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Once upon a time.........

In a land far, far away.

there was a little girl, and her name was Emily. And she had a shop.

A sex shop.

'SEX' being short for 'Sexton' - a caretaker of a church and its graveyard whose duties often include ringing the bell and digging graves.

Due to the general decline in church services due to falling congregation numbers, Emily had spotted a niche in the market for hiring out Sextons to local churches to ring the bell or dig a grave when the need arose.

She soon went bankrupt :(

But the business wasn't doing so well and was in imminent danger of insolvency. So Emily encouraged the Sextons to go around, in the darkest hours of the night ...

mudering people.

In this way, she could prop up the grave digging business. There was only one problem tho...

she needed more money so Emily applied to the Lottery Commission and presented such a ridiculous case for a cash grant, that they had no difficulty in identifying her as a worthwhile cause.

Rewind, Emily applied to the Lottery Commission and presented them with compelling reasons for a new business venture, which was

[ 11 July 2001: Message edited by: Velvet ]

...carefully considered by the Lottery Fund. After two minutes of detailed examination, the Fund Manager drained his beer glass, lit another fag, then selected a pound coin. Casually tossing it into the air, he saw that the answer was...... 'Heads'!

"Bugger", he said, "wrong bloody answer".

Five tosses later, he felt vindicated by the appearance of the desired 'Tails'. His work for the day now finished, he looked forward to sharing a lunchtime drink with his sexier lady co-workers.

Communicating his considered decision to the gorgeous Payments Clerk after seven pints of **** southern p1ssy beer was a mistake that he later came to regret: he accidentally added a zero to the amount. This was followed by an inconsidered decision by the Payment Clerk to return to work while p1ssed as a rat to initiate the payment order: she accidentally added yet another zero to the already erroneous amount.

All the records in both Church and Lottery specified £500,000. But £50,000,000 was on its way. And nobody could prove a thing.

Life was about to change drastically for the better for Emily.

Or so everyone would think. Unfortunately the dilligent member of staff dealing with the incoming payment at GNATWEST Bank, where Emily held her account, had just gone on an 'combatting moneylaundering' course the day before. She notified the police of the huge sum of money being paid into Emily's account and her suspicions........

[ 11 July 2001: Message edited by: Stiff Lil' Fingers ]

were substantiated by the fact that Emily claimed to be from London but could not handle the strength of London beers.

Having been identified as a Total Northern Jessie, Emily beat a hasty retreat to....

Dover, Deleware! The city that means well, where she thought she could begin a new life selling live bait to fishermen and tourists.

It was dreary at first, but then she met

...someone who was to change her life for ever.

At closing time one day in her humble seafood cafe/livebait emporium (it was a daily challenge to ensure the two product lines didn't get mixed up, but that's another story), Emily noticed one of the customers sitting in the corner booth, rocking back and forth and weeping softly. She was a kind soul and hated to see others suffer (one reason she'd never lasted long in her career as a BA flight attendant, but that's another story too ;) ).

Emily went over to the booth and coughed politely. "Is everything all right?"

The man raised his tear-streaked face to look at her. "No," he said sadly, "it isn't." He gestured at the papers and files which littered the table, some stained with clam chowder, others apparently used to wrap livebait. "I had a dream, you see," he said, "to start an airline which would fly from here in Dover, Delaware, to Finningley, using ex-Eastern Constellations now parked in the desert, but my main backer has just pulled out. (He decided to invest instead in some L-1011 scheme, but that's another story). And unless I..." - here he paused and wiped a tear away - "...find a few million dollars by tomorrow, my dream is over!"

Emily thought of the almost-£5,000,000 in unmarked notes she kept under her bed. The way forward seemed clear to her. "Listen," she said to the mystery man,...

[ 11 July 2001: Message edited by: Cyrano ]

"That is the most ridiculous business idea I have ever heard". Adding, "have you ever contemplated getting into the Sexton hiring game"?
The mystery man was intrigued and sitting into the small hours of the night, combining their ideas, he and Emily hatched their plan to become an airborne country wide Sexton supplier. Their plan in place, the only obstacle they had to get over was the falling congregation numbers. How could they get the people back into the Churches? Racking their brains for hours, Emily suddenly sat bolt upright, "I know"......................

[ 12 July 2001: Message edited by: Boh'ban ]

"... a guy called Old Cross Bound. He's a very convincing talker with a knack for logical and comprehensive arguments. He'll be able to fill the churches!"

"Let's give him a go," relied the man.

Little realising that the venture was over before it had begun, the two gave him a call...

On explaining the scenario, Mr OCB was very excited about the business proposal and was on the first available flight to Dover, Delaware from Texas.

The next night when the bait shop had finally emptied, the three of them sat round the same table to discuss their options. After ten or so minutes of rolling his eyes and chanting in tongues, Mr OCB boomed, "FEAR IS THE ONLY SOLUTION", adding that it was tried and tested method which had been proven time and time again for centuries. "Firstly we target the poor, the uneducated, the insecure etc. and instil the fear of God into them. Mark my words, they will be flocking back to the churches in droves".

The discussions went on for a while when Emily suddenly sighed, "to be honest, I've changed my mind, this business idea is silly and besides which all this religious kak is getting me down". With a mischievous glint in her eye, she looked round the table and ventured, "do you fancy a threesome"?

Before the other two could ponder the possibilities of Emily's suggestion, there was a knock on the door.
When Emily opened the door, she was astounded to see the bedraggled figure of Aloysius Q. Splong, retired Lascar seaman, player of the classical noseflute and Emily's long lost father.
The shock of seeing her pater drove Emily to run screaming into the night and into the apparent refuge of Mmme Flange Desire's house of ill repute, the "Maison du Pleasur".

She went inside. An Englishman who was sitting in the Maison lounge bar suddenley boomed "Hey Flange that one who just came in? How much?". Emily Splong peeked in the bar and saw...

[ 12 July 2001: Message edited by: Slasher ]

Prince Charles, who was standing in the corner as naked as the day he was born. Emily immediately noticed, he was di-phallic. Lustfully she.......

reached over and gave the "Crown Jewels" a quick rub and polish, thus restoring the original lustre. Seeing this occur, Mme Desire reached for the engraved elephant's pizzle riding crop and ...

[ 12 July 2001: Message edited by: separator ]

Handing it to Ms Splong, instructed her to take her new client to the penthouse suite to finish the job properly.

Up in the suite, just as they are getting into the throws of passion, there is a loud knock on the door, "EMILY, ARE YOU IN THERE?". Emily froze in fear, "it's Aloysius Q. Splong, my dad" she spluttered. Frantically but in vain, she scanned the room for a place to hide. In a blind panic, she drags the Prince to the open window of the 16th floor penthouse and grabbing both his dicks, she leaps out".
Using the air resistance and lift generated by his ears, she skilfully glides back to the saftey of the bait shop where the mysterious man and Mr OCB are still arguing about........

this threesome suggestion, but...

the addition of a member (in both senses of the word) of the royal family complicated the situation beyond measure, fearful of the scandal that could erupt Emily decided to.......

...persuade the Heir to the British Throne to take relieve his royal frustrations on the two chaps, while she popped out for a pack of ciggies.

Of course, as soon as she was clear of the place, she simply legged it. Well, you would, wouldn't you.

Big Ears proceeded to give the two fellas the seeing to of their lives. Poor OCB was torn between his religious beliefs and his admiration for the two-knobbed Prince. Of course he relented. The other bloke was also quite chuffed. "Something to tell the grandkids", he thought.

Arriving at the airport, passport in hand, she looked at the departure board, thought "Aha!", and went over to the local Bucket Shop. Triumphantly, she checked into the flight to...

Casablanca. After an uneventful trip she arrived in the Moroccan town to be greeted by visions of splendour, where Colour ran Riot. Colour, a small native man, was the manager of Riot, a local speakeasy and laundromat. Soon after, washing her "smalls" Emily was amazed to discover that....

...Tom Jones was in town that night playing the Casablanca Alhambra. Emily just loved Tom and was thankfull that she had had an opportunity to wash her knickers before throwing them to him as a 'love gift' later that night.

Emily checked in her pockets for the money to buy her ticket but alas some artful thief had lifted what was left of her £50,000,000. She only had 6 pence and a half eaten Toffee Crisp left. Emily sat down in the street and sobbed to herself "Now I'll never get to see Tom......unless"

her Hotel wardrobe contained 12 sheep, Thinking on her feet she.........

[ 21 July 2001: Message edited by: com sport ]

...kicked the sheep for a while to cheer herself up.

Poor Emily. If only she could figure out a way to earn an honest crust. She carefully looked around the Casbah, searching for honest money-earning opportunities. There were, of course, none.

Turning to Plan B, she decided to sell her body to the first bloke with a few quid in his pocket. Sat at a corner table was a grizzled looking chap, around 40 years of age, wearing a scruffy pilot's uniform. As she approached, she heard his negotiating his bar bill with the stressed bar owner.

"What? Fifty dollars for this f**king p1ss?", quoth he, "I may have **** loads of dosh, but I'm not paying THAT sort of money for some bloody beer, so f**k off!"

Emily pondered the situation: Pilot, ill-kempt, alone, money in wallet... and Australian to boot. This one should be easy for a few quid. He sort of looked sexually frustrated, too, although she couldn't work out why.

She sat down at the table, took a swig out of his beer, smiling cheekily at him.

"Hi, I'm Emily... and I've decided to prostitute myself to you so that I can buy a ticket to go and see Tom Jones".

"Well, you've sat at the right table, love. Right after I've kicked this sod up the arse, I'll take you back to my flea-pit hotel room".

"Goody. I'm an English girl, so you just KNOW you'll get your money's worth", says she.

"I haven't had a shag in AGES", he said, "so I'll make bloody SURE I will".

After beating up the bar manager, the man escorted our heroine to his hotel room. Unlocking his door, he turned and said:

"Bye the way, my name is Slasher"...

[ 12 July 2001: Message edited by: Tricky Woo ]

'Oh no' said Emily - 'Not the famous PPRuNe Slasher - if we do this properly we could market the video and make a fortune'.

Slasher smiled happily and nodded, as there was a knock at the door. He opened it and..........

... went inside...

"Nobody there", he said, "So lets get down to a bit of serious rooting"...

Emily looked confused."What do you mean by rooting?", said Emily, who'd neither met his type nor been warned by her parents. "Is it like making sweet love?".

Now the Australian looked confused...

..."No love, making sweet love is what other people do", says Slasher, "Rooting is what an Aussie lad does".

"Let's get down to it then", says the blushing Emily, "'cos I haven't had a good seeing to in ages".

"Wait!", he says, "do you fancy a spot of exhibitionism?"

Nodding her willingness, Slasher led her down to the Hotel Lobby. "You'll be amazed what me and my friend are prepared to do and say in a hotel lobby", he said, "but in this case I think a full demonstration is in order".

Throwing her over the reception desk, winking to the American tourists who were checking in, he proceeded to give her the rogering of her life... for about ten seconds.

"sorry about that, love, but it's been a while"...

The tourists stood in awe. (They'd have stood aghast, but as good Americans, they could neither spell the word nor define it.)

"Wow", sobbed Emily, "I've not had rough like that since I lived in Northern England."

"Strewth, you're a sport", said Slasher. "I once fluted a Southern girl but she insisted we do it lying down. Then, at the point of climax, she...

... grabbed the money and ran, both thrilled and disappointed.
At the door she accidentally knocked the overweight female American tourist over.
The woman had such a horrid and perplexed look on her face that Emily threw her a quarter of her earnings. This got her off her butt and seemed to satisfy all involved. Em continued on her path with fond memories of Slash and anticipation for Tom, thinking either one would be delightful the second time around.
When she came to an open square she suddenly stopped. Couldn't believe what she saw ...

...A billboard flyer for the Tom Jones concert and even more astonishing was that Limahl of ex-Kajagoogoo fame was the support act. Limahl and Emily had been childhood sweethearts when they attended Littlewater-on-the-hill nursery school in Watford. But Limahl had cheated on Emily (with Stephanie Todd - but thats another story) at the tender age of 4 years and 2 months and Emily swore that one day she would take her revenge. Her mind raced, working overtime with devilish thoughts. "I know, I'll......"

[ 12 July 2001: Message edited by: Stiff Lil' Fingers ]

..."storm the stage during Kajagoogoo's performance and tell EVERYBODY about the big poo he had in the sandpit. It might have impressed that bitch Stephanie, but then she was only three and a half"...

I'll give him a 'never-ending story' he'll never forget...

She started to run back to the Casbah, when she bumped into Mark Hamill, sometime actor and noted intellectual, playing chess with some locals.

"Mark!", exclaimed Emily, "I've not seen you since you played Luke Skywalker in the original Star Wars movies, copyright 1979-1985 Lucasfilm Inc."

"Yes, it's true", confessed Hamill, "Limahl figured that since our names were anagrams, I should be his body double. He pays me washers but if I quit, he'll tell the world that I slept with Jabba's daughter. I'm also out for revenge."

"What we need", said Emily, "is help from the Dark Side". Borrowing Mark's mobile phone, she called...

'The Dark Side' jazz-fusion experimental dance troup. Originally from Bradford, the dance troup had been infiltrated by Mossad operatives whilst on tour during the Jerusalem summer season of '76 and trained into a elite undercover surveillance team. Emily and Mark had a plan for them, there mission would be to..............

.. basically kill Limahl.
Mark would replace him and finally be free of his blackmail burden.
One problem. Mark can't sing. I mean not even a little.
Emily had to think hard. Who else could she turn to in this strange land.
Hardly any money ... only her gorgeous bod... Slasher came to mind.
But she played that card once, ..would he help her with the singing problem ?

..."F**k off, love, I've already shagged you"...

... came Slasher's tones, carried by the evening breeze.

Suddenly, a different sound could be heard. Surely it couldn't be... but yes... it had to be... The Dark Side jazz-fusion experimental dance troup, warming up. But why?

Emily's unspoken question was answered by a bloated figure, lurking in the shadows by the roadside. As she tried to focus, the figure put his cigarette down, turned toward her, and exhaled:

"Nice."

The figure emerged out of the shadows, Emily was aghast (I can spell it :) )

Tt was Tom Jones evil alter ego and singing personality, Englebert Humperdink, who tossed his cig on the floor and approached her.

"Have I a deal for you ...."

'If you work for me and help resurrect my career and get me a gig in Vegas before the 15th April next. I will not only get you a backstage pass to the Tom Jones concert but a personal introduction to the man himself....and I will get most of your 50 million back, minus the usual fees' He said with a ghastly chuckle.

She thought for a moment, suspecting all was not well. 'Sounds to good to be true' she said, 'What else do you want?'.
'You are a very clever woman' he muttered, shifting uneasily on his unusually small feet for a man, (She noted with some satisfaction).
Catching her glance, 'Huh, that's not always true you know' he snorted! His face reddening.
'I understand' she smiled patronisingly. But why before the 15th of April?.............

[ 12 July 2001: Message edited by: Steepclimb ]

'Oh, no reason, the world ends on the 16th. It's my last wish'. He looked away, fumbling for a cigarette.

She was shocked,trembling she felt herself grow cold and numb. With tears forming in her eyes she backed away and headed for her hotel room.
'Wait' he cried, 'There's more'. He reached for her, dropping his Zippo, 'Damm' he swore 'I bought that on the road to Amarillo'.

She ran to her room.

Standing by the window, in stillness and calm.
The afternoon heat builds, a triangle of sunlight creeps across the floor with a perceptible slowness, cut only by the stark shadow of a window frame.
Torpor grows, Lethargy insinuates it's lazy grasp.
A heavy silence, broken by the whirring fan, it's mock breeze surrounding her in a cocoon of coolness, toying with her hair, brushing her cheeks, drying her tears.
She stands, her face in shadow, impassive and motionless, gazing at the languid scene, rippling in the hazy warmth.
A distant bird catches her eye, wheeling upward with a casual purposefulness, her mind floats with it, contemplating the still landscape as it slowly recedes, rising with every turn 'til details fade in a purplish blur and the world at last releasing it's prickly grasp as the horizon below fades to a circular infinity.

She had an idea.........

[ 12 July 2001: Message edited by: Steepclimb ]

She would run away. (for a change)
Having no money was an obstacle but as an ex cabin attendant who had been through the majority of the flight crew, she still had her connections at BA. The next flight out was in 2 hours, she didn't notice or care where it was going, she just needed to get out.
Standing at the gate waiting for the crew to arrive, she dusted herself down musing at the fact that it was a stroke of luck that she had managed to get her knickers clean.
On hearing the voices of the crew, she turned, her stomach instantly turned. She knew one of them all right. It was Captain Timothy Pemberton-Spunkbucket. To most he was a lovable ex RAF rogue but she knew better. OK, she knew the rummers were true, he was hung like a Shire Horse, but she also knew he had secret sickening penchant for......

dressing up in Edwardian women's clothing and hanging around in gay bars, a habit he picked up whilst on secondment to the RAN. She had also heard from some of the male FAs that he had a particular predeliction for the "Greek" style when it came to the carnal pursuits.
This did not sit well with Emily, as she would not sit well for some time she imagined, if he ever had her that way.
However these were desperate times, so clenching her cheeks, she approached him and said....

Tim darling, I'm in dire need of ....

"A way out of here, please take me with you. I will do anything".
"Even to the point of letting me shag you somewhere uncomfortable", Tim ventured.
"What, like in the cockpit of a 747", Em blurted out nervously.
Tim's trousers were filling up, "not quite what I had in mind, more like........

...you see the flights to Nashville, and I thought after we land we could go downtown and groove. You remember that dance, 'the shag' from the 50's.....the thing is though at this time of year it will be uncomfortably hot. Never mind we'll just have to get all sweaty together. There's just one thing though..........

[ 13 July 2001: Message edited by: Stiff Lil' Fingers ]

Since my unfortunate accident with the meat slicer - I need your help to achieve...

The correct angle of attack. But if you would consider putting on this ....

..."dirty pair of rubber gloves, then you can examine my nether regions, massage my tockers, and generally slap me about a bit"?

Emily looked dubious, then brightened visibly when she realised that she'd already become a common prostitute during the Slasher episode (how she missed him), so in for a penny, in for a pound.

She pulled on the gloves, then pulled each rubber finger: Snap! Snap! Snap!

"Oh, you HAVE been a naughty, naugthy boy, haven't you"?

"Yes Ma'am", he whined.

"In that case I'll have to.... oh? What's happened here since our last mega-shagging session, Captain"?

"Er, I lost half my knob".

"Unfortunate", she cried, "as the left side of your knob was my favorate"!

And indeed, it was true, the left-side of the Captain's knob had been sliced, leaving him unfortunately assymmetric. Taking a p**s must have been a messy business, let me tell you...

It gave a whole new meaning to "splashing the boots".
After satisfying SpunkBucket's baser desires, Emily looked forward to arriving in Nashville, where hopefully she would meet up with the one person who could give her guidance in her current predicament.......

...Dolly Parton.

..."Why hi there, liddle lady, mah name is Dollee Parrton. Yew luck in need of some comfort. Wass yer problem, honee"?

"Er, pardon"? said Emily, "I'm afraid that I don't speak Hungarian". Then she left the large-breasted Country and Western (both types) Star to it.

At that moment, she bumped into Ralph Fiennes...

"Let me tell you about winds...." he offered.

Emily stepped forward and said "That'a a very interesting offer but....."

Who happend along with Westley Snipes, who was giving him martial Arts instruction for an upcoming role in a movie ...

That sight frightened her so much she sprinted back through the airport to Tim's aircraft.
" Oh, Tim you've gotto help me ... "

........... " ping "

huh ?

" What is that Tim ?"
" eehhh .. , that must be that selcal the chief was talking about "
" Selcal, Tim ? "
" Standby Em "

" yes, Sir. ... No ... of course not ..... but, .... What's that Sir ? ..... you're braking up Sir. "
" Axxhole !"

" Tim ? "
" Yeah, uhm that was my boss, Em. He said that some folks overheard us in the terminal in Morocco. Apparently what we did is illegal there in public places like airports and hotel lobby's. ( oh, the things I've done in hotel lobbies, but that's another storey :) ). He wants me to return coz they've put out a warrant for my arrest. You too, by the way. "
" Are you gonna, Tim ? "
" Do you see me turning ? "
" But your boss .. "
" Yeah well, we'll deal with that later. Haven't you ever done anything stupid ? "
" I missed a Tom Jones concert "
" Well, I'm screwed anyway. Let me make it up to you and have us a fine party in BNA ! "

Emily smiled at him and drifted back in thoughts.
' Now I'm an ex-flight attendant, sexual offender, prostitute, probably murder suspect, international fugitive and stuck with Captain sliced dick going to the country & western capital of the world. Where men love their puck-up truck more than their women. How do I get into these situations ? '

Feeling out of options she goes with the crew to the crewhotel. A fine hotel it is too. She proceeds to the bar while the others shower and change. Well, change anyway.
Right there in that bar, she ....

Finds herself dematerializing !


Far above, in high Geosync orbit, inside the gigantic starship Pug ...

"Well we locked on to the human female as commanded sir, she is still in the confinement ring, materializing now. what should be do with her once materialization is complete?" said Lt. Whorpschneedle.

"Strip her down and bring her before me" Replied the high commander Capt. Ozonian, "I'll see what the fuss is all about"

Not for the first time in this story, a strange feeling came over our heroine.

It was as if she was being split into millions of minute particles then transported through space to an alien craft where she would be reconstituted and become the subject of a certain Captain Ozonian's research. (She was quite a bright girl to deduce this from the evidence available).

As the last pieces of her toenails moulded themselves back together, emily looked around her and saw something that REALLY surprised her...

Much to her surprise, a distant relative who was in the German Army had left her a present.
She initially thought it was a KampfPanzer Tank, but on closer inspection it turned out to be a little known CampPansy Tank.
It was bright pink and instead of a cannon it had a large rubber hand that gave bad people a jolly good slap. The tracks were also rubber coated so they'd squeal like a little girl when moving.
A certain arousment started within her ...

Rommel and Shmitt stood on a grassy knoll, at Bir Hakeim, gazing across the desert when suddenly a pink tank shimmered into existence in front of them
"Mein gott in himmel herr Field Marshal ein pink tanken"
"Ja Shmitt, ein pink panza, must be Monties personel tanken hein?"
"Ja , Field Marshal, ve haff been der hearing sings about Montgomery"

[ 13 July 2001: Message edited by: tony draper ]

"Donnerwetter! Herr Generalfeldmarschall, sehen Sie die Schlampe dort?"
"Geben Sie her!", Rommel shouts, snatching the binoculars away from Schmidt. "Das muß eine Falle sein!"

Herrgott! Herr Generalfeldmarschall! Das sind nicht die normalen Panzergrenadiere, sondern die berittenen Infanteriesturmtruppen des vermaledeiten schottischen Regiments, die Gay Gordons. Das ist naemlich ihre Gay Pride Woche und das ist ihr beruehmtes Tanztruppe, die Pink Panzer Tanzer. Es ist noch nicht alles verloren.

Suddenly, out of nowhere appeared a battalion of Scots Guards.
"Wha's the queer bugger that says Scotsmen ur poofs?" enquired one of the burlier guardsmen.

The two Germans and Davaar were at the recieving end of a jolly good kicking from the battalion. The pink panzer stop just short of the melee, and with a heaving breast..... :eek:

Hurls his axe towards that little funny guy.

While Em is looking over their shoulders, fingers plugged in her ears, she's thinking:
'What, ..holodeck or something ? Like in startrek ?'
'It looks like back in time but somehow doesn't seem quite right.'

One guy in a ridiculous horse riding outfit is looking right at her. A very intense gaze. She's about to speak but realises that the wrong language could have fairly severe consequences.
" fi.. vilicht kunnen sie mir hilfen" she tries in her best German attempt. Her brain is working overtime, it's been so long since she studied that nasty tongue. "ich habe keine anung warum ich hier bin" She's hoping that he gets this. His expression doesn't change... "Oh, fack it !"
she getting a little nervous though and starts to play with the hem of her dress.
She is looking down ..

..and al of a sudden it becomes a lot darker, She looks up and finds herself in sort of .. .. well, kinda like a courtroom. But not one she's ever seen before. And what is that ? Is that the judge ? Or.. O, man that's disgusting. He's green and there is stuff oozing out.
"Where am I ?" she screams.
"Who is doing this ??" :mad: :confused:

No, it is not the judge. It is worse. It is .........argh and ugh .............must we use the word on this chaste page? It is a .......lawyer! The description fits. And why is this loathsome creature here? This is the dark place he infests daily and where he plies his sordid trade. And today? Ah! He is here to defend a client, for as such we must, Dear Reader, reintroduce one whom you had near forgotten, the meat carver. How will he defend this abandoned woman?

Innocent she can never be, but not guilty? Self-defence? Or was she under the influence of slasher, with or without capitals? Diminished responsibility? Or did he have the Clinton Bend? Read on.

[ 14 July 2001: Message edited by: Davaar ]

It was none of these things, they were all part of Captain Ozonian's cunning plan to confuse our poor Emily so she would reveal the secret of human reproduction, a process he found as baffling as the reason for the existence of humans in the cosmos. Appearing beside her he said in a nasty wheedling tone " tell me my dear, how do you do it and all these other distractions will disappear?". "Oh, is that all you want to know" she said, "I'd show you but without a human partner it is impossible". "Cause a suitable human to appear immediately" said the Captain to the crew. There was much humming and flashing of multi coloured lights and a vague shape materialised into........................Slasher !
(the first few bars of Bachs Toccata and Fugue in D minor crashes out in the background). "Whats up Em" says he, never one to express surprise at where he found himself. She explained why they had brought him there and expressed her fears that if they did not comply she would suffer some horrible torture at the hands of the lawyer. "We can't have that" said Slash, revealing the kinder side of his nature, "lets get to it right now before he changes his minds" Without further ado our lovely Em and Slasher gave a convincing demo of the first act in human reproduction. When it was over the evil Captain Ozonian demanded to know where the new baby humanoid was. "That" said Em, "arrives in about 9 months time". "Well" said the evil Captain " what was all the rushing for at the end ?"
Before Emily could reply there was a loud noise and ............

and a scream from Slasher, as the aliens attached electrodes to the rectal probe they had inserted whilst he had been, erm, pre-occupied with our young heroine.

Not surprisingly, Slasher remonstrated with the aliens in quite harsh tones saying......

"I say, chaps, is that really neccessary?
Now do be good fellows and remove that from my rectal cavity - it's not the done thing in front of a lady."

Unfortunately, the aliens had not studied the fop dialect and even their universal translator couldn't make sense of this.
Slasher sensed he may have to return to his feral roots and talk to them in a language they would understand before his sphincter suffered more electro-nastiness.

He took a deep breath, turned to face his inquisitors, and said...

"Sh!t do you bastards realy have to do that? Now p!ss that f*ckin thing off outa my @<hidden> Bloodey alien f*ckheads!"

The universal translator hummed a minute having obtained the feral database, and it soon gave the aliens the message. They then decided to...

[ 14 July 2001: Message edited by: Slasher ]

...adopt this new form of human expression:

"**** fruck ****er, ****ing ****er ****ed. **** bollocks sod ****** twat bum ****er", said the Alien Captain.

"Indeed it is quite so", said the Alien lawyer, not quite getting it.

"I'm beginning to understand what they're saying", said Slasher, "Maybe I can negotiate a quick return with these ****ers".

Twenty minutes later, Slasher and Emily re-materialised somewhere in Lancashire. You can't have everything, huh? Nearby, a Lancashire pig-farmer was relaxing with his favorate pig. (Hence the expression 'squeal like a pig'.

"What's he doing", asked our heroine.

"Probably breeding Yorkshiremen", reflected the wise Slasher...

"....but not that Ive got anything much against them."

They surveyed the farm. Something wasnt quite right. Everything was sort of....surreal. There was no squishy sphluk noise underfoot when Emily accidentley trod on some pig droppings, only her swearing. "Its funny isnt it?" said Emily scrubbing off the dung from her shoes just as a bunch of toasters arrived to start feeding in the pig trough. "Its like something...I dont know like something out of Douglas Adams dont you think?"

Slasher contemplated this while drawing on quantum physics. "Hmmm...it could be a dimension of the Morten-Spaschkopf time-line, or we could be in the aliens holodeck".

Emily winced at this last posibility as Slasher mumbled how in the meantime a BJ would go down well right now blah blah. She...

[ 14 July 2001: Message edited by: Slasher ]

... pissed herself laughing.

She now realised it was the sense of smell that was missing.
This **** she'd stepped into felt real but didn't smell.
The p1ss down her leg however was the real thing.
She relayed this new Intel to her man at hand and he had to think for a moment.
(this isn't easy, but that is another story).

After a while Slasher walks up to the farmer and taps him on the shoulder.
The man straitens up and half turns to face our friend.
Slash swings his right fist as hard as he can to the farmers jaw.
The farmers head gives a little and he looks bewildered.
Slash's fist hurts like hell but suddenly he doesn't feel a thing.
The image of the farmer starts shimmering.
And disappearing...

Em and Slash are standing on a smooth, bright white surface.
As far as the eye can see, like a sea of milk.
She slowly sees him float away, than faster ..
Only a spec, than gone. All alone.
She starts feeling a little warm..

All of a sudden she's laying in a grass field on her back with a huge black male leaning over her. He has an enormous .. smile.
Instantly she is spread eagle tied to a totem-pole and a proud looking indian is having his way with her.
Not even a second later she seems to be on a movie set. Many camera's around. 5 men around her, she is holding on to two of them.
Flash. On her hands and knees in a canoe on a tropical river. She can feel him.
Bang. In a huge stadium, thousands off people cheering. she is stark naked. ... and an American football team is approaching fast.
And now she is in a wooden house. A cabin maybe. Dim lighting, candles it seems. and a fire is going. This experience seems to last longer.
She looks around.
There is an older man sitting in a dark corner with a blanket around him.
Emily say's " what's happening ? "
The man starts to explain. They're studying human sexual behaviour. So they needed an active example, and they had chosen her. " Well, what were all those images I just saw and felt ? " We're going through your brain and they must be experiences you've had or fantasies maybe. we're not able to distinguish that.
Em says " Oh boy, did you miss some good ones."
The old man looks a little puzzled, then ...

another image flashed into her mind.It was those 12 sheep and that 10' length of rubber hosing back in her hotel wardrobe. She'd once known a young chappy from New Zealand, who had always maintained that there was a lot to be said for having access to 12 sheep and an appropriate length of quality rubber hosing. On a number of visits to his farm he'd demonstrated this to Em by.........

...dressing up as an Aussie sheep farmer (to make it REALLY authentic) and then having his wicked way with each sheep in turn. Don't even ask about the function of the black dildo...

Young, vulnerable Emily suddenly had an idea: What would happen if she pulled out one of the wires that she had connected to her head? Pzzzzttttt...

She was back on the space ship looking at the pile of green snot that had to do for an alien.

"Jokes over, Squidge, I've f**ked half of the planet in your simulations, so now it's time to go home", she said.

"Fair enough", said the alien with the difficult to remember name (I couldn't be bothered looking back to see what it was, so sod off).

A minute later she was back on the REAL earth, in 2001, wondering how she could make a few quid out of being an alien abductee. "The X Files have got nothing on me", she reflected. She was in a desert, early evening.

Looking around she realised that she could see a huge billboard in the distance. Nearing it, she could make out 'Tom Jones, Las Vegas 2001'. What a turn around! Tom Jones in town... but no damn ticket. Further up the road she could see neon lights of Vegas.

"I wonder how an innocent young girl like me can make a few quid in Vegas?" she thought. Then she remembered her new hotel lobby fetish. Lots of hotels in Vegas, lots of ways to prostitute herself, lots of money, and of course the wonderful, talented, sexy Tom Jones.

She walked towards the most lurid of neons...

It didn't seem that far in the crisp dessert sky.
So a couple of hours later, only halfway down that flattened hill she landed on, she started to get thirsty.
To her left there was one large house overlooking the city in the distance. What the heck she thought I can always claim the alien thing. So she stepped up to the gate and pressed the buzzer. And what do you know, Steffi Graf in a bikini opens up.

"Come along Shmitt,Obvious it is to me, zat ve are not vanted in zis story",
"Ja, Herr Field Marshall, ve shall off fuggen"

Couldn't agree more, Rommel, old man. They dragged me into it too, the Pink Prancers, and their poncing chums in the Guards (I was not going to mention this, but aren't those the birds who used to figure so often in press reports of the sederunt at gentlemen's urinals near Wellington Barracks? No?). See if I help their blasted story along any more.

[ 14 July 2001: Message edited by: Davaar ]

...the newly pregnant ex-tennis player was suspicious of the alien abductee story at first, well you would be wouldn't you, but relaxed once Emily made up some more gruesome 'facts'. However, she couldn't compete with Steffi when it came to little white lies:

"Did you know zat I'm related to ze famous Field Marshall Rommell?", said Steffi, "he taught me my famous backhand volley, Ja"?

Emily knew a lying bitch when she saw one, but she was thirsty, and the lemonde tasted good after the long walk in the desert.

"Ja, it iz true. Sad to zay zat he still refuses to believe zat ze Second World War is over. He hung about Libya for years until Gaddaffi had him chucked out"...

Emily nodded politely.

"Zen, he came here to Nevada, as ze desert here suits his style of warfare".

Emily continued to nod politely as all this bull until the great Graf was interrupted by the doorbell.

"Zat vill be him now. He takes ze shower here from time to time".

"What an absolute fruitcake", thought Emily to herself.

In walked Rommell in peaked hat. "Guten aben". The great Field Marshall pulled off his gloves slowly, and smacked the dust from his famous uniform. Around his neck he wore his field binoculars. At his hip a pistol. Peaking out of his pocket was a Sony Walkman. Emily could see the earphones plugged into his ears.

Emily decided to take Steffi's stories more seriously in the future...

Meanwhile,.....

On a long trans-Pacific night flight, Captain Ozonian blended in perfectly with all the other passengers in Business Class.
Little did they suspect that his alien curiosity would lead to experiences some of them would find, well, quite interesting.
His cunning disguise as an off-duty pilot positioning home had fooled the entire cabin crew, and Ozonian in turn had given them all something to remember him by.
When replicating the human form he had confused the average dimensions of male genitalia with those of a giraffe (an easy mistake for any alien to make so let's not hold it against him).
The resulting bulge in the trouser department plus the natural pheromones given off by anyone remotely connected with the aviation industry caused a physical attraction which none of the hosties had been able to resist.
Let's just say the toilet in Business Class had been a busy place that night.
Having satisfied his biscuit-chucker curiosity, he turned his attention to...

... to the news which were now coming on over the aircraft's entertainment system:

"30,000 demonstrating for UBB code ... Politician subpoenaed for honesty ... Huge arsenal of ICBMs found in Texas home ... Turning Runway at Manchester Airport put into service ... Red-haired woman arrested for exhibitionism in super-market ... Unexpected outbreak of Aids among Vietnamese pigs ... Toronto's Airport renamed "Mao-Tse-Tung International" ... Men sentenced for eating with his mouth open ... Famous singer abducted by two extremely old men with a strange accent ..."

At the same time, Tom Jones was frantically trying to free himself from the tank where Rommel held him captivated.

And back in Steffi's mansion:

"Zo! Zat will earn us a mighty ransom! Too bad ze Führer isn't here to see zis degenerate Capitalist pervert gagged and chained..."

[ 14 July 2001: Message edited by: Winston Smith ]

Tom's old school teacher from that one-roomed
school back in the valley chanced to pass on an archaeological hunt. He approached the Pink Chariot. My goodness gracious me, Tom Bach, he said in Welsh, huw are llikely to cwm to a sad Rhondda, and huw may say, this is no time for Welsh pedantries, but Tom, I haff to ask huw, does this fiendish Hun haff you captured or iss it really trully captivated, Boy? Iff it iss the firsst, I can llelp, but iff the second, llad, there is nothing to be done. He choked as he spoke the fateful words.

"Vat ze hell iz going on here Shmitt?, von minute zer tommies ve are fighting, now ve are involfed in all ziz sheise".

Ach, riposted Schmidt wittily, screw this regiment for ein lark. I sott you were mit die Tommies fighting, and I vos for ein moment gegone to keep a Votch on zee Rhein. Zee Rhein ist O K. Herr Generalfeldmarschall, you are a Generalfeldmarschall and zese are a punch of poofters privates in pink, prettily prancing. Do you need me for everysing?

Suddenly, a woman bursts in and screams, "Eerst mijn fiets terug!!!"

Em turned around with a start at this latest exclamation. Then, knowingly, she nods and says "Yes, I had one exactly the same colour as that! Nothing is ever made to last, these days".

She realised that she just HAD to get out of there. Well, maybe just one more glass of lemonade ... after all, Herr Rommel really DOES look soooo sexy in that uniform!

Then she had the thought "maybe I can..."

Ask André to drop me off in town ?
I still need to find me some concert tickets and André is rich.
I might even get him to take me, persuade him in the car.
She asks Steffi if André is home and while Stef walks off Emily hears that old German speaking guy say :

Aber die fiets ist nicht ierhe. Wir habben das von die grosspapa geschtolen, doch ?
The crazy woman on the other side of the room yells;
" Ja dat klopt, van mijn opa. Nou geef terug, jij vuile Mof "

Emily does not want to even know what that's all about and follows Steffi into the mansion.

"Vait", say Steffi, "Vould you like to meet ze famous Tom Jonz before you go into Vegaz"?

"Golly", says Emily, "That would be awfully nice".

Two minutes later, see climbed into the Great Field Marshall's pink Panzer. She admired the chintz curtains, novelty ashtrays, and the fresh bunch of flowers near where the driver sits. Even the steering rod controls had been replaced with nice, comfortable mahogany ends.

There, trussed up in the corner was Tom Jones, looking a bit p**sed off, to be honest.

"Right Tom", she said, "I can get you out of this, but I want three things in return".

"What you want from me, see"?

"Firstly, you must get me my sodding ticket to the concert, you tight Welsh git".

Tom nodded.

"Also, I want a few quid. I know you're bloody loaded, so no problems there".

There were tears in Tom's eyes, but he nodded anyway.

"Lastly, you're going to have to prostitute yourself to me. Orally".

Tom's eyes went wide for a moment, before his shoulders slumped, and he nodded his assent.

"That was easy", thought Emily.

An hour later, Tom disappeared into the distance with Emily's panties in his pocket, and a funny taste in his mouth. Strangely, he couldn't remember the last time he'd gone down on a fan. Normally the other way round. He sort of liked it.

Emily sat on the pink tank admiring the small statue of a naked man next to the gun. And the gun itself looked sooo manly and proud. Evening was approaching and the skies had changed to a mixture of yellows, oranges and fuschia. The desert reflected these colours perfectly, but added its own contribution of greys and browns. What a beautiful place. A lone cloud dissolved slowly, brilliantly lit up by the descending sun.

"Vot ze fock has been going on here, Fraulein"!? O-oh, the camp Field Marshall was back.

"Er, I let Tom go for a couple of tickets to his concert, ten million dollars and some oral sex. Half the money is yours. Want to come to see him tonight"?

"Zat is fair enough", said Rommel, "fancy a nice cup of ze apple tea"?

The cunning old Desert Fox and Emily sat on the pink tank watching the rest of the sunset, sipping their tea, and talking about curtains material...

"Donner unt blitzen"!!!
" isn't zat mein cousin Verni coming over zer hill Shmitt?"
"Ja Herr Field Marshall, I vonder vat idiot wrote zat buffoon into zis tale."
"He iz for der verdament Ami's verking now, blast ze man, iffen zay had
lizened to me , unt builten me more panzaz instead of zat dumkoffs roggets
ve vould zis var be vinning now".
"Gutten morgan cousin Edvin, giff me fife baby ja, Verni izen der Ami' now,
shust vaiting for zer green card."
"Ja zis ve are hearing, you build der roggets for zer Americans,hein"
"Nicht nitch, Edvin, Verni iz der landscape gardener at der white sands "
"haffen you be hearing any sing about der boss Verni?"
"Ja Edvin,he unt Eva are haffing ein newsagents store in Buenos Aires,
she says der boss iz haffing calmed down a lot now, der tash izzen gone,
But she says he still shticking der hand in der armpit unt shouting a lot"
" Mein gott vat izzen to become off us all Smitt"
"Ve should be focking offen to Argentina Herr Field Marshal, lots ov zer
lads zair now".
"Ja cousin lizen to Shmitt,unt lizen to Verni's adviz, tvice der Tommies haff
been kicking our arzes
ve go unt become gut Argentinians, unt neffer haff to fight der verdammit Tommies ever again"
"Vell Edvin Verni hass to leaf now,iffen you see der chaps viz der long leazer overcoats, cousin Verni you haff not seen ,Ja".

[ 15 July 2001: Message edited by: tony draper ]

Old Field Marshall Rommel,
he sits in his tent
at a waddi called Bir Hakheim Hyf,
he gazes forlorn at the dunes in the west,
and ponders the meaning of life.
"Comen zee hearen ,Shmit"he calls out aloud,
." I haf zomzing to tell yo thats true,"
"commanding der tank iz ein focking dead loss,"
"Ve go to Berlin, me and you".
"Ve go to Berlin und ve join ze luftwaff,"
dats best goddam plan i can find",
"Ja ve join der airforce, itz der only way out,
, dats der only sing
dats on mein mind."

"Zen ve zit in der mess, unt ged trunk all day long,
acorn brandy iz gut dair i'm told
ve eat sauaage unt sourcraut unt struddle unt bret,
lods off it, all ve can hold"
"Ve get nice leder jacket unt fine furry boots,
und good Luftwaff trousies und belt,"
ve get shirt mit der chevrons unt unt fine airvorz cap
unt thick vaistcoat dats made from der felt ".
Ve get good fokker aircraft, all shiney unt new
, mit cannon unt rocket unt gun.
"Ve zit in der cockpit ve haff picture took
all smiley unt haffing much fun".
"Our faz in der adler vood be ein good zing
ve vin medal unt glory unt fame"
"Dis gut idea i tell to you Shmit, but please dont ask
me to fly focking plane"

:rolleyes:

"Oh, what a beautiful poem!" said Emily, her eyes wide open in admiration.
"Ja, danke. But you see, zey didn't let us join ze Luftwaffe. So ve had to stay in zis Scheiß-Desert all zese years..."
"I know..." Emily looked at her watch.
"Oh my God, we are already late for the concert! And you can't go in these .. clothes, don't you think? We'll have to find something suitable for you and Oberstleutnant Schmidt!"
"Don't vorry about our uniforms, Mädel, I'm sure ze Capitalist swine von't even notice."

In the driveway, Steffi sounded her jeep's horn to make it unmistakably clear that it was time to go...

[Davaar, thanks for rubbing in my embarrassing slip-up with "captivated"... ;) ]

Herzlichen Glueckwunsch, Schmidt. Ein Oberst-major! I hatte you fuer ein Major gepegged. Zis ist gut, but mit 50 Jahre in zis desert (immer Zeit vor Ort)you haff gute vorks ge demonstrated.

But tell me, Woher all zese mouthy Voortrekkers gekommen sind? I sott ve vere in Tripoli, und jetzt I expect Oom Paul Kruger round the next oasis. Gott verdikkime! Zis is patt genug in ze Deutsch, but ze Dupple-Dutch ist unglaublich.

Was noch?

Emily felt a strange tingling sensation and suddenly found herself
standing in a very old part of town.
The streets were cobbled and rude hovels lined the road.
Bloody hell !she thought ,what now, good job I've got my looks and
health.
From the doorway of a tumble down shack emerged a hideous dwarf
with a huge hump on his back, he he , it cackled sidling up to her in a
crablike gait.
The dwarf shrieked through its snaggle toothed mouth,
"Curfew tolls the knell of parting day"
"What" screamed Emily.
"Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, come on!""
"please", begged Emily, "can you direct me to a telephone box?"
"Curfew tolls the knell of parting day" shreaked the wrechedly clad
filthy deformed horror,"come on".
"Please "Emily begged again.
"HE HE !cackled the dwarf, "you lose,turn round and bend over"
Emily found herself compelled to obey, and as she stooped over,
she heard a horrible slurping sucking sound, and a great weight on her back .
She stood up and watched the verticly challenged homunculus
skip away down the cobbled street cackling maniacly to itself.
"He he, you illiterate bitch, theres a hump for you, its no f*cking use to me."
Emily realised with mounting horror that she now had a huge hump
on her back.
AAAARRRGGGGHHH!!!!, said Emily.

time for bed said zebidee


Jesus vept Smitt dis iz vorse getting, said Rommel

[ 15 July 2001: Message edited by: tony draper ]

Yes, Zebedee,it was time for bed, for Emily was weary. She felt a strange lassitude creep over her. Cut it out right now, strange lassitude, she said, it was bad enough with that queer dwarf.

And then she said something bizarre, as though from a distant consciousness: "Himmelhoch jauchtzend, zum Tode betruebt". Goddam, it was catching! What could it mean? She had a dim vision of a compact jaeger officer in the uniform of a bygone age, as she sank into deeper deeper sleep.

[ 15 July 2001: Message edited by: Davaar ]

...Emily woke slowly, feeling that she'd slept all her woes away. She yawned, and then tried to turn onto her back. Why tried? Well, there was a bloody big hump in the way, wasn't there. Now she REALLY woke up. The hump! It wasn't a silly dream, she really did have a hump.

Being a mercenary sort of girl, she immediately made plans as to how she could make a few quid with her new novelty image:

"Surely there's plenty of scope in the porn industry for a pretty girl with a hump"?

A quick flick through the yellow pages, and she had the name of a promising porn agent: "Paul Strap-on's 'Art Movie' Agency. All (Female) Applicants Will Be Fully Interviewed".

Meanwhile, across town, Paul Paulson, aka Strap-on, was considering the question:

"Err, seventeen? Sixty six? Fifty four"?

Not the brightest of students, but bright enough at the age of 14 to be able to spend twenty dollars on a dummy porn agency add. The trouble was that he hadn't received a single applicant yet, and it was already 2:30pm.

Just as his math teacher really started to run out of patience, his mobile phone rang...

Ring ring....."This is your Vodafone messaging callback service, you have 1 new message.....the message is..........."

All is known

Flee

Dear gentle readers is the game up for Emily. Will she become the first humped humpee - why did the dwarf give her the hump&gt; Will the dreaded padlock put an end to her adventures? Will Winston be captivated forever with Davaar and his gentle old lady? Will TG ever find out if Davaar charged for the cup of tea?

Has Tony now become a reformed character. Will Zebedee ever get to bed with Emily, or is doomed to spring with Florence for all eternity.

Meanwhile back at PPRuNe Towers a row of bright shiny padlocks gleamed.......

Rommel, Smitt , and the hideous hunchback Emily sat around a small fire
in a post apocalypic landscape.
"How long can zis go on Shmitt"sighed the Field Marshal.
"I feel zis is coming to a end herr Rommel" said Shmitt."
"Oh woe is me"whimpered Emily," I don't want to die a virgin"
she wept bitterly.
"Ve cannot help you zair" mumbled Rommel, " zees focking dumbcoffs,
didn't write us any willies, alas".
"Who is that" said Emily pointing at a sinister figure aproaching thru
the mist.
"Hmmm, not sure I like the look of zis fellow", murmered Shmitt in alarm.
Vhy he is a small axe carrying, unt isn't zat ein kliener toolbox unter his arm"
"Ja, unt vat are der those furry thinks zat following him?"said Rommel
"Hello, will you be my friend?", said the figure.
"Oh yes" said Emily.

the end :eek:

[ 16 July 2001: Message edited by: tony draper ]

or is it just a beginning...

of yet another alien holodeck program? Emily felt her back and yes the hunch was still there. It felt real. The last 2 days were real enough too so it seemed.
Rommel and Schmidt had disappeared but the figure in the mist was getting closer and clearer. She....

... recognised the Australian accent and, as the figure drew closer, she discerned the shape of a pith helmet, surrounded but what could only be described as ... corks! Who is this tall, dark and handsome Autralian stranger? He's certainly not like Slasher!

He held out a book, on the front were the words


DON'T PANIC


Emily realised that this meant..........

... that this was Bruce Prefect, Arthurs antopodean cousin. How she had enjoyed bible study classes with him as a young girl in Feltham young offenders institute. His manly chin, the warmth of his breath on her neck when he would lean over and correct her spelling of "persecution"-
The memories started flooding back. The boat trip up the M4, the words of careless abandon , how her father had disaproved of her spending her flowering days with this man twice her age, how she had tried to break it off many times, but Oh, when he sang "What's new pussycat" under her window of the Clacton B and B on that moonless night, her heart had melted.

Emily felt a quiver up her spine, why had Bruce come back to her now? Could it be that this was a moment of destiny in her already tangled existence?
"Oh, Bruce," She said, "what are you-"
She stopped herself, remembering the last time they had been together. The intolerable parting. The pain. She had never forgiven herself for ...

"DON'T PANIC"


But that didn't stop her heart palpatating, her breath rushing, and her knees feeling weak and jellied.
She took the book and at her touch the front became an animated screen. it read........

DON'T PANIC!

She thought this was stupid and passed the book back to the hansome Oztralian.

He said .... thankyou.

Em noticed that the Oztralian was a little bemused, and wondered if his legs felt like jelly too. And if they did, why?

The pith helmet looked pretty stupid on his head so she took it off and .........

was overpowered by the odour! She put it back and was about to wander off when......

...he pinched her arse.

She froze, appalled at the gall of the man. He slapped it this time, then crabbed both cheeks and gave her arse a good rub. Still the good Emily refused to acknowledge his despicable behaviour. An impasse ensued.

After five minutes of bum rubbing, she finally snapped:

"Bruce! You may be an ex-shag of mine, I may have descended into common prostitution with your oldest, and closest friend Slasher, I may have embezzled a good few million quid out of the Lottery Fund, I may even have been slightly involved in the kidnapping of Tom Jones, but never, and I mean NEVER, EVER grab my ARSE without my PERMISSION".

Bruce looked chastened for a moment, then brightened when he realised that the new Emily was different from the younger version that he used and abused all those years ago. Here was an Emily that had become NEGOTIABLE!

"Ten quid if I can rub your arse again", he said.

"Lemme see the money first", said Emily, professionally, "Make it twenty quid and who knows what I'll do..."

Bruce thought for a moment, and then pulled out a wad of cash...

"What'll you do for two hundred quid?"...

Pound signs flashed in her eyes.
"200 quid? For that I am yours to do with as you please for a week you arse hungry c***hound..."
So off they went to play "hide the salami"- or so they thought, because just as they were...

........making off, Bruce was felled by a mighty fist, and a hoarse voice asked: “Ur ye a’ richt lassie?” But how could this be, for the only mighty-fist-man in sight was ... Schmidt? Seeing the incomprehension (some think genetic and perennial) in her eyes, the kindly kraut volunteered a word of explanation. “Ah’m no reely a Hun, Hen”, he rasped. But what then ...? she asked, short of breath, words, and ideas. “Ah’m a Scoger, hauf Scoatch und halb volksdeutscher. Mein Opa (here he broke into a melodic Oh Mein OpaPapa, bringing a gentle tear to all four eyes, or four tears in all, To me he was so wonderful, bringing a second tear for the gemuetlich Oompahpah vom Heimat) im 16 Jahrhunderts wis a Scoatch mercenary sojer wi’ yon Gustavus, ken, in the 30 Years’ War. Efter the war, beguiled by an impish Frauelein, er ist im Deutschland gewonnt, bangin’ awa’, aye at the begettin’. We jist blendit in wi’ yon blond w*gs*, and puchled awa’.

Hoots, Toots, interjected Emily, falling in with the repartee. It had to be said.

Frae then tae noo, continued Schmidt (or more correctly, as he confided, Graf Nyaff Ritter Bitter Hamish von und zu Smith) we huv been in MI 60 (MI6, ten times removed). Es war immer zusammen, and naebody kennt. Der Treuerste Heini maybe suspected, whiles, that the wee Wandervogel in the yarmulke wi’ the rid toorie wis a puckle oot in the Blut, but he wisnae shair, lass, he wisnae shair, an’ they wur a’ pit aff the scent by ma days at the Horst Wessel Institut Rabbinischer Studien. Nane o’ them kennt Ah wis a Scoger.

With that, an unearthly shriek was heard. Hell’s teeth, shivered the Oberst-major, as we shall still designate him, it’s the Valkyrie! The Fuehrer's pu'in oot a' the stops wi' the Wagner. No! And moreover, Nein! Dear Heaven! It’s worse.

Over the dunes came a band of dunniwassals preceded by a Hundred Pipers an’ A’ and A’, wha’ up an’ gi’ed them a blaw a blaw. Dear God, breathed Emily, thinking coherently at last, will the PPRuNers put up with much more of this? That Davaar is for the high jump. See youse, see me, Ah’m tellin’ ye’se, he's gonnae git a scrub in the gub, she added, picking up the patois, and turning a neat pun, or at least a rhyme, he’ll be aff the cliff like a chamois.

At the very head of the Hundred Pipers strode a burly figure, clad in the Garb of Old Gaul, sgian dhu in his brogan, broadsword at his belt, eagle’s feather on his bonnet, and screaming the battle cry of his ancient clan: “Ye’se ur a’ sophists, so ye’se ur but”. Herrgott! Echoed the Oberst-major, in his optional extra Muttersprache, Dort is der Teufel Tartan Gannet! Er kommt! Er kommt! Nach England kommt er! What could withstand this elemental force?

*[I've just been censored! A rite of passage]

[ 17 July 2001: Message edited by: Davaar ]

"Wey ye na wot a mean hinny" said Harry Hotspur to Geordie his squire.
"Them daft jocks is cumin doon egen, yid think they would na by noo wi'v kicked tha arses that meny tymes in still thu niver larn"
"yis sore,what ye wont the lads ta de"
"Wey syem as last time Geordie, just stab the bugger to the left,them daft jock allus fall for that yin, mind tek ne notice wen thu pyent tha fyesus blue ind show ya their arsus".
"A"ll reet sore, will kick sevun kinds uv sh*te oot o them agin"
"Wey eye Geordie, nut the bastids"
" reet thi'l niva get owa the tyne"
"Hey, the sae thas a Jarmun in charge i'v thim,is thet reet sore?"
"Wey ar divint na geordie, Jarmins, Frenshies, Boa's dusn't matta to us div it, will f*ck thim a'll, giz a tab, thin bugga off will yi".


Hmmm, Draper's spell check has just ceased to function, :rolleyes:

[ 18 July 2001: Message edited by: tony draper ]

Me? Nah.

I can't write for sh!t, but I can read with the best of 'em! :D

Good luck Mriya if you can read and understand all that german crap from Davaar and Draper. Like everybody else I cant follow nor understand a word of it.

"F**k", said the fair Emily, "I'm surrounded by Jocks, Geordies and Krauts. How the f**k is a newly qualified whore to make a few bob out of this polyglot"?

After a moments thought, she found a piece of card and a magic marker. Scritch, scritch, scritch, went the marker, then she hung the sign around her neck. It said:

"The End is Nigh. End of World Sale: Five Pounds a Shag. Discounts for Coach Parties".

She beckoned to the three sets of hoardes, mentally calculating their overall numbers. She was onto a fast buck, no doubt, but the actual f**king might take a little bit longer. She got to work...

Six days later, a re-financed Emily made an appointment to see a Swiss banker. When the gnome asked her politely to sit, she of course declined. She was a little concerned that the banker may ask her difficult questions as to the source of the money, but then again what she knew about the Swiss banking industry could be written on the side of a condom with a paint brush.

"Drugs? Money laundering? Illegal arms sales?", asked the banker cheerfully, "Extortion? Assassination? Blackmail? Pimping? Come on, Frau Emily, we Swiss have our standards to upkeep".

Emily admitted to a few of 'em so as not to disappoint the poor chap.

Emily had just deposited £2,345,000 into the bank's vaults, which looked nice and shiny next to the dull piles of Nazi dosh, and 'dusty' Mafia money, that usually sits there.

Considering the recent action that her 'front bottom' had seen, Emily firmly decided that her mercantile whoring days were now behind her...

So with Draper's spell check out of action, he continued to bedazzle poor Emily, and weave a tale of how he hammered the hell out of the Scottish invaders. When in fact he'd been watching Mel Gibson and got temporarily carried away with his verbosity.

Meanwhile, in a galaxy far far away and another dimension, another Emily opened a sex shop and didn't go bankrupt, nor lose the lottery millions. Slasher and Emily met and fell in love, and happily made another fortune out of videos and she was able to afford the ticket to see Tom Jones.

Where she met Old_courteous_benefactor, a kindly and loveable atheist, who wrote the first evolutionary book, basing his ideas on a little known author called Darwin. He spent much time refuting the beliefs of a certain small group known as 'Texan Fundamentalist Christian', who actually based their belief on a fictional book - claiming it had been written by their God (as if an incorporeal being would need pen and paper). Ocb, as he was known to his many admirers, was a witty and intellectual giant - and much admired for his humorous lectures.

Davaar and Tartan Gannet opened a tea shop, where they spent all day serving little old ladies.

Tony Draper was just the same in both galaxies and happily mended broken pilots, despite not having a spell checker there either, which is why he hadn't noticed that Emily had been rescued by Tricky Woo and sent off to a Swiss Bank with a couple of million quid.

Or perhaps not, there were still a few bucks to be made if she put her bottom on the line and..............

...being a greedy sort of bitch (and indeed 'cos I'm a bit sozzled writing this) she had a few ideas how to do it.

Let's face it folks, Emily isn't the sort of girl who would be happy with a couple of million quid, when a few tens of millions would do just as well.

She hopped onto a plane from Zurich to Los Vegas. While she'd missed Tom Jones' first night, she was sure to catch him there on a subsequent night. Considering we're talking about a Welsh 'easy listening' star, there was a good chance that he'd be available in Vegas for two or three centuries.

At Vegas, she finally bought the elusive ticket. Well, to be honest, she beat the s**t out of a mid-western blue-rinser, which is fair enough IMHO. Feeling a wee bit guilty, she bunged the old bat a couple of hundred dollars: enough to pay for a hair-colour change. Or her funeral.

Emily strode into the Tom Jones gig feeling like a prom-queen. Only a bit alone. Blow me, but she immediately bumped into Steffi Graf and Rommel, standing at the bar, swigging beer.

"Zo, you haf finally made ze conzert", said Rommel in an unusually coherent mood.

"Vot colour panties are you going to throw on ze stage?" said Steffi, more pragmatically.

So the unorthodox trio went into the auditorium to see Tom strut his stuff.

Later...

"Thanks for the freebie, Emily love", said Tom, sucking the life out of a cigarette.

"Freebie? No Tom, my whoring days are behind me. I'm in the sex business strictly for kicks from now on".

"Sooo... you did this because you're a big fan of mine?"

"Er, not exactly, I believe you owe me the few million quid 'cos I released you from your kidnapping ordeal".

"Well, you can f**k off if you think you're getting a penny out of me, see", said the tight Welsh git.

"Fancy a blow job, Tom"?

Two minutes later, the malevolent Emily slid the cheque down her bra, then left. The whimpering Tom Jones stared at the ruined mess that used to be his pride and joy. Good tip, Tom, never accept a blow job from a bird that you owe money from.

Emily, super rich bitch, 20 million quid to the good, jumped into a taxi. She was secure for life, never a remore possibility of ever being in penury again. Rent? Hah! She was more than sodding flush; nothing could ever go wrong with her life now.

Then she spotted the casino. A casino with lions and stuff. Well, a wee gamble couldn't possibly hurt. What the heck, this is Vegas...

....as that thought came into her head, chewing away at the remains of Tom's tadger like so much gum, she spotted Nicholas Parsons and Demis Roussos going into the casino.....

[ 18 July 2001: Message edited by: Secret Squirrel ]

In a digital wasteland poor Emily is stricken
strange characters join her,the plot for to thicken.
How will it all end? she cries out in dread.
Oh no,someone in admin is raising his head.
Prune from his tower descends with his lock.
Bugger off you lot, the softwares in shock. :(

[ 19 July 2001: Message edited by: tony draper ]

An idea sprang into Emily's mind. Quickly and stealthily, she snuck up behind Demis Roussos and ducked in under his caftan, there being a good deal of room in them these days because of his astounding Weight Watchers success. Even her hump was easily accommodated in that voluminous garment.

The idea was simple - Roussos and Parsons, those well known international men of pleasure, would no doubt soon be admitted to the inner sanctum of gambling, the Kerry Packer room, into which only the select few were allowed to pass. By herself, Emily had no chance of admittance, but now...
she chuckled softly at the thought of the pleasures that awaited.
Luckily the sound was covered by a particularly noisy and rancid fart from Demis.
My God, thought Emily, gagging, no wonder his favourite song was 'My Friend the Wind'!
They had moved maybe 200 metres when Emily judged it was safe to emerge from her hiding place, anticipating with pleasure the scenes of decadence and debauchery that awaited.
She was totally unprepared for the terrible sight which greeted her disbelieving eyes...

...for Hitler, Stalin, Churchill and Roosevelt were sat at a table before her, smoking cigars, swilling whisky and playing.... Risk!

"F**k off, Stalin, I'm keeping Africa and South America, you stick to South East Asia..." , said Roosevelt.

"Da Comrade, but only a mug tries to take over Asia or Europe".

Churchill smirked as he held North America and three cannon cards: He eyed his heaps of armies guarding all his borders.

As usual, Hitler was trying to take over Europe and Asia.

On another table, Demis Roussos, Andre Agassi and Lord Lucan were playing poker. That seemed to be the table for Emily...

[Author’s Note: I tried to download all this, and WordPerfect gave me the message: “File appears to be corrupted”. And some say these machines have no native intelligence!]

It was all a dream. Tartan Gannet had at a glance detected a half-related Scoger in the Oberst-major, and pausing for but a bar (The Bodega Bar, Jamaica Street) in his rendition of the Green Hills of Tyrol, he swept away the Sassenachs. That reportage from Phony Tony Draper was no more than the agitprop put out by embarrassed prints of Fleet Street to cover yet another loss. “Hotspur”, sneered Tartan, "mair like the “Beano”". I’ll wind up their clocks fur theyme, he snartled (I meant snarled, but from the Gannet it probably was snartled)

But Smith, oder Schmidt, was overwrought. It had been a hard fifty years in the desert – Moses, he recalled from the dear dead days at the Horst Wessel Seminary – had got away with a mere forty. Ah want tae see ma Mammy, he confessed. With Tartan it was the work of a moment to wing Schmitty off in the Fieseler Storch to the waiting arms of the Graefin Jessie Hildegard von und zu Schmidt von der Hochstrasse tae Loch Lomond. Wie geht’s, Mutti, he queried, it’s a long long time from 1941 to September. Aye laddie, it is, but syne Ah’ve heard aboot ye, and no’ a’ tae the guid. Whit aboot yon Emily?

Ach mein wee laddie, crooned the dear old soul, Come awa’ ben the hoose. Ah'll pit oan a wee dish o’ parritch und sauerkraut, wi' a wee tate o' haggiswurst oan the side.

Mammy, he said, we have learned from the Abwehr that my long-lost cousin, Swerdslasher Oz, lies mourning his dearest in a paddy field in distant Viet Nam. A paddy field? she speired. Ah didnae ken we hud ony Irish in the faemily. Am Ah tae be spared naethin’?

Aye, Mammy, his wee Porky’s awa’. Aw the puir sowl, replied the tender-hearted matriarch. Mercy, michty me, muttered Swerdslasher, Whit’s a’ this clishmaclavers Ah’m gettin’ frae Canaris? Yon ancestors that came ower oan the assisted passage must ha’e been a gey queer lot. Na’, Na’, we were Wild Colonial Boys, but no’ that bad. Shairly we werenae Scoatch?

Man of iron though he was, he sank into a trance, and as his mind faded, so did Porky, and a new vision formed. What were those words? He grasped at the meaning. When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet, all the way from your first cigarette. What could this mean?When company’s expected you’re well protected. That he grasped immediately. It was his credo! And yet there was more....a sultry creature swirled in the mists. She was ....Mriya! Yes, Mriya....the most beautiful sound he ever heard Mriya. Mriya. Mriya. Mriya. All the beautiful sounds of the world in a single word Mriya. Mriya. Mriya. Mriya. I’ve just met a girl called Mriya. I’ll never stop saying Mriya. So it seems. I am having a hard time controlling the man, and I am writing this. Come on Slash, can it. Enough is enough.

They talked about Velvet and me a while back with much less evidence, not that I did not have the thought..

Aye weel, said Mutti, yon seems a nice lassie, but I doot she’s no’ a presbyterian. Ah dinnae like that bit, Mriya, Say it loud and there’s music playing, Say it soft and it’s almost like praying Mriya.

Si, ya vengo, Papa! Whit's that? Was fuer eine komische Sprache. Fur you, son, Ah huv my eye on Lorelei.

But more lay ahead.

[ 20 July 2001: Message edited by: Davaar ]

[ 20 July 2001: Message edited by: Davaar ]

Meanwhile, on a far distant planet orbiting an as-yet undiscovered sun in an unknown solar system somewhere beyond the remotest areas of the universe ever probed by mankind's deep-space probes and computer-driven synthetic colour-imaging sub-millimetric radio-telescopes, a multi-lobate gelatinous organism with no apparent physical form unless a local gravitational field was in effect scratched the cerebral areas of a lumpy section of its body and wondered why so much radio-noise emanated from the tiny blue-green planet which had just recently been discovered by this civilisation's most advanced technology...
"it's called Earth..." he said to the floating image of a superior technician.
For a moment the image remained impassive, then what passed for an ocular/olfactory/locutory organ took on a look of distaste.
"Earth....Oh no! We've heard of that place...there's a prophecy about a place called Earth..."

...

. . . as Em was about to sit down Andre looked her over with a big smile on his face. He motioned with an open hand to the available seat at the table. But an amazingly handsome waiter interjected at this point. He whispered in her ear; 'the aviation related guests are in the adjoining room, mam'. How could this dashing young gift possibly know I used to be a trolleydolly ? '.. if you'd follow me, mam.' As she passed to the high double doors she saw OCB, Tricky, Slasher and some other fellows, who's back were turned, around a round table. It seemed odd to her right away that there were only men here. But as she continued after this truly amazing specimen she found some of the women she'd expected at a separate table. Velv, Mriya, Flaps, Reddo and a few more she recognised in a quick glance. She still had the weird feeling that something was off. No way would these groups normally be separated. When she took a closer look she saw that Emily was seated at the women's table. Cards in hand and a lot of chips before her. Her hard nearly stopped. Than she felt it beating in her throat. Is that me ? She'd never been a particular frightened individual before, so she decided to walk right up to the other Emily. This one seemed a little different but she couldn't at first tell why. Then she noticed that she didn't have the breast implants like herself and her hair was not as blond. Everybody in the room was speechless and stared with wide eyes at the two women. 'What .. , How .. , But why ....

Four hours later the whole storey unfolded. With all their combined knowledge and comparing of their experiences they were able to figure out the truth. It all started about 45 years ago when this German scientist came to Vegas via Buenos Aires. He had taken all the old world - pre war - knowledge about human gene technology with him and started his own experiment. He had focussed on people who traveled a lot for two reasons. They came to his part of the world, which made them available, and only stayed a few days. They are on average in more need of his medical technologies due to their unhealthy lifestyles and apparent alcohol use. After studying a specific type of female desert lizards who were able to procreate without the use of males, our scientist was the first to successfully accomplish human cloning. He had done so for about 40 years now mainly with airline crew. All these clones were kept in this very deep and secret basement out under his laboratories. They were naturally younger (some quite a bit) then their original counterpart and also much healthier. It was started out of scientific curiosity but once it seemed successful he continued mainly for available bodyparts. Which in hindsight appears a very financially attractive business. This day however was the first time an original came face to face with its new and improved model. It explained why the other Emily seemed a bit different to our Em. She was simply 5 years younger.

Emily slept little that night in Vegas. It had certainly disturbed her deeply that other humans live only to give their body when needed. In the morning she woke with a fresh look on things. Everybody is a user so why shouldn't she. Em went to the scientist and blackmailed him outright. World-wide exposure of clone slavery practises, illegal medical businesses and old war crimes - or - brand new bodyparts of her choosing and a livelong free membership. Because of the same genetic makeup there was no need for heavy medication to combat organ-rejection and 3 days later Em walked out a virgin again. She also had improved eye-sight, brand new perfect teeth, no more cellulite and without that hideous hump a very lovely back side.

She walked on the sidewalk enjoying the dessert sun, thinking of her Swiss bank account and looking at the fat American tourists. She had never felt this good. Sometimes life is just truly wonderful.

The sun seemed to get a bit warmer though. Em looked up.

To see a three foot tall, small gladiator helmeted figure looming over her.

"WHERE is my illudium Z28 Space Modulator?"

Marvin asked ... :p

A few days ago the chief technician took this piece of news to his superior, Frodago, also a gelatinous organism. The discovery of this new blue/green planet got him very excited. Actually too excited. Twelve lunar cycles ago his doctor had warned him about his excitement levels. But the Frodago was too young to understand the seriousness of the doctors advice. Sure he was gifted and highly intelligent, that's how he got the position to begin with. But he hadn't reached the fully mature form of his species. That would have made his outer layer firmer, harder, more temperature resistant and more orange in colour. This is required to withstand the excitement that accompanies the mating ritual of this species. So he melted.
The captain of their space travel team was called in from his reserve duty. (this guy basically looks like a giant M&M with three legs, three eyes and one arm.) The captain, Plork, was briefed on the findings by Frodago and asked to prepare for travel to explore this world. In honour of Frodago his melted, sticky remains were to be dropped off on the 7th moon of the 2nd planet around the Ptor star. And the moon was to receive his name.
A little later Plork and four multi species members of his space travel team got suited up and entered their sphere. For this trip he specially selected Artof, Crumum, Marvin and Belar. Countdown commenced and the sphere was lowered into a tank of strange green liquid. Energy from their main star was deflected to the green liquid and it became brighter and brighter. Suddenly a very loud hissing was heard TSSSSSSSSssssssss.... the liquid had turned yellow and the sphere was gone.
On the back side of our moon, out of reach of our telescopes, a minuscule but intensely bright green dot appeared. Some steam emerged and with a loud plop, like pulling a cork from champagne, the sphere was there.
The short remaining distance was traveled at night and to the same location they once tried to land before, known as area 51. This part of the journey was not an obstacle anymore with their advanced technology, only pinpointing the exact landing site was incredibly hard for them due to the varying gravity at the different planets. A troublesome side effect was that the gaseous exhaust trailing the sphere to the planet would reach the blue/green planets atmosphere hours and hours later. And upon reaching it would chemically create a lot of heat. So much so that it could actually be registered on the planets surface. It was a risk they had to take, simply because it was the only way they knew how to reach such a far away place.
Again landing didn't quite go the way Plork intended. Luckily they landed just beyond a large grouping of lights which, they learned from radio transmissions, was named Vegas. A very funny name indeed in their language. After landing the sphere was slightly damaged. Two of his crew were with him. Marvin and Balar were not. Standard operating procedures for Plork was to sit tight and monitor to see if the heat increase, about six to seven earth hours later, would go undetected. A large dessert camouflage net was spread over the landing site to provide temporary shelter from sight and heat. Plork and his gang could survive this heat but didn't like it very much. They send a message home, set up their monitoring equipment and settled in for some rest.
When Plork woke up he was alone.

Schmidt sighed. Aye, Critical and Traveller had seen the scenes, a’ richt, while he had never got beyond a Panther, pink at that, and a few grains of sand. He reached listlessly for the radio “........Rockall, Mallin, The Forties, Iceland, and the crossing of Sauchiehall Street and Renfield Street .... a trough of low depression .... raining, except where raining more heavily, with a constant downpour at the last-mentioned ....”. Ach, the Weatherjinx again! He flipped the channel: “.....Thou that tellest good tidings to Zion, good tidings to Judah .......”. Was there no escaping the man, now that he was doubling as a DJ? And must he keep pushing the Gerlish composers? He slammed the Handel.
Next it would be Elvis with Muss i denn, or worse still, Sergeant Ken Donnegan, with Back to the Bible Hour, bringin’ the Word uh Gad to thuh nations, from Lincoln, Nebraska, by AFN, Amurrican Forces Network, Stutt Gortt, Brem Er Hav En and Wil Helms Hav En, wit noos bah thuh wahrs of AP, UP, an’ INS. Does no one else remember? How Time played tricks. Ach Liebchen! His body was racked with sobs. Ich bin weggekommen! Lili! Du kleine Schnuggiputzel! Vor dem grossen Tuer, but ye wisnae therr. He spared a passing thought for o_c_b. He wisnae therr either, that Man of God. Is thur nae warmth for auld o_c_b in that he’rt o’ stane, Danny?

I cannae believe you lied, Honey, ye lied when ye said you loved me, and I had nae cause tae doot ye. Try that in the accents of Memphis an’ it’ll be mair familiar. And yet, I’m all alone, and you are off oan a caper wiz zatt Tommie Oberst Draper. He admits tae be in the 27th Queen’s Own Mounted Foot! Yon lot’s baloney oan a powny. That prancer’s no even a lancer! The 27th’s a joke in a poke, ower bizarre tae mak' a hussar. Thur Oberst’s like his aunties, he wears lacy panties. Stoap me afore Ah git intil the abuse, youse. Ah’m tellin ye, so Ah am, but. Ye’d be better oaf wi’ yon Commie lot, Bulganin’s Uhlanens. Ah jist pit the “s” therr tae keep the rhyme.

A soft melody filled the air: “Deutschland, Deutschland, wha ha’e wi’ Wallace Bled”, the emotion wrenching National Anthem of the Scoger, sung by .....Lorelei, the Rhein maiden whom the Graefin was promoting for frau. “Lorelei, my Sweetie Pie”, responded the veteran. Will you be mein? Hein? Sudden, you may say, but with 50 years in the desert, the 10 in the Wehrmacht, and the pre-bar mitzvah years at the rabbinical school, he realised his bachelor phase was over. Emily was in another place. It was best so. At 75, Lorelei was better suited anyway.

And so we bid them Auf wiedersehen though not Adieu as they embark on fast U-boat of Hapag Lloyd, the Welsh shipping line, for the honeymoon trip to Buenos Aires.

[ 20 July 2001: Message edited by: Davaar ]

..."And thank f**k that I'm seeing the back of you lot", said Emily, playfully.

Meanwhile, back at the casino:

Emily sat at the card table and started gambling. Heavily. Well, you know how these things go, pretty soon, the newly virtuous Emily was down to bra, panties and a worried smile. Andre Agassi, wearing seventeen pairs of socks, and a bad haircut, certainly had strip-poker down to a fine art. Cheating git. Steffi kept trying to pull her long t-shirt down to hide her racing stripe. She also had a remaining sock on, so she wasn't too worried yet. Demis kept fingering the dozens of items of jewellery he wore, and secretly smiling to himself. Finally, his cr*p image was paying dividends.

Emily eyed the three aces in her hand and decided to up the ante a bit:

"I'll raise your sock to everything I'm wearing", she said the the wily male tennis star.

Agassi simply 'knew' that she was bluffing. Birds always do towards the interesting stage of strip-poker. And don't tell me you don't know what I mean. He raised her still further, sensing an easy victory:

"I'll raise YOU to a flash of my genitalia", he said, surprisingly eloquently.

"And I'll call you with a flash of mine", she said, quick as a, er, flash. (Sorry).

The girls laughed good and hard at Agassi's cock. Already during her recent travels, Emily had seen a regal double-cock, a bisected-cock and even one with a missing end, but she'd never seen one shaped like a cork-screw before. She called Hitler and Stalin over for a look...

Stalin was far from his mind.

Psssst! Psssst! The urgency of the message, redoubled as it was, startled him as he huddled beside his Bactrian beauty in the chill desert night. He knew they talked about him, him and the camel, but they were just good friends. He knew that, and the camel knew. Neither had cause to reproach the other.

Fluently polyglot, Dalriada reflected on what he had just heard. Arabic, of course! Any doubt was removed by the invitation “Feelthy Peectures!” of the crone whose ship of the desert paced across the sands. She tied up at the “expectant mother” parking post. She might as well use it. No one else ever did.

How could he tell her? How be so brutal? That the bottom had fallen out of her humanitarian trade forty years ago with the departure of the 51st (Highland) Division and the famed “Chatterley” case? How tell her that the barristers, depravity foxing the vigilance of even Tartan by clandestine use of nominee holdings, had cornered the market in Porno Productions (Young Bailey) PLC (a trademark distortion of the truth, the rascals; it would fool anyone; you had to laugh) had invested the profits in boarding houses for young ladies in Bangkok. These things had to hurt the Levantine trade.

He paused in his musings. Had he gone too far already? Rome had dropped the Index Librorum a few years ago, but there was a new puritanism abroad. He might, if not intercepted, appear on the chaste pages of PPRuNe, where young eyes would read. Young Slasher, for example, "Levantine"? Could it be replaced by a four-letter word? Would that count?

Temptation was everywhere. Take that word “bottom”, now. He had meant it innocently enough, Heaven knew, but in the wrong hands .... so to speak? It was, Yes it was, the mot juste. But juste a mo’! Did it go too far? Heh! Heh! Dear Lord, he had himself come to know Temptation. Should he provoke Fate?

[tune in for the next instalment]

[Feeton, this is your thread. You can stop me any time]

The c word was far from his mind, of course, as was the f, but with hesitant pen he wrote ....“spank”. Oh the depravity. Would anyone make the connection? It was subtle, he knew that, and would slip unnoticed past the slower wits, but those sophists out there..? And if anyone noticed, would the word be banned? Would he be banned? Would that be a bad thing, all in all? “Callipygous” he added, in an ecstasy of abandon. That would send the ladies racing for their dictionaries, the jades!

No one would notice. And yet, only hours before, Emerald, Roman minx though a soi-disante lapser, had mentioned the Pioneers, pure upholders of Truth and Virtue. Was she really from the Vatican to seduce him from the Reformed Doctrine? Sister Emerald Incognita? Huh? But did he really merit all that attention? Was he so important? Well, he was a soul. Bio Warrior had him persuaded, and the Holy Office used to think so.

Grace was everywhere, and he had remembered in (In what? The nick. Exactly!) the nick of time that other dear colleen, herself a Pioneer, of so many years ago. Irish, mind you, no escaping that. Few might catch Emerald’s allusion, but he had. Could Emerald be the lovely Sheila from Donegal, come back to him after those years? Might a jury nab him for sinful thoughts, though no crime was committed? It would if Bourbon had his way.

Come to think of it, a doctrinal seduction was pretty boring these days, what with all that ecumenism, the touchy feely and the clappy handy. Not much Doctrine left, really. True, there was one solid rock: O_c_b was back, but all around was shifting sand.

Perhaps, if he played his cards right with Emerald there might be a warmer seduction, but the alarm bells rang: cards. They had to avoid Afghanistan at all costs. Here he would trust his All to Emerald, acushla. What had she said, the darlin’? Be alert to the Taliban and the Devil’s pasteboards. He would be safe, and perhaps more, in her hands.

How familiar it all was. No cards. No dancing. The cinema queue was gone, but only by accident of commerce. No gum. No bets on the ponies. The grim faces. The elders. Great Heavens! He saw it all. The Temperance and Morals Committee of the General Gathering had taken over Islam! Presbyrule in Kabul. Remember what they had said ("no redeeming social value whatever")about “Johnny Guitar”, with Sterling Hayden, Joan Crawford, and Mercedes McCambridge?

What a coup this was! Perhaps, he mused, perhaps they will bring off the hat trick, absorb Hind as well and ...he knew it was pure self-indulgence....make it a sacred coo. That one was so deep in the dialect the Thought Police (O.K., Winston, the Thopo or Gepo, the Gedankenpolizei) would never catch on.

But back to business:

Thread too long so got ot close it. In future threads over 100 replies will be closed to protect the server. Feel free to start a Mk II thread.