92
“He’s already fucked my tight bottom-hole and spunked my hot bowels,” Pussy confessed. “But my pussy’s still a virginal pussy.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, Pussy,” Eva smiled. “The last thing I want is a man’s cock fucking your pussy.”
“But I thought you said ...” Blond began in his confusion.
“Don’t even try to understand, Mr Blond,” Evan broke in. “You can come in now!” she called, turning as Pussy unlocked the door.
Blond watched as two middle-aged and seemingly drunken men walked into the room.
They were the very same men he’d seen in the Trotsky Club, the very men who’d hauled their dicks out and pissed on the floor in the toilets, which he found most odd. It was particularly odd as they had to attend a meeting at eight o’clock that very evening.
Shit
, he mused.
This is the
bloody meeting they’d bloody well planned to bloody attend!
The stouter of the two scowling at Blond and raising his finger, he didn’t look at all friendly. “Prepare to ...” he growled.
“To die?” Blond interrupted him, his eyes darting between the gun on the sofa and Pussy’s pussy juice running in milky rivers down her inner thighs.
“Prepare to fly to Penisburg,” the man chuckled.
“Fly to Penisburg?” Blond echoed. “What the fuck do I want to fly to Penisburg for?”
“You’ll fly over the Urinal Mountains and parachute into Penisburg tonight.”
“Will I?”
“Of course you will. You’ll be met at the village hall by your contact, Spenda Penny.”
“No thanks, I went earlier.”
93
“That’s her name, you fool!” the second man growled.
“Mr Blond,” Eva smiled. “This is your latest mission. Spew said nothing to you about it because he thought you’d get as pissed as a lord and go blabbing your mouth off in the Trotsky Club.”
“Lords don’t get pissed. Well, I suppose they do occasionally. I really don’t want to go to Penisburg. I mean, I’d rather stay here and fuck Pussy’s pussy and ...”
“There’s no time for pussy fucking, Mr Blond. You must hurry. The plane leaves the recreation by the library in half an hour.”
“That’s a funny place for a plane to be.”
“The airport was teaming with police and armed guards and ... Never mind about that.”
“I can’t go to Penisburg in a boilersuit,” Blond complained. “What will the foreigners think of the English if I turn up in a bloody boilersuit?”
“Worry not. You’ll be given a change of clothing on the plane. You’ll also be furnished with a passport and your instructions. The beer’s very cheap in Penisburg and the girls are ...
Well, you’ll find out for yourself soon enough.”
“Sounds like fun,” Blond grinned. “I’ve never been to Penisburg.”
“And you’ll never come back!” one of the men chuckled. “I mean, not until the mission is over.”
“Shut up, Poltsky!” Eva scowled. “Spenda Penny will take you to a safe house, Mr Blond. You’ll complete the mission and then be flown back to England.”
“You mean, his body will be flown back!” the other man laughed.
Eva kicked him in the shin, scowling as she grabbed his lapels and head butted him.
“Shut the fucking hell up, Bronsky!” she hissed, pushing him against the wall and kneeing him in the balls before turning to Blond. “Mr Blond, the car is waiting outside. You have to leave now.”
94
“Anything you say, Eva baby!”
97
“Dave the dyke?” Spew echoed, pressing the receiver to his ear. “Who the hell are you and what the hell do you want?”
“I’ve just told you who the hell I am. I’m Dave the bloody dyke.”
“You haven’t told me what the hell you want.”
“A man was looking for me in parliament yesterday. The thing is, he never found me.”
“Where were you?”
“I was with Mike the Marmite miner. It’s that wanker of a bloody barman’s fault.”
“Wanker of a barman?”
“Had he not caught me in the toilets with Roger the fudge packer ...”
“What the fucking hell are you talking about?”
“Haynes Blond was looking for me.”
“In the toilets?”
“No, no.”
Spew paused. “How do you know Blond?” he finally asked.
“The PM said that ... It doesn’t matter. Where is he?”
“In a seedy bar with his hands up some knickerless tart’s skirt, I would imagine.”
“I have to speak with him in connection with a dose of common clap ... I mean, Clapham Common.”
Spew smelled a rat and frowned as he pondered on Clapham Common. Dave the dyke knew more than he was letting on, but what? Other than a few perverted MPs whipping their 98
cocks out and having their knobs sucked to orgasm, Spew was sure that the common held other, more sinister, secrets. Perhaps it was a meeting place for foreign agents? he reflected as the one-eyed cat wandered into the office and arched its back.
“What do you know about Clapham Common?” he finally asked.
“It’s a big piece of land with grass and weeds and trees and dogs’ shit and used condoms strewn about the place and fucking beer cans and ...”
“I know what it is, you prat!”
“Then, why the fuck waste my time by asking?”
“What I meant was ...”
“Meet me in the Trotsky Club.”
“What, now?” Spew gasped. “It’s nine o’clock in the bloody morning. What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting we meet in the Trotsky Club.”
“No, you’re not. You’re suggesting I’m a fucking alcoholic. OK, so I do a couple of bottles of scotch a day but ...”
“No, no. Listen, I’ll be there at midday. I’ll be wearing a turquoise dress with sequens.
And red, six-inch stilettoes. Oh, and black fishnet stockings and a frilly suspender belt and no knickers and ... God, I’m stiff! Don’t be late.”
Banging the phone down, Spew perched himself on the edge of his desk. “Fuck!” he breathed as he sat on his left bollock.
A turquoise dress with sequens?
he pondered, manipulating his aching ball through his trousers.
Fishnet stockings and a frilly suspender belt and no
99
knickers? What sort of man
... It was obviously one of Blond’s weird friends, he concluded.
Why
he can’t mix with decent people instead of fucking perverts, I have no idea.
As the phone rang, he reckoned that it was Dave the dyke again. There was no time to talk to idiots about being caught in the toilet with fudgers, he decided. Ignoring the incessant ringing, he scowled at the one-eyed cat as it peered at him from behind the filing cabinet.
The
thing wants its balls ripped off
, he mused as it hissed at him. As Miss Honeycunny entered the office, the cat scurried across the room and hid beneath the desk with its claws bared.
“Excuse me, sir,” Honeycunny said, hoisting her microskirt up and displaying the vaginal lip-bulged, wet material of her red panties. “Have you seen Haynes Blond this morning?”
“No,” Spew murmured, eyeing the white stain on the crotch of her tight panties. “I don’t know where the fuck he’s got to. Why do you ask?”
“Because I wondered whether or not you’d seen him this morning.”
“To answer your question, I haven’t seen him this morning.”
“The phone’s ringing, sir.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” he returned, grabbing the phone and repeatedly banging it on the desk. “The fucking thing’s been ringing for ages. God only knows why it rings incessantly. If you ask me, there’s something wrong with the bloody thing. Ring, ring, fucking ring.”
“Talking of cars ...”
“Were we?”
“No, but we are now. The yellow Robin Reliant ...”
100
Spew slapped his palm against his forehead and gasped. “Blond’s car?” he asked, his forehead stinging like hell. “I must stop slapping my forehead.”
“Yes, sir. I noticed it outside the Trotsky Club on the way in to the office this morning.”
“The car was on the way in to the office?”
“No,
I
was on the way in to the office.”
“But you said ... Never mind. I wish the bloody phone would shut the fuck up. What’s your point, Honeycunny? Get to the point by making your point instead of uttering pointless words.”
“I don’t know what my point is. What with the confusion with cars and me on the way in to the office, I’ve forgotten my point. I don’t mean my man in a boat point, my man in a boat clitoris. I mean .... ”
“For Christ’s sake, woman. Take a grip on yourself.”
“In here, sir? Wouldn’t you deem that rather rude?”
“What? Look, come back when you’ve remembered where your point is ... What your point is. That reminds me, I could do with some coffee. Oh, and a decent chunk of chocolate fudge tart.”
“I didn’t know you were that way inclined, sir?”
“Now what are you going on about? Just get me some coffee and a bit of tart. Fuck me, the bloody phone’s driving me fucking insane!”
As Honeycunny fled the office, Spew decided that there was only one way the shut the phone up, and that was by answering the damn thing. Shrieking and recoiling as the cat clawed his trousers, leaving scratch marks on his leg, he accidentally knocked the phone to the floor as 101
he tired to kick the feline’s arse. “Fucking hell!” he cursed, pulling the phone up by its wire as the cat did a runner.
“Speak spewing,” he panted, rubbing his sore leg. “I mean, Spew speaking.”
“Blew, this is Splond. Fuck, you’ve got me at it now.”
“Get your butt out of that fucking seedy club and your fingers out of whoever’s well-juiced fanny they’re stuffed up and report to my office immediately!”
“I’m in Penisburg, sir.”
“Your penis is where? My God, you’re insufferable. I do
not
wish to know where you’ve shoved your bloody penis!”
“No, I’m in Penis ... Never mind. Have you got a map handy?”
“A map? What the hell do you want a map for?”
“I’m looking for the village hall.”
“The village hall? Blond, I really don’t know how you survive this life. You seem to lurch from one insane moment to the next without any sense of ...”
“My money’s running out, sir. It costs a fortune to phone several thousand miles.”
“Stop talking ovaries and report to my office within two seconds!”
“But I’m looking for Penisburg village hall.”
“Two seconds!”
Walking to the window, Spew thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and sighed. What was the point in having agents such as Haynes Blond? he mused. Blond was an arsehole, an incompetent fool, a sex-crazed maniac, a waste of time, money and space ... “If only Dick Shaft 102
was on the case,” Spew mumbled, wondering how the man was fairing in the darkest depths of a Siberian prison.
Blond shivered as he tried for the umpteenth time to rob the cash box before leaving the call box.
Bloody country
, he cursed inwardly.
Does it always bloody snow like this?
What with the flight over the Urinal Mountains in a clapped out biplane and then parachuting into a twenty-foot snowdrift, he was far from happy. Add to that the fact that he’d received no instructions or passport, was freezing cold, starving and in desperate need of a piss, he was really fucked off.
Trudging along the snow-blanketed lane, he finally came to a small shop with welcoming lights glowing in the window.
At least it’s fucking warm in here
, he thought, wandering inside and gazing at the hundreds of cans of processed peas lining the shelves.
Why processed peas?
The fat woman behind the counter looked him up and down and mumbled something unintelligible as he turned to face her. Scowling as she folded her arms beneath her breasts which were so big that they reminded Blond of two sacks of rotten potatoes seething with maggots, she seemed far from friendly.
“Excuse me,” Blond smiled, wiping snow off his eyebrows as he pondered on having a piss up against the counter. “I’m looking for a bog house ... I mean, the village hall.” Waiting for some kind of response or reaction, which was obviously asking far too much of the fat cow of a woman, Blond waved his hand at the window. “Terrible weather,” he remarked. “I’ll bet the forecast was wrong again. Bloody meterological office. They’ve got computers and satellites and radar and they still get it wrong.” Nil response from the fat slag. “So, the village hall. Is it far?”
Shaking her head, she locked her beady eyes to his as exasperation overwhelmed him. “Are you 103
fucking deaf?” he finally snapped. Poking her tongue out at him, the woman gave him the V
sign.
“You fucking, fat, foreign slag of a cowbag!” he yelled as she spat on the floor.
“English fucking bastard!” she returned.
“Cunt-faced slut!”
“Go spunk up your arse!”
“Charming, I must say!”
Leaving the shop, he pulled his coat collar up and continued to trudge along the lane until he came to a large wooden shack. “This must be the fucking village hall,” he murmured, becoming increasingly bogged off as he walked up the path and pushed the door open. Noticing a young woman making sandwiches on a table at the far end of the hall, he brushed the snow off his coat and walked towards her. She was a bit of all right, he observed, eyeing her microskirt.
Focusing on her shapely thighs, he wondered whether she’d offer him a quick shag. A sandwich would go down well after his long and tedious journey, and then a shag.
Cheese and pickle or
ham and mustard?
he pondered, his stomach rumbling.
Fuck the sandwiches!
With succulent red lips, the young tart had a delectable and most fuckable mouth. And her tits were worth a damned good mouthing and sucking, not to mention a cleavage shagging. Wondering whether her fanny was dripping with goose grease and in dire need of a good spunking, he realized that business had to come before pleasure. There would be time enough to fuck her senseless later.
And if there fucking isn’t, I’ll fucking make fucking time
to fucking fuck her.
Praying that she spoke English as he pondered on the dreadful expletives 104