Elsewhere (The Walrus's Story) Part Three

© 2011 David Jasmin-Green

I was in a dark place, a little room of some sort lit only by the yellowish glow of a low wattage night-light somewhere beyond a tiny, barred opening in the hefty steel door, and I was lying on a bed of what felt like damp straw. The warm, moist atmosphere reeked strongly of fish, but as I swept the cobwebs from my sleepy mind I realised that the fishy odour was overpowered by a much stronger smell, the rank stench of animal dung that reminded me of the elephant house at Dudley zoo.

As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom I could see that I was in a constricted space like a prison cell, and I wasn't alone – I had a cell mate. A huge, rounded form rolled over, snorting bestially in the process. I almost shit myself as one of its heavy lower limbs flopped across my belly, almost forcing the breath out of me, and then it, whatever it was, resumed its blissful snoring, a racket that I had somehow failed to register until that moment.

“Get off me, you clumsy, fat oaf!” I yelled, realising at once that it wasn't a good idea to cry out in the presence of an unknown animal, especially a sleeping one. It was only when my companion was rudely roused from his/her slumbers and his/her unlovely face was illuminated for a split second by the light from the doorway that I accepted the fact that s/he wasn't human, not by a long shot. Up until that point I guess I thought I'd been mistaken about the smell, or perhaps I kidded myself into believing that it was drifting in from somewhere else. I was trapped in a poky little cell with a monstrous, stinking creature, and I screamed out in terror. Like Daniel I had been hurled into the lion's den, my angst ridden mind told me. No, I reflected hurriedly - the thing's fangs were way too big to belong to any lion. It was a sabre toothed sodding tiger.....

“Now now, cock, calm down,” a soft, feminine voice said, no less feminine despite its strong though difficult to identify accent. It took me a while to take in the fact that I was being addressed by a huge, extinct feline. The creature's voice didn't sound feline, though, my addled mind insisted - whatever a feline voice sounded like wasn't quite right. The voice sounded like..... Well, it sounded like Yvette Fielding with a funny accent, and despite the strange circumstances I felt my cock begin to stiffen. “What's up with you, dipstick?” the creature continued. “'Ave you 'ad one of them bloody nightmares again, or wot? You've been dreamin' about that silly England place and your portly human missus, I suppose. Stuff an' nonsense, as I've told you a million times – I don't care 'ow real it seems, it's just a silly bleedin' dream. I just 'ope you ain't gonna 'ave another one of your confoundin' fugues.....There there, never mind, my one and only love, It'll all come out in the wash.”

“Uuh?” I grunted.

“Don't forget, lover boy, our ordeal will soon be over. You and I are going to overpower our gaoler and do a runner when 'e next demands 'is oats, so you'd better get some kip an' gather your strength, because you'll probably bloody well need it. Fritzy might be an old man, but 'e's also a black belt, black hearted black magician.....

'E's an 'eartless bastard feeding on the limitless strength of Doctor Evil, and 'e 'as ways and means of putting the likes of us in our place. We 'ave to be sly an' devious an' canny, sonny Jim; we 'ave to catch 'im off guard if we're to overpower 'im.

'Wait 'till the dirty old bugger drops 'is trousies and tries to slip one of us a length, and then the other one can wallop 'im good an' proper instead of whimperin' in the corner like she usually does,' you said just before we drifted off to kip, and if we play our cards right the plan might just work..... For some peculiar reason it's usually you that Fritzy gets amorous wiv, so if I flatten 'im wiv several 'undred pounds of walrus blubber before 'e gets 'is little bit in you an' stick one of these 'ere two foot tusks up 'is arse 'e's 'istory - 'e'll never violate any more 'elpless innocents. We're gonna teach Fritzy a lesson, an' when 'e's paid the price of 'is sickenin' perversion we're gonna finish 'im off for good.”

“What do you mean, walrus blubber?” I said, still not fully awake. “That explains the stale fishy smell, I guess. And I thought you were a sabre-toothed tiger. Silly me.....”

“Lion, tiger, tulip, walrus - what's the fuckin' difference when you're stuck in this place?” Yvette replied. I had recalled my cell mate's name, I realised, and all of a sudden the smell of walrus shit was curiously alluring – it had to be, because my hard-on had increased rather than diminished.

“You had to be called bloody Yvette, didn't you?” I mumbled.

“You're a strange one,” the creature said. “You know full well that my name's Yvette and I'm a walrus, just as you know you're 'alf walrus your bleeding self.”

“Hmmm, so I am,” I said, noticing my close furry pelt, tusks and ungainly looking hand-flippers for the first time.

“I wants freedom,” Yvette said as I slowly began to appreciate her undeniable majesty as well as possible in the half-light. “I wants to gleefully swim in the icy Arctic waters of my youth once more before I shuffle off this mortal coil and dance the light fantastic, whatever that is. I wants to seek out me old mum and dad, me sister Avril, me brother Norman an' me indeterminate 'alf brother, 'alf sister Paul/ine. An' then I wants me 'eavy goods licence so that I can deliver Woodpecker cider or fish fingers for Birdseye, an me pilot's licence so that I can soar through the air wiv the greatest of ease, totally unrestricted! I wants to be me own boss, kiddo, an I wants to reap tremendous financial rewards..... I wants a 'uge mansion in the Sarf Downs, a massive 'ouse in Prague, a fancy apartment in Paris, a wigwam in Wyoming an' a nice, snug cottage in Spain or the fuckin' Cotswolds.”

“You're mad, Yvette. You know that, don't you?” I said, disturbingly calmly. “Beautiful and fascinating and at least a hundred and seventy five percent wonderful, but quite, quite potty. All the lights are on but no one's at home, and you're more than a few sandwiches short of a picnic; you're fallen off your trolley big time, babes - none of your dominoes have any spots and you're totally out of your ever-loving tree.....”

“Ooh, you're such a tease, Miguel! she squealed delightedly, and I grudgingly accepted the fact that I'd never heard such an enchanting sound. “You an' me am both a bit loopy, methinks – you 'ave to be to get by in this 'orrid 'ole.”

Yvette's words were sweet music to my ears, and for a moment I was hypnotised by them, completely lost in thought. I silently pledged that I would do anything to get my fat little cherub out of that hell hole. I wanted to buy her a ginormous house in the country, a house with massive grounds and an equally ginormous swimming pool, of course. I wanted to lavish her with expensive gifts and drown her in the finest fragrances known to man (and man/walrus hybrids). I wanted to clad her ungainly carcass in custom made Victoria's Secret underwear, throw her onto a bed with black satin sheets and scarlet pillows and shag the living daylights out of her, but I did my best to conceal those infernal desires even though my throbbing cock was killing me because, a tiny part of me still insisted, they were unnatural, they were taboo, they were so very, very wrong.....

“Miguel? What do you mean, Miguel?” I said when I finally recovered my senses. “I was informed via Facebook that I was a gay, sweaty arsed French pastry chef called Gerald or Gerard or something, but now you're saying I'm a Mexican half walrus.”

“Of course you're Mexican. An' believe me, 'oney, you're far from gay..... You shouldn't believe every bit of crap that dick-head Doctor Evil feeds your mind wiv - 'e is mad, after all, and 'e's just messin' you around. You're Caesar Milan's second cousin, which explains why you're so good wiv dogs. 'Sit, Rover. Fetch that bloody stick, yes, a-fuckin'-gain. Walkies!'

It could be a 'ole lot worse, me little periwinkle. I 'eard it on the grapevine that Doctor Evil is considerin' makin' you into an 'alf a bee an' callin' you Eric or Sheila or somethin'. If that 'appens our relationship will be as good as over, because all of the 'alf a bees I've ever met are tiny, an' it just wouldn't be feasible – you'd never ring my bell wiv an 'alf bee dick, if bees 'ave dicks, that is.”

“Look, Yvette, this conversation is getting us nowhere fast. As delightful as you are, you're talking sheer, unmitigated balderdash, and I don't know how much longer I can take it without banging my head against yonder wall, screaming out loud and holding my breath until my nose bleeds and my brain caves in. This is just a stupid bloody dream, isn't it? No? Well if it isn't I need answers. I need to know the real reason why I've got flippers, and I need to know what I'm doing in this infernal place. Also, come to think of it, I need to know why I'm wearing gold stiletto boots and a silver sequinned all-in-one body suit, and why I have beautiful, shoulder length curls and fantastic looking though slightly furry titties.....”

“I must 'ave explained this an' similar trivialities to you a billion times after you come out of your increasingly frequent fugues, an' I guess it's my destiny to carry on explaining until I'm blue in the friggin' face. It's because you'se is a transvestite, or pr'aps the term 'lady-boy' is more apt now that you've 'ad your doobries done and, thankfully, 'ung on to your weddin' tackle. An' a good job the surgeon made of 'em, kiddo - you've got nipples like Skoda wheel nuts, and you do incredibly well in wet t-shirt contests despite your uggerly mug. Only kiddin' – you're luvverly..... You're obsessed wiv flippin' Beyonce, you total divvy. Remember? Despite 'is dark title an' 'is reputation for consummate wickedness I dare say it's cost Doctor Evil a small fortune to comply wiv your selfish wishes.

I wasn't 'appy wiv your cross dressin' when it first came to light, I must say, but ever so gradually I've come to accept it. I luvs you the way you are, 'oney bunch, an' I sincerely 'ope you luvs me the same way – I 'ope you 'ole'eartedly accepts the fact that occasionally I likes to pretend to be Winston Churchill an' sit in a big, plush leather armchair in the safety of my private bunker a mile beneath the 'ustle an' bustle of everyday life swillin' down the finest brandy, smokin' 'uge Cuban cigars an' blithely consigning millions of innocent troops to certain death whilst witterin' on about fightin' 'em on the beaches, drinkin 'em under the tables in the lounge an' in the bar an' never, ever surrenderin' no matter wot.”

“Of course, rosebud,” I said after a painfully extended pause. Yvette's glamour had lost its power for a moment, and I had my reason back, or so I thought. “Of course I love you no matter what peculiarities, vices, Winston Churchill fixations and downright perversions you cultivate, because you're the most attractive creature ever born and you deserve to have your every wish granted.

You can dress in a pantomime Princess Margaret costume and hammer six inch nails into your own cervix if that's what it takes to bring out the most pleasing possible tintinnabulations of your celestial inner bell; you can dress as general Hirohito of Japan, gnaw off your flippers one by one, pierce your fore-brain with a blunt harpoon and set your dugs on fire if that's what turns you on; you can crawl up a sperm whale's jacksie dressed as a white supremacist wildebeest singing 'Ding Dong Merrily On High' at the top of your voice if that's what makes you happy, my angel, my only love, my cute little plum pudding, my kissy if somewhat whiskery faced currant bun.....”

Just then I noticed that my hand-flippers, which I must admit were beginning to grow on me, had vanished, and so had my lovely furry tits – I was a common or garden man again. “Thank fuck,” I said, not at all sure if I meant it. Just then I felt a sharp pain between my shoulder blades.

**************************************************

“What are you rabbiting on about, William?” a familiar but decidedly un-Yvette like voice said, and all of a sudden I realized I was back home.

“I, erm, I dunno,” I said to Jane, my dearly beloved, somewhat meaty wife (I've always liked big women) as she gazed at me furiously across our crisp king-sized bed. “I must have been dreaming. I was locked in a prison cell with a lady walrus with a propensity for talking total shite, but the finer details of the experience escape me. Have you just kicked me, you fucker? I'll have you know you've ruined my fantabulous sodding dream.”

“No, I punched you. You were talking in your sleep again – you were dishing out a right load of crap. You were muttering about wildebeest, general Hirohito, Princess bleeding Margaret and hammering nails into some unfortunate girl's cervix, amongst other things that I couldn't quite decipher. I've never known anyone to have such crazy dreams as you, sunshine. You're always blabbering away full-blast in the middle of the bloody night and waking me up. Oh, you were also groaning that name you know very well I don't like to hear in this house, 'cos I hate the the peroxide fucking tart. 'Yvette, ooh, Yvette, you're so beautiful. I love you, Yvette, I really do. Now get your fucking tits out or I'll collapse and die.' You bastard.....”

“Perhaps I'm a multi-dimensional being,” I said pensively. “And perhaps my Yvette Fielding fixation is no worse that you secretly fancying Ross Kemp, Magnum PI and sundry Cape buffalo and fucking dolphins..... Perhaps I really was elsewhere having a conversation with an appealing lady walrus, rather than just dreaming about it.”

“And perhaps I'm a monkey's uncle,” Jane chuckled. “Appealing, you say? Do you genuinely think a walrus – even a dream walrus – could possibly be appealing, or did you mean 'appalling'?”

“No, I definitely meant 'appealing',” I said, closing my sleepy eyes and hanging on to my still stiff dick for comfort. “Oh yes. Yvette was a right cracker, she was absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, and her smell – mmmmm..... Though she came across as a trifle thick at first she was sparklingly interesting. She was a thoroughly brilliant conversationalist, and even in the short time I knew her I thought she was amazing. I have to rescue her from Fritzy, the filthy old bastard. Oh, Yvette, my Yvette, what a piece of walrus ass.....”

“You fucking pervert!” Jane grunted as she rolled over. “You're one sick fuck, you know that, don't you? There's no hope for you, there really isn't. Go back to sleep, you idiot. It's almost three am, and I have to be up for work in another four hours. And don't you dare wake me again.”

“Righty ho,” I said, desperately hanging on to consciousness, because I was beginning to drift off again. “You have my implicit permission to kick the shit out of me if I make even a tiny, unconscious whimper. You can skin me alive with a tater peeler if I so much as fart. You can burn my toes off one by one with an oxyacetylene torch for no reason at all, apart from the potent, utterly undeniable desire to do so, if it makes you feel better.”

“What? Why the fuck would I want to do that? I might be angry, pissed off and ever so slightly cruel when it comes to putting you in line, you twat, but I'm not that bloody evil.” The timbre of Jane's voice changed completely towards the end of that final sentence, so much that it wasn't her voice any more, but neither was it Yvette's. It was a nasal, high pitched drawl with a middle class southern English accent, and it was only when I forced my eyes open that I realized I had changed location again.