken, the evil Scroturai, leapt into the shadows and proceeded to murder the Great General with a small, folding camper's frying pan - bleating the General's brains against the wall with the unwashed utensil.
I cried. I cried for the General. And the horror.
The dis-honour was too much for me. I ran from the hut.
But still I heard the resounding "PING" as Hom-Ken delivered another fatal blow unto the General's head with the pan we'd used to heat eggs only two days before.
The horror!
Jez
]]>The high pitched death squeaks the Clarts made as Hom-Ken skewered their heads faded into the jungle.
Even the strange Goidian beasts noises which has hitherto busted my nut throughout my time in the jungle, seemed to disperse into the ether.
I followed a clear line of trampled vines and fookercreepers. Some grey shadow had beaten this path through the thicket in haste. And I followed, though me knees did shake.
As my hand swept aside a handful of wild rim-yr-maw shrubs, I beheld a small wooden shack atop heavy frames of coarse timber. A set of rickety wooden steps led up fourteen feet or so to a doorless entrance. I stepped up with caution. I had been briefed about General Shan-Gri-La Vulva from my erstwhile cabin crew on the voyage down the Clydoto. The man had gone clinically insane. If the mental dictator Kurasawa Perineum wanted him dead, I had much to fear from my impending meeting with him. But, Rambling Bob's life depended on it. These stupid underground cunts knew of his whereabouts, and I had vowed to find him.
I stepped into the hut.
A voice, darker than the dark of the underground jungle spoke forth...
"STEP CLOSER, RAMBLER. I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU"
Jez
]]>There, the General was waiting. I saw his shadow in the trees - and he sent forward another wave to attack.
Hom-Ken used his Scroturai blade to hew the heads of many a pesky Clart. They were small and their heads easily came off - but the fuckers were plentiful!
I followed the General. The tide was turning. Great waves of Clarts drew back.
Hom-Ken and I pushed forward. Somewhere in the fray I had gained some superhuman strength. I leapt across a wide cavern. The noise of the fighting became distant. The General was ahead in the distance. I could see his compound in the dense undergrowth.
It was him and me.
]]>...Cirius Duckman dead...
...some Clarts scattered over to the western shore...
...followed...
]]>We followed the hideous clart party by night - at a safe distance.
Until...
]]>...Hom-Ken turned - he heard the swipe as the weapon of death-deliver cut the air like a bamboo dildo.
His eyes turned red and I quivered.
In a lightening flash he spun around and grabbed my blow at the wrist. I cried out - it was really sore.
"SSSSSSSSHsshshhhhh"
He clamped his hand over my mouth and pulled me down into the harsh undergrowth. Beads of sweat fell into my eyes and burned like nasty vinegar.
I thought my time had come. He was going to bleed me - real quiet.
To my surprise - he motioned into a small clearing 100 yards or so to the north. Slowly, he eased his hand from my talk void. His hand reeked of kelp and musty fish arse.
"Up ahead. By them trees"
I followed his nod.
In the distance between the boughs of two brittle rape trees, was a small hideous looking shape. I could hear it sniffing at something on one of the trees. Because of the uneven ground, and the dark it was hard to acertain the sex or height of this shadow crawler.
Suddenly the air around it grew misty. It looked as though it was covering the bark in its own piss stream.
I looked to Hom-Ken for explanation and tried a expositon question while trying to tuck the blade discreetly back into my waist band without buggering myself or puncturing my man sac.
"Clarts" Hom-Ken hissed without removing his eyes from the pissing black creature.
"Very dangerous. Eat men, leave nothing but bone. This is a scout"
"A scout? Then there's more of the cunts?"
"Sshh. They have keen hearing and large fists. They render their prey helpless by fisting their wasteholes and then rip the prone being inside out. They save the skin to make duvets."
"Hideous"
"They are fell beasts"
"Shall we move around him?"
"No. We wait. We follow"
"Follow? Are you insane. I don't wanted fisted this far from home"
"We follow"
I huddled back and watched.
Suddenly the scout blew a small fife made out of man-cock and very slowly a small procession made it's way from out of the jungle. Hundreds of Clarts, small, swarthy; stinking, appeared in the low light of the clearing.
At the forefront they carried three long poles. On each pole carried, tied upside down; three figures.
One, a small peasant of fisherman stock, the t'other the swarthy sea Captain Nevermind, the other Cyrius the Duckman of Glasgoid.
The pole carriers stopped in the clearing. Some muttered exchanges, in an argot of indistinguishable hue grated on mein ear.
Then, Nevermind was uncut from the pole and made to stand upright.
A stout and lavishly decorated clart proceeded to approach the wacky Captain and signalled for him to drop to his knee. Under duress from several prodding spears, Nevermind complied. Then, and to my horror, I watched as the lead Clart's right fist extended by some alchemy from another time and was soon filling Nevermind's aquatic anus.
The Captain, tough and mental though he was, was soon vanquished by an enemy hand in his chuff.
Soon they cut him inside out and his dripping outerskin was taken off to provide warmth to some evil Clart's bed chamber. I felt violently sick but I had to swallow the chunks as any wretching would alert them. And I just wasn't in the mood to be fisted into the etherworld at that juncture.
Cirius and the manky looking fisherman type were untied also and I feared they would soon go the way of Nevermind. But they were asked in broken, grunting Goidian to identify themselves.
"I am Cirius, last of the Goidian Duckman and keeper of the Giffnock tunnel"
Next it was fisherman's turn:
"I am Francis Merriweather Gooselane, captain of the Rusty Hornpipe, disgraced second in command of the Kinky Cod and on the board of Nothern Rock"
This brazen and proud outburst created some commotion in the Clart ranks and I feared for this bold man Gooselane's ring. However some fleeting recogntion washed over me. I knew this man from somewhere. Perhaps he knew tale of Rambling Bob.
I had to get to this man!
Soon the procession were led off again into the jungle.
Hom-Ken and I followed. We said naught a word.
He knew I had tried to off him. I could now look forward to either a decapitation or a fistation.
I didn't like the odds.
And after a few yards of discomfort I realised I had put that blade firmly into the back end of my bollocks. Perfect, just perfect.
Jez
]]>He had heard something in the jungle just beyond some tittenalarm trees. I knew to be silent and hold my breath. Scroturai ears are small - like infant cashews, but they are keen and precise like that of a wild lynx.
Hom-Ken bent his knees and peered out among the foliage.
I slid onto my trunk, and with the savage instinct of a hen and slowly, ever so slowly, I slid the pointed killing stick from my waistband and gripped it in my scurvy teeth. I crawled.
We were both thick with mud. Hom-Ken had suggested we covered our bodies in the thick sludge from the cracked riverbeds of the jungle. Hideous gloop like coughed up camel catarrh. Unfortunately I had erred and covered my face in thick handfuls of briney horse shit - but that's a tale for another time.
As Hom-Ken leaned forward to source the sound of some distant grunting (like the coitus activity of mandrills) a portion of his yellow neck skin shone through his muddy wallpaper like a small triangular sandwich. There, there would I strike the blow. Like a target, I focused intently on that patch of his unholy, bollock faced body. I would quick-strike the sharp implement of death into his neck and skewer him to the nape. Yes. I was actually going to kill. (I have killed before, in Cyrpus - a party of Priests, but that tale is for another time)
As Hom-Ken leant this way and that - his little nutty ears twitching endearingly, I focused coldly on the exposed part of his neck. One blow. One Blow! I would use my trusted 'Skip-Jab' motion perfected by Ramblers since time immemorial. One skip, one jab!
I was close now - not a sound. Close.
I released the blade from my teeth, and rose slowly; my horsey shitty facey - that of a killer.
I moved to him. He moved his head a tilt.
I took the blade - raised it...I eyed his neck. Nothing in the world existed now but the point of my weapon and the point of impact. These two things - nothing more.
I focused and prepared my mind for the kill - like I had done on that rocky mountain trail when I detonated the charge that dispatched that trailer full of Cypriot Priests.
I moved close now - suddenly my right foot came town upon a twig -SNAP...
"Shhsshh you cunt" Hom-Ken whispered without turning.
I breathed again and raised the blade. Now was the hour of my joy!
Long hours of contemplation and degredation when the bollock headed overlord made me cup his balls in my mouth as he meditated (but that tale is for another time).
These thought and more filled my brain with hatred, fury and horniness as that blade fell and all my power was channelled into my kill-limb as my weapon fell with all the world's power - like the explosion that ripped through those Priests and sent them over that ravine and straight through the gates of hell!!!!
This was it! No return. The blade fell!!!!!!
"DEATH TO HOM-KENYOUCCCCCOOOOCKKKSUCCCCKKKKERMOTHERFUCCCCKCKCKCKKKKERRRRRRR!"
]]>We took our lunch by a babbling brook. A small glade had appeared - a welcome respite from the tangling green vines and fookercreepers which built nests on the dark floor of the jungle, crawled up your trouser legs and went straight for the testicles.
Hom-Ken sat his back against a rock a few yards away - engaging in his daily Scrotuai meditation. We hadn't spoken for eighty-four hours. I hated him.
His thick black hair was unbraided and hung lank infront of his tiny, evil eyes, the redness of which peered through the gloom like two toxic strepsils waiting to be consumed by a groggy pensioner.
I held tight the sharpened branch behind my back, tucked carefully into my waistband.
I waited.
After some hours Hom-Ken rose, fixed a stare and moved off. This was my signal to get going.
I had to be careful as we entered the darkness of the jungle again. One hasty, mis-timed jab and Hom-Ken would dislocate my head instantly - then again I couldn't wait much longer. One more quick duck to avoid a vine or fookercreeper - and that pointed stick would go right up my arse.
Either way - I'd be fucked.
Jez
]]>Some way off, Hom-Ken sat in a lotus style posture and his small precise eyes stared into the darkness. The Scroturai have keen night vision. And Hom-Ken was nae exception.
Cirius and Nevermind were no where to be found. Presumably they had gone the way of Fuk-mei-Raw and were skewered on some rock or tree from the foundering of the Naughty Nun.
"Use your shoe as a spade"
These were the last words Hom-Ken had uttered to me - some five days ago. His silence was infuriating. He had spoken these words under a keen silver moon as we buried the strangely smiling face of Fuk-Mei, who had gone the way he wanted to - with a thick length in his netherhole.
I eyed Hom-Ken with hatred as he meditated in the darkness. I wanted his death.
I sharpened a piece of branch into a spear with a cuntflint and felt my blood boiling over. There was no way I was trekking into this jungle in search of an insane Scroturai Lord. The first chance I got, and I would only get one - I will kill Hom-Ken and attempt to find passage by the river.
He looks at me in the blackness. I feel he reads my thoughts. It's just him and I now. One of us will not traverse this jungle alive. I just pray that I get my chance.
We move on now. In the dark. To avoid the hideous Clarts. Hom-Ken takes point.
I follow quietly with my piece in my hand. Waiting.
Jez.
]]>No other survivors from the Naughty Nun's wreckage...
Jez
]]>More presently.
Jez.
]]>His family were poor, his mother Yeso, a maidservant for a local feudal Lord and his father Mingo, an honest, gammy armed fisherman lived in a Crapshack near the harbour.
Although poor, the family of Vulva had much honour and were well respected, even though it twas an open secret in Tolodfunke that Yeso took more than the fuedal Lord's dictation and rusty was the colour of Mingo's preferable funhole.
Little Shan spent his days making paper kites and flying them down by seashore; dreaming that his airborne creations were beautiful sky angels who hovered above; protecting his father from fey giant squid which entered the shallows and scooped up fishing boats and devoured them like midget gems.
One day in Autumn, when the crimson leaves of the scud blossom tree fell upon the ground, Shan was to be found running along the pebbled beach, while his most magnificent kite (a green dragon with a fourteen inch flamecock) cruised the clouds above.
Suddenly he saw the Anal-O-Anal, his father's boat skirting on the waves beyond the bridge of Bukakke. Little Shan stopped and waved but his father was busy and did not notice. He seemed to be attaching some sort of life belt to his friend Naka-Mora's lower back region.
Little Shan shouted "father, father" but still Mingo did not pay heed, as he appeared to be having difficulty with Naka'Mora's life belt and was now trying to afix it with his teeth.
Suddenly Shan's green dragon kite fell to the ground drenched in seaweed and ocean foam.
Shan looked up to see a twenty foot wave caused by a giant Grosssquid; a hideous mutant at least the size of modern day Brussels rising out of the water, it's glaring uno-eye evil and unblinking because of it being evil having no lids.
Shan dropped his kite and screamed at his father who was now elbow deep in Naka-Mora's waste maker, presumably to locate the lost life belt's drawstring...
Mingo spun around too late as the ripples of the grosssquid's ascendence caused the Anal-O-Anal to lurch forward.
Shan screamed in abject annoyance as one of the pink tentacles of the grosssquid scooped up his proud father and munched him down, using Naka-mora as a homosexual maritime toothpick soon after.
Shan ran home to his Mother in utter shock only to find Yeso saying "Yeso" to her master's hunting hound which deflowered her in an unmentionable embrace which her Lord sketched in detail onto some filthy parchment.
Some say this was the final straw for Shan.
He ran off and joined the Scroturai and became an utter prick.
So the story goes, as told by Nevermind as he piloted the Naughty Nun ever onward to the falls of Consequence.
I, half listening, prayed for another night on the river free form giant aquatic maneaters or beastial overlords of shame.
Then Fuk-Mei-Raw sreamed out in girlish fright. I thought he'd been messing with the deck broom again but no - the falls became visible through the night mists and the roar became deafening.
Cirius leapt to steady the sails, the Captain held hard on the wheel, Hom-Ken watched me keenly as I tried to sneak over board.
"I see you Winklepicker. You no go noplace. You go down on Naughty Nun."
"I'm going nowhere Hom-Ken. I have honour."
"Hm I doubt it. You upperlings have very little if no honour"
"I have honour"
"Honour is not something you have"
"Yes we do. Honour is not confined to the Scroturai you know"
"Yes. Yes it is"
"Not it isn't. It's not exclusive. I do actually have honour"
"Hruptph. You have very miniscule elements of honour"
"Listen Hom-Ken, I can assure you - I contain honourable atoms"
"Your outer packaging it say - free from gluten...and HONOUR"
"My outer packaging says Warning may contain HONOUR!!!"
"No honour"
"Honour! And I've fucked your sister"
"Girls Girls, the falls are close we may die now. We need you both" screamed Fuk-Mei.
I held Hom-Ken's stare as he refused to back down.
The roar of the falls now took over and I felt the first sprays on my brow. I could not back down to this prick and we stood there, toe to toe. Unblinking - like squids.
The falls began to splash upon the deck.
I heard Cirius QUACKKKKKK loudly in fear and I heard the groan of the wooden deck as it tore apart like prawn cracker on the razor rocks of Consequense.
Jez
Jez
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