A Midnight Host, The Dismemberment Of Corpses

We spent the following afternoon, me and Kimba, separating out all the different parts of our babies. Kimba’s instructions were to stretch the limbs out a little and put the heads in the freezer.
- For what we’re going to do – said Kimba --
- May the Lord make us truly thankful, amen. – I said butting in.
She laughed and said – No! Fuckrag! For what I got planned this is what we need to get done, - she said stretching a limb out like a Mr Stretch.

We waited a couple of days till September 20th for the Autumn Equinox to come round.
- A date of great significance on the Luciferian Calendar, said Kimba, - a midnight host, the dismemberment of corpses...we cut off their hands, - she said.

That night that’s what I did. I cut off all 6 little hands from the 3 shrunken and wrinkly little corpses and put them all in a Jiffy bag.

We drove up into the country then, into the Knockbracken Hills to where Mistress lived in a “wee, cute Hansel & Gretel cottage, far away from anything,” as Kimba put it. Out front in her brown and overgrown lawn stood this big menacing and spideresque Weeping Tree.

- I’m gonna throw the babies’ arms and legs over the branches of that tree. And you throw the frozen babies’ heads through her front window. It’ll be like a bomb hit a butcher shop, Hawr Hawr Hawr, Danny – but before we do that we’re gonna ring the peelers about 10 minutes before hand. And on the drive home we listen to this tune (handing me a Bogdan Racynski cassette) while Mistress is getting her ass hauled to Hydebank!

We waited till it got dark and drove in silence out into the country. I killed the lights when we turned onto Mistress’s road and Kimba directed me down a lane, about 100 yards up from Mistress’s cottage. We snuck across the road then climbed over a fence into the field facing the cottage. All dressed in our blackest gear and with Boke the cat’s shit rubbed onto our face for camouflage. Kimba called the cops and told them she’d found baby parts hanging from the branches of a tree at Mistress’s address. Soon as she hung up she turned round quickly and I unzipped her backpack and took out all the baby parts. I have to say I felt like I were in a feminist A-Team TV show.

The big Weeping Tree was situated at the front of the garden and one long sturdy branch stretched over the narrow sad road like a footbridge in an Ewok Village. I took the babies heads then put the limbs back in her bag then I give her a footy onto the branch and she made her way across. Her tight, svelte bod’ shimmying along, serpentine.

She hang dropped into the garden and took the long stretched out 6 legs and 6 arms out of her backpack. She threw them over various random branches and they hung there swinging like Octopus tentacles.

She made her escape through a hole in the hedge that bordered Mistress’s garden and ran up toward the car. I pulled myself out of the tentacle daydream and ran across the road vaulting the front hedge hurdler style, 2 tiny baby heads in each hand and one in my mouth. I felt like a grenade totting Marine bounding toward an enemy lookout tower. Two heads went through the front window and the 3rd I threw to Mistress’s big Alsatian that jumped up and caught it like a old tennis ball.

I went through the same hole in the hedge Kimba did, scratching my face up and ripping my jumper and ran to the car. Kimba had it started already. We sped off tires screeching and Bogdan's beats pumping out the speakers as the high beams of two unmarked cop cars appeared on the brow of the hills behind us lighting up the tarmac like a tractor beam from a hovering UFO.

Ran Out Like Red Slush Puppy

The wise Tupac Shakur in one of his songs once alluded to the pleasure to pain ratio between the moment of conception (pleasure) and the ensuing 9 months of pain. Even with all his wisdom though I bet he could have never imagined the pain of trying to perform an abortion with a leaf blower. Brenda’s got a baby ain’t even got shit on that!

My sis’ Micheesha ran us up to Carryduff to a big garden centre where we hired a leaf blower. Afterward Kimba said she felt bad cos Micheesha kept going on about how she couldn’t wait till Kimba had the triplets. As she had three kids herself she liked to imagine that one day when ours were big enough they could all be friends, her kids and ours. Kimba had to pretend like she was all excited too.
- You’re a good little hustler, I told her. - You had her well convinced.
- You don’t understand, Danny. She’s all excited. She told me she’s getting all broody again.
- Well that would be a mistake, her havin another one. She better not think she’ll be getting more benefits from the government. Derek’s gonna stop all those benefits for single mothers. Knowing Derek he’ll make it that any child born to a single mother will be fed into a massive incinerator producing clean ’green’ energy in a grand magick ritual in honour of Gaia.
- Your type of fella.
- Away and fuck.

When we got home and got the leaf blower out of the box we were pleasantly surprised to discover it had a ’suck’ as well as a ’blow’ function.
- That’s good, said Kimba. - That means we can suck their brains out like that website about Bill Clinton says what happens in partial birth abortions. I didn’t know how it was going to work anyway if it could only blow up there. Would’ve blown me up like a balloon, Danny…hawr hawr hawr!
- Your eyeballs would’ve popped out and bobbed there like a fish on a hook. I would have gently tapped them back and forth with my finger tips, like a kitten with a ball of wool.

I got the bowling pin Bogdan give to me (that he’d got from his uncle who used to manage the Superbowl) from under the bed while Kimba smeared her cunt with Vaseline. I’d already racked up a couple of lines of Mephedrone that she hovered up, so’s to give her the horn. I kissed her deep and she got her tongue right in my mouth and I closed my lips round it and sucked, sucked it like I was sucking dick. She groaned and I shoved 3 fingers up inside her, everything squelchy as her fat gelled meat curtains yielded loosely and swelled in the middle like 2 slugs in transit.

Soon my fist was pistoning, wrist deep, in and out of her and she was arched and groaning deeply like Exorcist Linda Blair. Her head twisted sharply to the left and she eyed urgently the bowling pin that lay on the pillow beside her. I handed it to her and quickly withdrew my fist. She shoved the pin up there (Setting the cast, she squealed) and I got the leaf blower (sucker) turned it on and stuck it in an inch and a half or so. Her squeals instantly turned to agonised, convulsive wails.

Bits of our babies ran out like red Slush Puppy onto a big hotel towel Kimba had nicked from the Europa Hotel especially for the occasion. I wrapped all the parts up like a parcel and put them in a laundry basket.

Kimba lay mumbling on the bed. Her blood wet little stick legs were stiff with tension and wiggling. - Leave them there. We’ll divvy the parts up tomorrow. That fuckin bitch Mistress won’t know what’s hit her.

Lube And Poppers A Must

I came home this morning – entering the house a little sheepishly after noticing the massively pregnant figure of Kimba floating there behind the frosted glass of our front door – standing side on, looking, due to the frosted glass, like a comma spontaneously combusting, rendered by Edvard Munch.

I sat at our rickety kitchen table and slowly moved my eyes over all the phone numbers and tags people had meticulously scraped in with a knife or squeaked on with a felt tip. To break the ice I asked Kimba to make me a bowl of cornflakes.
- Let me smell your dick first, - she said.
- Nah, - I said. – What for?
She got down on all fours and crawled under the table. She got my zip between her teeth and pulled it down.
- Just tryin’ to make it sexy, babe, - she said.
She pulled my dick out and held it in the palm of her hand for a second or two. She breathed in and out in quick succession then smelt my dick.
- You’re dick smells like shit, - she said.
- Dunno how that could be, - I said, trying determinedly to take my mind off things the way terrorists under interrogation used to do in the ‘70s, by focusing on something else in the room – in my case trying to memorise the mobile numbers on the table.
- Who you been sleepin’ with, Danny?
- No one. I’ve been in Bogdan’s these last few days. –

Little did she know, I thought connivingly, that me and Bogdan, when we’d no fanny to hand, would take turns on each other in what he liked to call the ‘Daisy Chain’, whereby I would anal him (or vice versa) while giving him a reach-reach around wank, while he would be reaching behind (a reach behind, I suppose) wanking me off, while I, with my one free hand would be rimming myself and trying to reach my male g-spot, while he, with his one free hand, would be left to tickle his own balls. It was an invention we both conceived of one night we were doing coke and had the horn a weaker.

Lube and poppers a must.

I had thought I’d sprayed myself with Bogdan’s Lynx before I’d left, but obviously it hadn’t done the trick. Kimba popped her head between my legs and looked up at me tearily. I scrambled for an answer to the questions those moist anime eyes of hers screamed out. But, instead, being the jinny I am, I chose escape to being caught out so I told her that she needed to get out from under the table and sit up on a chair to hear what I had to tell her. Which was, the ordeal she was going to have to face at the hands of Mistress.

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She Delivers Right On Time, I Can't Resist A Corny Line

Today I received some news. It has become crystal clear – the life altering inconvenience Kimba presents to me has now reached its optimum potential. For she is not only going to be the father of my child, but the father of my children. She returned home from her scan this avo’ to tell me she is stuffed with triplets.
- Triplets? I repeated.
- Triplets, she said. That’s three.
- I know how many it is, fuck’s sake. Jesus, we’re going to have to make at least a snuff movie if we’re to get through even three months feeding and clothing them and keeping us in fags, booze, and drugs.
- We’ll get through it. Love will see us through.
- There’s no such thing as love, bitch. Love’s that threshold you cross moving between lust and disillusionment. Plus what you call love brings no returns. No, baby – I’m maybe gonna have to turn you out AND put you in a few sick pornos.
She started to cry and heave like she does.
- Good, I said. Good. Your being stressed will harm our babies. You might miscarry and all our problems will be over.
- Or they might be born with water on the brain and taking care of three mongo’s’ll cost us 10 times as much.
- Jesus! Well stop crying, then, I screamed at her.


I stormed out of the house and sadly traipsed down the street, stumbling on the footpath where it rises imperceptibly. I hoped I would fall out in front of a bus, but then conceded the fact that I hate pain and would only invite death if it were instantaneous. Luckily (the only good thing that happened to me today) as it was raining I got to the bus stop just as the bus arrived, and as a bunch of old cunts were getting on in front of me I didn’t have to haul ass and sprint with my big fat frame before it drove off.

As I waited as the old cunts swiped their OAP cards and tried to inject a bit of colour into their lonely lives by talking with the bus driver (who was obviously African, in the sense he was black) about the 12th and the riots, I remembered the other day, reading in the paper, about this 97 yr old granny that was raped by this mentalist burglar she’d caught rifling through her jewellery box. I remembered how I laughed and laughed and how it helped me to put my problems into perspective and how also, I realised, there would always be sexual violence against the elderly that would keep me amused however dark the dark night of the soul got. Then I finally realised that people raping granny’s (and granda’s) was just like paedophilia, only hilarious.


By the time I got off in town my earlier mirth had deserted me. My progeny dilemma was once again front and centre of my worried mind. A mushroom cloud swelled on every horizon. Every corner I turned presented me with a hill.


With nowhere to go, and with nothing I could think of doing, some otherworldly bit of something threaded itself through the hole where my burdened heart used to be and pulled me, after a fashion – a case of like attracting like – to ‘Spoons where other sad fuckers with long faces sat staring into the cloudy foamy dimensions of their scrying pints like washed up and washed out Nostradamus’s trying to divine their own awful fates.


I stood at the bar eyeing up this sexy Aussie barmaid when I felt a darkness descend and 99% expecting it to happen a hand arrived on my shoulder like an eagle returning after a centuries long journey and a voice whispered in my ear:
- I’m The Mistress. Kimba told me I’d find you here. She’s very worried about you. She wants you to come home.
- Kimba told me there’s something you could help us out with?
- No…well yeh. Kimba filled me in. Involves me getting some people together. I’ve never produced a porno before, but with my sex nonce I don’t think it’s gonna be exactly rocket science, do you?
- No.
- So go home, Danny Pongo. And leave your worries here at the bar. It’s that you gotta Let It Loose – sticking her earphones in my ears and mouthing the words – “Just Let It Loose!”

Porn-a-Like Bumper Issue

Today’s Porn-a-Like is a double feature starring: Bruno Brookes & Michelle McManus.

One day after a particularly tough rollicking from his latest wife Bruno Brookes decides that in his constant struggle for superiority over women he has been defeated, and so, in rolling out one old chestnut after another to console himself he gets out one of his favoured index cards and writes: “If you can’t beat ‘em (and you can’t Bruno, John Law says so) join ‘em” and selotapes this to his forehead before going to his GP to get the ins-and-outs of sex realignment op.

Here he is enjoying a tryst with Michelle McManus who Bruno has signed to his new record label, Mullet in a Gusset, in a vain attempt to get back into Show Biz. Unfortunately Michelle’s first single ‘Would You Eat Lasagne With Me’ sank without a trace and the label went into liquidation. Bruno though, no stranger to failure and a genius in turning a turd into a triple layer sponge cake of cash re-launched the label as a porn outfit, married Michelle in Britain’s first ever lesbian-transgender-marriage officiated over by the newly ordained Jedward (who have also signed up to the smut label as a novelty gay-twin-incest priest outfit) and since then the bizarre porn he produces, (a screen cap of which appears below) has seen him/her amass a fortune of 100million pounds, most of which he/she has reinvested into shares in hotdogs and the people that produce the jokes on ice lolly sticks.

From the Bruno Brookes produced porno ‘An Angel In My Fanny’ a much circulated shot* taken by Gloria Hunniford of her very distended labia in which she insists you can see the face of her beloved dead daughter and ex-Blue Peter illuminati (alumnus) Karen Keating.


Today while kicking around a few ideas as to how to make money to feed the baby Kimba will be dropping soon, I drew up finally two possibilities;

1. Turn her out. ---- Downside: John’s mostly don’t go for pregnant chicks, so I’ve heard.
2. Put her in the movies, i.e. porn. The freaks are no longer on the streets and have decamped to their bedroom. There’s any amount of freaks out there looking to get their rocks off to dubious material. One facet of the freak market is pregnant chicks porno. In porn the more freakish the shit the higher a price you can sell it for.

So I put this latter idea to Kimba, telling her that if we’re freaky enough one video could pay off so much we wouldn’t have to make any more.
How freaky, she asked.
Well, very, I said. Like some sort of bestiality will have to be involved. Probably the imbibing of menstrual blood. Maybe at some point we could induce labour and when the wee scrota comes out we get the dog, some big Alsatian or Pit Bull or something, to eat it alive. Freaks dig death -
No, she squealed.
Only joking, I chortled.
I’m up for some freaky shit, she said conveniently. Me and The Mistress used to get up to all sorts of profaneness. Actually she could help us out no end in this. Let’s get her help. I’m sure she’s forgiven me for our last falling out, plus you can finally get to meet her. Yay, she went in a meek-numb faux smack head fashion.
No fuck, meet her? I said with much more feeling...No! We can do it ourselves.

* The above is mostly made up, but whoever can tell me what this really is will get a surprise baggy from yours truly, Danny Pongo. --- And so here's Bowie, Hammersmith 1972 to ruminate to:

Screwing Between Sketchy Avian Fallout

Me and Kimba got reacquainted with each other yesterday afternoon and came to realise the mutual benefit of each others’ company: Her’s was reminding me she takes it up the shitter as long as poppers and KY Jelly are on hand, and mine was giving her a place to say and ears to take in her whacky shit.

We went to bed on good terms and she proceeded to ride me bareback for a good hour or so. This morning she freaked out thinking she’d get pregnant (I was more worried about the clap, with her history), but I told her not to worry. I told her that I reckoned that if my sperms were as lazy as I was then it’d take them years to fertilize her scabey ovum.

So buying this logic (she’s a rudimentary grasp of human biology at even the basic levels) she saw no rush to get to the chemist for the morning after pill, and so we proceeded to take a slow breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast with some tomato juice providing refreshments.

Afterward she brought me into the bedroom and took from under the bed a small marble box. She brought it to me and opened it. Inside was a miniature wooden bird lying on its back with its eyes painted milky white and carved in bits in its side to represent its wings all tucked in (radius of a 5p piece).... to look like it were dead.

What is it? I asked her.

A hex, she told me.

What sort? I queried.

I don’t know the name of it, but it’s the beginning of a very vicious hex.

God Save Ireland! I attempted.

The Mistress got the same sort of hex years ago. A girlfriend left her after years of mental abuse, leaving behind a similar little marble box telling her not to open it. But The Mistress, being her, did. A matter of hours later birds started flying head first into the side of the house. It went on for hours. Afterward Mistress went out and collected up 58 of them.

That seems freaky, but doesn’t seem like much of a hex.

That was only the beginning – she got cancer of the ovaries afterward and had to have them removed.

And after that?

And after that, nothing. Her run of bad luck finished. But there was loads of awful things in between too, like.

Well so she can’t have kids, I logic-ed. If this witch woman knew anything about her it’d be that The Mistress isn’t exactly the mothering type. She may as well have made it so’s every baby carrier ever manufactured wouldn’t fit her, such is the impact it would have on her womb-barren life....

....Well anyway, I don’t think you want birds flying into the side of your house. By the sounds of Mad Otis he might want to use their bodies as bait for that pregnant Rottweiler outside, so’s he can capture it.

I reasoned that this was fair and that were Otis to ever catch that pregnant Rottweiler and do her harm it might cause terrible trouble which may in a roundabout way impact on me.

So I told her we should go and have a lie down and a think about how we’ll stop this hex becoming real.

In bed lying in the spoons position I started getting frisky and began to do the V fingers round the outside of her minge through her skin tight, knickerless white denim hotpants. I put this Herbie Hancock track on Youtube to get her seepy and eventually, it now fully engorged, I twisted that bean of hers like a miniature joystick bringing her to a quivering, squirting climax.

It took her a good 5-10 minutes (probably 7) till she were still again, and with a cinematic coincidence the song ended then too.

Moving To Montana Soon

This is the way I felt when I went to bed last night. So my bones were creaky, I’d a pain in my liver, my spine felt rusty in the middle and most worrying of all I’d very limited capacity in my vision and everything looked blurry even when I squinted and focused. I noted that it made everything look like a Renoir print, but so worried about this rapid and sudden physiological deterioration was I that I could take no pleasure in this – like imagining I was tripping and/or that I’d fallen through some vortex into Renoir’s imagination, a la Bring John Malcovich.

As mentioned in a previous post I am replacing the Venetians because they are caked in mould. I have now reached the conclusion that there are mould spores in the air also, invisible to the naked eye, but there nonetheless, and something which is, above smoking, the major cause of lung cancer. And seeing I smoke too, I reckon I’m doubly fucked.

I entertained the idea of moving out, packing my stuff and going, not forgetting to change banks or maybe keep all my cash under the bed from here on in to avoid the landlord chasing me up for rent.

Then Kimba called and told me The Mistress had kicked her out due to some unspecified sexual problem on Kimba’s part. So I could think of nothing else to tell her other than to come round.

When she arrived she walked right in on past me and put Frank Zappa on the turntable then started dancing like an imbecile dropping down and rolling her head right down between her knees like it’d suddenly become a ton’s weight and she couldn’t hold it up.

When she settled down she took a seat in my granny’s nice big rocking chair and I told her how Aloysius had been in touch to tell me about the fact finding mission he’d been on in Peru and how he’d somehow got wind of the US Airforce’s mapping of human thoughts.

Kimba told me she wasn’t interested and that she’d a story to tell me about The Mistress that I wouldn’t believe.

She told me I would regret taking her in as The Mistress had powers beyond the constraints of time and space and that she could get me in my bed even though she were miles away.

I told her about my physical ailments and that I suspected that in an act of suprahuman prescience The Mistress had foreseen Kimba seeking sanctuary with me and hexed me accordingly.

Kimba spent the rest of the night being restrained, moody and quiet. When she went to bed I put the Over-Nite Sensation back on, and unlike Zappa, realised that moving to Montana wasn’t even a maybe for me.