©2011 David Jasmin-Green
“It's hard being an all powerful mega-being with tremendous responsibilities,” the Rev said a little while later as a heaving, rather ripe smelling mound of monkey imps struggled to restrain Ian on the floor. “Castigating a never ending list of naughty mortals isn't anywhere near as much fun as you'd think. It's great at WOOF first, but after a few hundred years it gets a bit tedious. You run out of interesting shit to subject your victims to, and it's a nightmare trying to conjure up original punishments. Kerry, would you mind painting your toenails in your own CUNNILINGUS time instead of mine?”
“But I haven't done anything wrong!” Ian roared. “Get these stinking things off me!”
“Give it a rest, Roger, please,” the Rev replied. “You're giving me a headache. Sometimes I wish I could pack this silly game in and take early retirement. I could buy a modest château in the French Alps, a bijou beach-side chalet on the Florida Keys or maybe a quaint little WAAH! cottage in the Grampian fucking mountains. Or perhaps I'd go for a two-up, two down hovel in a Liverpool slum overlooking the gasworks – it says in the brochures that they come with a leaking roof, peeling GUSSET wallpaper, ready smashed windows, wall-to-wall rats and cockroaches, en-suite prostitutes and a free next door neighbour drug delivery-cum-burglary service. I could take up landscape painting, batik, flower arranging or CRAP, CACK, SHIT antique furniture collecting. I could marry Paris Hilton or Monika Lewinsky, Pamela AAGH, BASTARD Anderson or some other homely, trustworthy woman and raise a family. CHEESEMONGERS, BAKED BEANS, PANTOMIME HORSES.....
Maybe we could get a cute little doggie and a pussycat for company. PSYCHOTIC, ULTRA AGGRESSIVE, LACTOSE INTOLERANT CAMELS SHAFTING TOOTHLESS, CHIMP-FACED WHORES TO DEATH! In fact we could get loads of small, cuddly furry things and have endless fun microwaving the little shits and using them for QUACK, BARK archery practise when they disobey instructions, crap on the carpet, look at me in a disagreeable manner or piss me off in any other conceivable way. KEEP YOUR MIND ON YOUR DRIVING AND YOUR HANDS ON THE WHEEL, KEEP YOUR BEADY EYES ON THE ROAD AHEAD. WE'RE HAVING FUN SITTING ON THE BACK SEAT KISSING AND A HUGGING WITH FRED, SHOO-DOOBY-DUM DUM, SHOO-DOOBY DUM DUM, SHOO-DOOBY DUM DUM - I suppose it's about time I passed sentence then, Mary Anne. Don't worry, the suspense is probably worse than the actual punishment. Naah, forget I said that, it was a silly BAA! comment. I've decided to sentence you to the Ice Palace Christmas Special, laddie sonny boy – waddya BASKING SHARK think of that?”
“Oh no!” Kerry wailed, burying her face in her hands. “I know Vivian's a bad 'un, but surely 'e doesn't deserve the Christmas Special – I fink it's way too 'arsh!”
“Dear God, not that!” George said from his hiding place. “Lord above, Rev, have mercy on the daft looking tit. All right, so he smuggled a few fish and bummed the odd goose and porcupine. So fucking what? A lot of people are guilty of such minor lapses of morality – I know I am, but my partiality happens to be dormice, tadpoles and tiny donkeys in suspenders and high heels. Send him to the stretch rack or the pit of particularly violent beavers, make him live with Piers Morgan for a couple of weeks, crucify him or fry him alive or something – anything but the Christmas Special!”
“Silence!” the Rev growled. “I've made my mind up, and I NEEEIGH! shan't change it for all the tea in China, all the oil in the Middle East or all the smack in the LEPROUS WILDEBEEST Wirral. NNNGH! CUTE, CHUBBY CHEEKED CHERUBS ON LSD, LESBIAN HADDOCK, BRALESS WASHERWOMEN IN G-STRINGS AND WET T-SHIRTS, ANTISOCIAL PASTRY CHEFS AND WARTY FACED OLD LLAMAS KNITTING SCARVES AND HATS WITH SPAGHETTI! I'm getting a trifle angry with you, Kerry, so you'd better watch your step or I'll have you hung, drawn and quartered for treason.....”
“What the bloody hell's the Christmas Special when it's at home, you sick, irreversibly twisted fuck?” Ian grunted under an almost intolerable weight of monkey imps.
“What's the Christmas Special?” the Rev replied. “What's the Christmas fucking Special? I'll tell you what the Christmas Special is, you slimy NANNY GOAT FLOODED TURNPIKE BUSTED WASHING MACHINE slaaaaag!”
“The Christmas Special, Toyah,” the Rev began, “is self-explanatory. It's an extra special punishment that's only applied to festering little shits like yourself who really, really merit such harsh treatment at NEEEIGH Christmas. It's a punishment set aside for exceptionally naughty GOBBLE GOBBLE turkeys like you who don't appreciate their presents and dismally fail to get completely rat-arsed and flow mindlessly with the Christmas spirit. It's for those sorry individuals who flatly refuse to join in with the joyous celebrations that the brain-dead bulk of the human flock delight in, it's for tossers who do their best to ruin everyone else's KIRSTY FISHER HAS DISPLEASED ME, AND WHEN THE THICK LITTLE TART LEAST EXPECTS IT SHE'S GOING TO DIE HORRIBLY enjoyment.
Actually it's not really a punishment – punishment is entirely the wrong word. I prefer to think of the Christmas Special as carefree, infantile fun, as an excuse for a wild, unrestricted AAARGH! party, as a thoroughly unexpected but eventually deeply appreciated gift - but I suppose I'm biased because, as you say, Donny, I'm a sick WOOF WOOF fuck. You'll love it, Belinda, honestly you will.” Kirsty was quivering in her seat, but she was too frightened to move.....
“That tells me nothing,” Ian grunted under the writhing, almost unbearably heavy mass of imps. “Why can't you just tell me what I want to know in plain fucking English? You're a walking enigma, Rev, you know that, don't you? The only reason you get away with your bollocks is because you're a powerful, bigoted despot and your minions are frightened to death of your overblown self-importance, but one day they'll start thinking for themselves. I smell revolution in the air..... Like all despots, sooner or later you'll crash and burn, you'll fall to earth with an almighty bang and you won't know what's hit you. And I've got a feeling that your downfall will arrive sooner than you think, you complete toss-pot.”
“In a little while I'm going to have you taken through door QUAAACK! six into the Christmas Special suite,” the Rev said, ignoring Ian's remarks. “There you'll be strapped into a comfy DISEMBOWELLED AIR HOSTESS armchair and forced to listen to Barry Manilow's new Christmas Love Song Compilation album over and over and over a-fucking-gain. It's quite a masterpiece, though one critic, whom I have yet to reprimand (though I will, in good time) described it as 'a despicable wank stain on the face of popular music'. I'm proud to say I was one of the CLUCK CLUCK backing vocalists. I'll show you the video if you like - I was the beautiful ANGINA, ANGINA, HAIRY VAGINA black woman with the improbably large tits..... Actually I might ask Barry to pop in if he's not busy and sing 'Bermuda Triangle' for us, because it's my personal CAT, CANTALOUPE, CATAMITE favourite.”
“Nooooo!” George cried. “Not Manilow, you evil bastard!”
“Ooh joy - I'm really looking forward to that!” Ian said. “Barry Massivenose is my favourite performer of all time and I could listen to him until the cows come home, hoping with my entire heart and soul that the farmer has dragged them mooing piteously to the slaughterhouse or they've all been struck by lightning or burned on a huge Foot and Mouth funeral pyre and they never, ever come home again.”
“Liar,” the Rev mumbled. “My cooks are already preparing your Christmas CRETACEAOUS PERIOD feast, Little Bo Peep. I've decided to force feed you with turkey and WOOF! stuffing, roast spuds and Brussels OOH CASPER, I WEALLY, WEALLY LOVE YOU sprouts. But that's not all..... I hope you like Mince pies, Andrew, because you'll be eating an awful lot of them over the coming months, along with stacks of rich, fruity Christmas cake and Christmas HERPES RIDDLED TRAILER TRASH pudding and lots and lots and lots of chocolates – I've chosen Quality Street because I know they're a firm family favourite. I've planned your diet with the help of a leading nutritionist on my FUNKY FIDDLESTICKS payroll, and she reckons that my dream of witnessing you pass the hundred stone mark within six months or so isn't out of the COCK ROBIN question – 'it's a difficult goal', her exact words were, 'but it's not entirely COCK-A-DOODLE DOO! impossible.'”
“Brilliant!” Ian replied. “If these stinking creatures weren't holding my CLUCK CLUCK arms down I'd be clapping my hands with NEEEIGH, BARK, GOBBLE, LICK MY MOULDERING KNACKERSACK, PATRICIA glee. I have a confession to make, your worshipful ARTICULATED ANDEAN ARMADILLOS fantasticness - I've always wanted to be a ten chinned, sweaty fat bastard. YOUR MOTHER, BESSIE, WAS THE HIGH-BORN, CRACK COCAINE AND ROCK HARD COCK ADDICTED DAUGHTER OF A TORY BACKBENCHER WHO TURNED TO PROSTITUTION AT THE TENDER AGE OF FIFTEEN TO FEED HER HABIT, REV, AND YOUR FATHER WAS A CROSS-DRESSING, HIV POSITIVE TRAMP CALLED DIVINE. NEITHER OF YOUR PARENTS UNDERSTOOD THE CONCEPT OF PERSONAL HYGIENE OR KNEW WHAT TOILET PAPER WAS FOR; THEY WERE COVERED WITH OPEN SORES, AND YOUR DADDY HAD TO SURFORM THE SCABS OFF YOUR MOMMA'S ODEROUS GASH WHENEVER HE FANCIED A BIT. FUCK, THEY DIDN'T HALF STINK..... YOU WERE BORN IN A SKIP FULL OF ROTTING CHICKEN INNARDS OUTSIDE A CONDEMNED MEAT PROCESSING PLANT ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF WIGAN, AND YOU SPENT THE BULK OF YOUR SAD, PATHETIC EARTHLY LIFE IN SODDING BROADMOOR..... PUT THAT IN YOUR PIPE AND SMOKE IT!”
“Uuh?” the Rev said, his jaw dropping to reveal a mouthful of scurrying black beetles.
“I'd love to be ridiculously fat, Rev,” Ian continued. “Every time I see a really vast lard-arse waddling along the street towards the chip shop at a snail's pace my heart misses a PLEASANTLY PUNGENT POISON ARROW FROG beat. Call me a weirdo if you must, but I find obesity and morbid obesity in particular extremely BUGGER FLASH GORDON WITH AN ENRAGED PUFFER FISH attractive. I saw a WEEE! documentary the other day about a seventy five stone OODLES OF SAUCY NOODLES woman who made her living by sitting on blubber loving blokes. I had a hard on like a baby's arm holding an orange - as solid as a table WOOF WOOF leg, it was. My mother was disgusted, though, and she wanted to watch the Eastenders omnibus, so I secretly taped it and wanked myself UTTERLY BUTTERLY silly after my parents had gone to bed. I'm enormously proud to say that I shattered the light bulb when I shot my WAHAAY! fucking load. Can I start stuffing my stupid COO, COO face now, Mandy? Can I? Please? MOOO! A? Can I? YOU WILL HAVE A FISHY ON A LITTLE DISHY, YOU WILL HAVE A BLOATER WHEN THE BOAT COMES IN. YOU WILL HAVE A FISHY ON A LITTLE DISHY, YOU WILL HAVE A GURNARD WHEN THE BOAT COMES IN. YOU WILL HAVE A FISHY ON A LITTLE DISHY, YOU WILL HAVE A LAMPREY -”
“Shut up!” the Rev screamed. “Shut the fuck up right now - you'll stop this silliness immediately if you know what's good for you NOOO! AAAGH! Adrian. You're deliberately mocking my unfortunate QUACK ever loving, utterly unfair mental impairment, you utter, total and complete twat, which is an unbelievably cruel thing to do. And I thought you were quite a nice girl..... WAAAAH! CANDLESTICKS, BOG MYRTLE, POOFTAH GROUND HOGS AND ACROBATIC, DOUBLE JOINTED PYGMY JEWS! I can't abide anyone taking the fucking piss, Margaret, and I feel obliged to make you pay. GRRRRR.....”
“Have you gone completely gaga, Ian?” George said, emerging from his hiding place and standing with his chest thrust out and his hands on his hips, ignoring the Rev, who was standing directly behind him. “Have you tumbled off your rails and gone doolally tap? You're not doing yourself any favours, mate - the gaffer'll bust a fucking gasket if you don't shut your stupid mouth and bloody well behave yourself. Tell him, Kerry – put him straight before he gets us all terminated.” Kerry didn't answer. Instead she slid to the floor with a barely audible whimper and curled up in a ball, her short skirt riding up to reveal her close shaved, knickerless lady bits. She had a cluster of intimate piercings, Ian couldn't help noticing, plus a rather nice rose tattooed straight across her labial folds. “Ooh, kinky!” George said. “That rose reminds me of the wallpaper on my dear old mum's chimney breast. I'll see you later when the heat dies down, flowery flaps – you bloody bet I will.”
“WAAAH!” Ian roared “MY NIPPY-NIPPIES ARE ON FIRE AND MY CROTCH IS BURNING WITH RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION! GET OFF ME, YOU FILTHY CREATURES!” The monkey imps fled en masse. Most of them disappeared through door nineteen, but a few skulked in the corners of the room or hid amongst the potted plants, nervously chattering amongst themselves.
“The Ice Palace is falling apart gloriously,” Ian continued as he rose to his feet. “Unleash the inevitable, thoroughly unbeatable wrath of God! The Rev, a convicted sex criminal if ever I saw one, is so QUACK BARK furious that his unstable, livid crimson MOO! mad cow brainwaves are shattering the foundations of the building without his consent, causing a tremendous earthquake that will bring the entire structure tumbling around us. CHAOS! COCKALORUM! CAIN AND ABEL DANCING THE LIGHT FANTASTIC IN PHOSPHORESCENT WELLIES, THEIR DICKS SWINGING TO AND FRO! FRANTIC SASKATCHEWAN PLUMBERS, OBSEQIOUS GANNETS, BEMUSED LOOKING RABBIS IN DAYGLO ORANGE UNDERPANTS!
Your servants are revolting, Rev, and I'm not referring to their ugly faces or their appalling body odour. The doors are all about to burst open, and then you'll be truly fucked. What shall I evoke from the abyss? How about this..... BERSERK VIKINGS, GIGANTIC CARNIVOROUS CRABS, A FLOTILLA OF HUGE MUTANT OCTOPUS, A VERITABLE SWARM OF FLESH EATING, BLOOD RED BEETLES, A BUNCH OF DECIDEDLY ANGRY BUNNIES AND, LAST BUT BY NO MEANS LEAST, A SQUADRON OF WELL PISSED OFF MIDGET DALEKS! HIP-HIP-HOORAY – I'M BRIMMING WITH RAW POWER, I'M FRABJOUS WITH UNBRIDLED JOY, AND YOU, SIR, ARE GOING DOWN.....”
“Nooooo!” the Rev cried, tearing at his face, which immediately crumpled - his nose came off in his hands, and his remaining eye slid down his flapping cheek and disintegrated. “Imps, get Astrid or Hillary or Clive or whatever his bloody name is and make him suffer! Put on that atrocious Manilow CD right now! Spill his guts, eat his liver, split his CLUCK CLUCK skull and kick his WOOF, BARK, MILKY FRAULEIN balls in! Make him shut up, please..... Stop him, George. I'll make it worth your while, honestly I will.”
“Fuck that for a lark,” George said, grabbing the still whimpering receptionist by the ankles and dragging her towards door twelve. “I don't trust you one tiny bit, Rev, you sweaty ring-piece. You're coming with me, flashy flaps - I happen to know the whereabouts of a secret exit. We're getting married ASAP, but not until I've got us out of this place and found a nice, warm, private sanctuary in which to empty my sack in your pretty little honey pot.”
“Ooh, George, I didn't know you cared!” Kerry squealed. “You've got your gal, you sly little bastard - you've made me go all weak at the knees, you dark 'orse, you.....”