When I told Kimba what awaited her at the hands of Mistress she sat there staring at me for the longest time. Her expression was one of bewildered horror – her eyes and breathing stilled and the blood drained from her face. She ceased like a just dead person – that dissociated leaden expression passing over her yellow faketan face like a snowstorm over a tropical beach – but all the time my mind is blank of emotion or thought, and I could have been sitting there 6 million years and I wouldn’t have noticed even the rising and falling of empires outside my kitchen window so guilty did I feel.
It ended up I had to put this tune on the turntable - one her paedophile foster carers used to play for her when she went 'Over The Rainbow’...-
And a video of Joanna as Dorothy (interesting lines then Somewhere Over the Rainbow is sung; Leona Lewis [on X-Factor, Britain's current American Idol-type] and others have been made to sing this particular MK song also [going over the rainbow = dissociation; to escape the horrific traumas they 'go over the rainbow'/dissociate from it]), American Idol is likely full of potential MK'd candidates ready for a life under total corporate control once they "win".
to lull her into a sense of dissociation again – when she said: - I have a plan. These are the reasons Mistress has us acting out this sick fantasy for her - she said pointing at her spherical middle with our babies inside, - and the only reason we’re going to be part of her sick fantasy is so we can keep our heads above water financially for what? three months tops? Nah! We gotta outsick her, Danny Pongo. And I got the plan to end all plans! – - That’s why I love ya’ bitch, - I said, lying…
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.
As I can’t face having to tell Kimba that she is to be sodomised by a pair Alsatians while she gives birth to our triplet children I have decided to stay away from our dirty little hole as much as possible in an act of foolhardy procrastination.
I landed on Bosco there on Friday night telling him my mother had died after tripping over a sleeping tramp in London and fatally cracking her head on the kerb, so would he mind providing me with a bit of company. In reality what had happened (and what inspired my telling him she were dead so’s to get into his house) is that she somehow severed an artery shaving her ‘unwomanly fuzz’ off and ended up in a psych-ward as they think it was attempted suicide. Luckily when this happened my Down’s Syndrome cousin Donatello was with her in the house installing a pump in her goldfish tank in his capacity as a goldfish tank engineer (something to do with getting everyone a job under the dewy eyed stewardship of ‘Derek’ Cameron) and he heard her squawking and was especially alarmed when, on finding her in the bathroom, the squawking got quieter with each ‘squirt of red blood’ – as Donatello put it – that shot from the slim long slit on her neck. Her cutthroat razor lay on the floor by her spasming hand. Luckily Donatello knew what to do. He rang an ambulance immediately and give the address and a description of what had happened. And, by a grand feat of serendipity, one of Donatello’s ‘hang-ups’ as his mother (my eternally sketchy Aunt Elvira) calls it, is calling 999 and telling them that someone or other has had a terrible turn and that an ambulance needed to come right away. As Donatello goes among many of the in-laws doing odd jobs for them (in an act of pity, I surmise, as Aunt Elvira married her 1st cousin Geraldo producing Down’s Syndrome Donatello (while others say it was part of a multi generational Satanic sex thing, the reason they married)) he has a knack of memorising many addresses – which he recalls with perfect accuracy when he is on the phone to the emergency services. My mother often has asked me if I can recall all my relatives’ addresses. I tell her I can’t and she reasons that, therefore, Donatello could probably beat me in an IQ test. She then usually follows this with, ‘Donatello’s obviously got brains to burn, compared to you Danny Pongo,’ or variations on this.
Sometimes she tells me she thinks my problems go way further than that of a Down’s Syndrome’s. And sometimes I like to think that one day she’ll do herself a terrible injury...just like she did today in fact. Which proves my powers of ‘empowerment visualisation’ (or whatever the hippies are calling it these days) are far greater than her’s.
So I spent a nice weekend with Bosco listening to ‘Acid Jazz’ and smoking pot. I had to pretend I was grieving over my dead mother while all the while wishing I could tell him what was really bothering me, which was: Kimba’s triplets, how we couldn’t pay for them, how in order to pay for them we were going to have to produce a horrible sex film with The Mistress of Kimba giving birth and how the worst of it all was that while she was in labour she would have to be sodomised by a pair of Alsatians while I had to drink some of the menstrual blood that she passed which would be collected in a dog bowl which would be held between her legs as she endured a terribly painful labour due to The Mistress kidnapping her after her waters broke then withholding painkillers while she had to endure the passing of three ‘of the worst type of STD’s you can get’ as the Mistress calls them (babies) in the course of the whole horrible perverse thing all to be recorded and sold to the highest bidder.
To take my mind off my awful life I told Bosco all about Porn-a-Likes. I told him the rules: That you had to find a porn video where the chick and/or man (pornstar) had to look like a recognisable celebrity. Then you had to make believe that the pornstar in the dirty film actually was the recognisable celebrity and make up an imaginary story chronicling how this particular celebrity descended into a life of drug dependant prostitution/sex slavery/private and bizarre sex orgies involving a particular elite/their own private individual sex pursuits which brought them to the edge of madness and/or the vulgar debasement of their own soul.
So Bosco chose this video screen cap. Bosco, like me, is a massive pornography fan, and therefore has a highly functioning encyclopaedic recall (verging on the electronic) of all (and they are many) the pornographic films that he has watched.
Below is Victoria Beckham posing so insincerely as only she can while receiving a dry frenetic bumming. The story (penned by Bosco) follows tomorrow. After Bosco told me the story of Victoria Beckham’s descent into high class pornography he put this tune on the turntable:
and got up of the sofa to twirl dancing round the room, repeating – You gotta get up to get down, Danny Pongo. – So...grabbing me up of the sofa he started swinging his fists pendulum like millimetres above the carpet repeating – Get down, Danny Pongo! Get down! Which I did...
Last night, after I got out of the cop shop I came home to write up a post about the dreadful day I’d had. Afterward I took a look through some other, earlier posts and stopping on ‘I *Heart* Jo Wheeler’ to have a wank over the eponymous Sky News weather girl I happened to take a glance at the comments section only to find a new one left by someone claiming to be Jo Wheeler’s husband, intimating to me that he was very annoyed that I had defamed his wife and the mother of his five children (which makes her even hotter somehow imo) and that he was going to contact the proper authorities.
Incidentally in the comment above this one some little scrota had written ‘Seriously guys. This is my best friend’s mum. I am reading this with the up most horror.’
I don’t know where he buys his phonetics, but it ain’t the same place I do.
So, first of all it could be a hoax. Probably. Saying that, if it’s for real this husband must’ve gone a way to find my humble little blog post tagging his wife. Maybe he were trawling the 10th Google ‘O’ for some photoshopped porno with her in it.
The post in its entirety, with the comments (relevant ones in bold), below:
Today I met Bogdan for a smoke of weed in the park. He was telling me about how last Saturday night he met this fat girl in the Slimeshite (Limelight) who he took back to his smelly pad to buck. I asked him how fat was fat – “She was fat as fuck,” he told me. Fat As Fuck. I’m not exaggerating. If I told you she was 27 stone I wouldn’t be far off. She'd an arse like a peninsula.” “That’s a new one,” I offered. “Yes. She was enormous. Surface area of about 5 and a half foot. And wouldn’t you know? I went down on her. Her insides were very spacious, I went down to her fanny, and took a look, and it was like staring through a window into a big mansion.” “My goodness!” “I started to worry that I should’ve brought distress flares. After finishin’ on her flares are the only way they’d find me again.”
It was my turn to talk about sex then, and I told Bogdan how I was getting fed up of Kimba and all her funny notions about witchcraft and dark side people and light workers. I told about how it takes nearly all night to fuck her with all her weird tantric rituals and warm ups etc. when all I wanted to do was bust a nut. Plus it meant I missed all my programmes like Coronation Street and Lesser Spotted Ulster with sad sack Joe Mehan.
Secretly, because I kept it to myself and didn’t even mention it to Bogdan, my emotional passionlust toward a certain Sky News weather girl has been reignited somehow. Her name is Jo Wheeler. She ticks all my boxes. She is older, around 45 (my cut off point – like the last day you could eat a bit of fruit), and has the sexiest smokiest eyes to ever kindle within a human skull. She is to eyes what Julie London is to vocal chords. Monochrome erotically evaporating perspiration, my girl. And I mean monochrome like a verb........(ignore little gimp if ad comes up)
I am thinking of writing to her again. I’d tell her I agonisingly yearn to sink my face into her slightly wrinkled cleavage. I’d describe how I’d like to spurt reams of cum in between her freckled brown tits and how I’d like to watch my spermatozoa run along that slightly wrinkled cleavage like many milky rivulets – the milk squeezed from the golden udder of a Hindu cow deity that floats around in the sky.
Then again, on second thoughts, when I wrote a letter to her a couple of years ago, when I was annoyed she’d got a new hairdo (reprinted below)
“Dear Jo,
I would like to ask you: ‘what were you thinking?’ when you asked Stacey/Chanelle the hairdresser to sculpt such an abortion of a haircut upon your skull. I am very angry. Till your beautiful natural auburn hair grows back I would like you to wear a wig. If you do not I will kill your family! Only joking ;). Love ya doll!
Your Playboy Lover,
Danny Pongo xx”
the Sky News computer security goons sent me a very terse email back insisting I ‘desist from my correspondence with Jo Wheeler’ or ‘the proper authorities would be notified.’
Bogdan tells me not to give it up with Kimba. He says, “Once you throw it away, away can’t throw it back...” I don’t like Bogdan’s glib philosophy. It too accessible.
Here is the gorgeous Julie London:
Tuesday Kid said...
That sky news doll is heartless for not getting back to you on that. I'd love to receive a letter like that from an admirer.
BTW stay away from the witchy cult people, they are dangerous as fuck. They'll ask you if you'll let them kill a goat in your house and if the cops come you'll get fucked, not them. 24 November 2009 22:29 Danny said...
yeh, she is. but i better not send any more adoring letters to her or she'll have the cops on me quicker than any divilworshippers! 25 November 2009 00:34 the broken down barman said...
im sorry, she aint a patch on Lucy Verasamy....... 25 November 2009 02:59 Danny said...
oh no! i'd have to disagree with you there. there's something to be said for the experience of a mature woman - and jo's got that knowing look in her eyes that says 'i know all the tricks in wonderland, boy...so come hither!' 25 November 2009 14:06 Andy Luke said...
Well I suppose its much healthier than breathing in the excitement of a nine year old whose father has just gone to Afghanistan and letting the seductive aspect of this and her christmas list form a pool of saliva on one of your 40/50yr old chins. I can't seem to find the clip from approx 5:30 on the 17th November, but do you know which Sky News anchor I might be referring to? 25 November 2009 21:07 Anonymous said...
Guys, seriously. This is my best friends mum. I just read this with the up most fucking horror. 9 June 2010 20:49 Anonymous said...
As the husband of Jo Wheeler, and the father of our children, this piece is both utterly offensive and outside of any bounds of reasonable decency.
In the absence of any obvious way of contacting the people that manage this site, I would respectfully request that this is removed within the next 48 hours.
Failure to adhere to this request will result in the matter being handed over to people who can trace those responsible as well as the organisations set up specifically to prevent this form of abuse 2 July 2010 16:58 Andy Luke said...
That doesn't really make it a request then, more of a threat. However, as you're taking the time to project an air of civility, would you be able to get a message to Jeremy Thompson for me?
I was a bit shy about saying, your friend's mum/your wife has lovely smouldering eyes. 5 August 2010 01:02
I have to say, I would much rather the man saw it for what it was: a tribute/homage etc, albeit a dirty, initmate one.
Today I decided to go out and do a bit of graffiti-ing, something I haven’t done in yonks. I came across a church on the lower Lisburn Road with a big sign planted out the front which read ‘JESUS SAVES’, so with my permanent marker I wrote underneath ‘BY BEING A TIGHT STINGY CUNT’....when the pigs pulled up on the curb and wound down the window – - Here son, what do you think you’re doin? - Expressing myself, I replied with dilettante flippancy. - Well express yourself to us by explaining yourself. Come here... – The pig stuck his trotter in the air and beckoned me hence with a come hither motion. - Now tell me, he said. What is the meaning of this. He squinted and read what I’d written. – Funny guy are you? He said. - Some might say so, I replied. - I wouldn’t. Graffiti’s one thing. But you’ve grafitti’d in the grounds of a church. - So what? I retorted. Is this a theocracy we’re living in? I asked him rhetorically. – No don’t bother answering that. You’re bound to be completely at a loss to know what any word over two syllables means. I hear a prerequisite for being a pig these days is to have an IQ under 100. Away and fuck the church – - What’d you say, you little scumbag? - I said, ‘Fuck The Church!’ The church has caused more harm and heartache in this country alone than Jesus ever meant for. The Bible, a blueprint for love, has been perverted by man and it is that perversion which has been hardwired into 21st century apes like you. So...Fuck The Church – - You say that again and I’ll take you in! - Ok, pig. I’ll go one better on you. Jesus was a cunt. A tight, stingy cunt. That’s why it says everywhere: Jesus Saves ---- The holymen want us to save alright. Save all our money so we can donate it to the church every Sunday for their missionary work (read prostitute kitty). With that the oinkster got out of his squad car, grabbed me, 180’ed me onto the tarmac, and shoved my face into the dirt. He stuck some cuffs on me and hauled me up, then for good measure (when I told him I hoped all his kids died from cancer of the stomach) shoved me back down, head first into the dirt again and stuck his knee in the small of my back. After he threw me into the backseat I proceeded to shimmy my Wranglers down to my ankles and shite myself. I followed this by pissing myself, and, for the third course, I managed to get my the fingers (being handcuffed and all) down the back of my throat to make myself sick. I boked all over the head of the female pig (the sow) sitting in front of me and left their swine mobile in a right stunk up state.
In the station the desk pig taking my details recognised me from the time I was in a year ago for possession. - Danny Pongo? This is turning into a habit for you, son. Right, just a few questions: Suffer from depression, suicidal feelings etc. - Not till today I didn’t. - Ok, the greying fat bastard said turning to the arresting officer. - What’re you charging him with? - Vandalism and resisting arrest, said the arresting pig, with satisfaction. - I told him I thought Jesus was a cunt. The desk pig curled his big red life-raft-fat lips and blew out. - Officer Stevenson here’s a Free Presbo. - That’s right, said the aura free pig Stevenson. (The knock on my head I took when he shoved my face in the dirt had rendered my seeing to be hallucinatory – which lasted intermittently, for the totality of half an hour , in which time I witnessed most of the pigs as having either no or very dark aura’s – among other demonic entities which swirled around their person.) - Well, I said, let me educate you fine upholders of the law. We do not live in a theocracy. A theocracy is a country ruled by religious laws. You cannot charge me with blaspheming. The two pigs turned their snouts and faced each other. A look of irritation passed over desk pig’s face, while Stevenson’s face smoothed with a look of lustful sadistic imaginings. Then a verse begun itself in my head and I said it, as if I too were possessed of their dark emotions: - Gentle Jesus/ Meek and Mild/ The PTA have declared he’s a paedophile// Like the clock on a ticking time bomb hitting zero, Stevenson’s body exploded with religious kinetic-ism and he roughly grabbed me and frogmarched me down the hall and shoved me into an empty cell with a rubber mattress on the floor. Shoeless (so I didn’t hang myself with my shoelaces) I lay back and composed my thoughts. In the cell next to me some mongo said with monotone loudness: - God isn’t coming back today. He’s too busy. He won’t be back here for weeks. I closed my eyes and ruminated on this and considered it a good opening line to a poem or something. I replied: - I hope he stays away. There’s always an atmosphere when He’s around. - You’re right, came the voice.
I knew I was right. And I knew I always had a problem with authority. I lay back on the mattress and thought about another run in with an authority of a much greater scope I’ve recently encountered – that of Rupert Murdoch, in a roundabout way.....
Half way up the stairs in my building going up to my place Mad Otis hails me from behind and I turn to see him standing at his door wearing a leopard print Tarzan g-string and an oiled chest, fading and ran out in diarrhoea-brown streaks over his six-pack. - I’m movin’, he said with great jubilation. - Nice one, Mad Otis, I said feigning sincerity. - I’m fuckin’ wapped out. ‘Mon in for a wee swallie!
He got up then and put ELO on his turntable. He danced round the room with his hands in the air doing this wee twisty movement with his hands like he were unscrewing a light bulb. His left bollock fell out of his Tarzan g-string and I was surprised that it was totally hairless, it hanging there: his bald left bollocks, bald as a newborn baby’s bap bobbing away like a convulsing hairless spastic but Mad Otis didn’t care – dancing as he was.
I got off the bus at QUB, with the driver muttering hateful nouns under his breath. I wagged my finger at him and he accelerated through a puddle, soaking me, the cunt. I proceeded toward the medium difficulty hill of the depressing Stranmillis, with its tree lined meandering ennui, which put me in mind of Nirvana’s Scentless Apprentice, which I put on my I-pod, and which psyched me up for my meeting with Mistress.
I found her where she said she’d be, standing at that ugly painting of Cesar. I never picked up on it before from our meeting in ‘Spoons, but her voice sounded the way white spirits smells. Her voice sounded like her words were put through a wood chipper coming out. - The time’s right now, Danny Pongo. Kimba’s into her third semester. I got a bunch of fellas together, one guy has a camera. I’m gonna ritualise this – you know? - No – - I’m not going to harm your babies – - I wish you would. I don’t want them – - But in order to sell this material you have to participate in some activity – - Like? - Like imbibing the menstrual blood Kimba passes in the course of her labour. - Drink it? Fuck aff!! No chance. - And eat the placenta. Tom Cruise did it. - I don’t care. He’s a freak. What’ll this shite sell for? - Thousands. You’re guaranteed 5k between you and Kimba. - Nice 1. - There’ll be dogs involved, too. Kimba might have to be sodomised by one as she’s giving birth. Plus it is part of the ritual that animals (dogs preferably) will defecate on the newborns as they emerge. - Ok. But I drink the blood, right? - Yes. - When Kimba was with you did she ever get tested for HIV or anything like that. - Not that I’m aware. You’ll have to ask her. While you’re at it you can tell her all about my plans. - She’ll flip her lid. - One of the guy’s that’s coming along is on a methadone programme. We’ll slip her that. If she’s in labour she won’t know what’s happening. She won’t remember a thing. - What about some rohypnol? - I’ll see, she said, taking a picture from her purse. This is sort of what everything’ll be laid out like. When I looked up from the weird sketch Mistress had wandered off in the direction of other paintings, the slow languorous click of her thigh high leather boots with the 2.5 inch stilettos echoing off the bland white walls and the old boring paintings as she slowly looked this way and that and at all the other visitors not deciding what direction to go in and absorbing all like the psychic vampire she is.
I had to stop of for a large brandy before I went home to calm my nerves and think things over.
When I got back I found these four wee girls and their older sisters congregated around the wall at my front. One of the girls had a dolls pram with a cat inside that she’d dressed in a bonnet and romper suit. The thing was in some distress as the odd little bitch had restricted its movements with the aid of a complicated series of shoelaces tied round it and knotted on the undercarriage of the pram. The girl was talking to it in baby talk. She looked around 8 or 9 and I put it all down to her being simple. On the way past the older ones I heard one of them say, ‘My ma told me usin’ tampons makes you lose your virginity, so I use the pads.’ To which the other one went, ‘My brother calls my tampons “my blood sticks”. Dirty wee fucker – I fuckin’ slap the taste outae his mouth when he came off with that one.”
Today I received a letter on browned notepaper (like it’d been put in the oven) saying:
Meet me in The Ulster Museum. U’ll find me at the Karel Appel ‘Portrait Of Cesar’.
Mistress x
That afternoon a fortnight ago in ‘Spoons she turned to me outside, before we went our separate ways, and adjusting her gorgeous black leather bondage gear (which she wears out and even to her job as a class assistant in a school for special children), said, ‘You’ll hear from me when the time’s right. Not before. When it is you’ll know. A sign you receive will mark the occasion.’ With this she closed one eye and looked up into the sky. She stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth like she were trying to hook a stray bit of grub off her face and she said: ‘Invest in copper.’
So today, on boarding the bus on my way to meet the mad bitch and pulling a five from my Wranglers and handing it to the driver, I am struck surreal to notice something dangling from the much crinkled old note. A headtype such as mine, given to embarrassment in the most unembarrassing of circumstances (but not these), instantly thought it were a mini tumble weed of Kimba’s pubic hair, which have a way of collecting in the pockets of my favourite Wranglers. I have put this down to her keeping her bush like Phil Spector’s afro and insisting I plat it once in a while, result being her pubes getting tapped under my very long nails which are then transferred to my pocket. The driver examined the note. He brought it so close to his face I was sure he could smell it. I was glad he wore deep reflective ‘Maverick’ shades, as the look of a cynical and forensic scrutinising in his eyes would have sent me batty. This driver was very interested in this note and I, noticing his trance like distraction, also took myself to lean in close and notice two little copper staples hanging from the note, which I also noticed was ripped slightly, with it looking like the staples had at one time held it together. ‘Invest in copper,’ was the last thing Mistress said, and it looked like someone had in order to keep their legal tender presentable looking and in one piece.
When the driver resigned himself to a studied and at the same time confused acceptance of the state of this five I bought from him a day-ticket and went to sit on the top deck. I was the only one up there, a good thing, an all too rare privilege, as, for example, you can perv on a girl walking along down on the street, see her from the front then turn your head right round to see her from the back without anyone up there with you to notice what a pervy cunt you are. Or another thing you can do only when there’s no one about, which I enjoy, is blowing old men kisses from the top deck. They get tourettes mad and start shaking their fists and yelling curses. One oul boy, when I really went the whole hog, puckering my lips, fluttering my lashes etc, turned white and grabbed a fistful of his jumper and fell over into the road. The cars all breaked and skidded and a crowd gathered round him. As the bus pulled out round the crowd he pointed up at me and everybody turned with a look of confusion, as if to say: What a mad old liar! The other thing I mostly do when riding on the top deck of a double-decker is to wave at Orientals. This is something you can do even when there’s other people around as it is a perfectly innocent activity. Plus the Orientals, without fail, always wave back, a thing that fills my heart with opium poppies and for the longest couple of seconds, things that trouble me, like today going to meet Mistress, fade away into the never, ever, could’nt’ve ever been conceived of and it is for this that I am glad of the Orientals.
