Miguel Button Is Bent

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

It was a fine but rather chilly Saturday morning. After Miguel Button had fed his half octopus grandmother and quarter octopus mother with copious amounts of live fish he left his seawater filled house using the rope ladder dangling from the window in the loft and walked towards town to do a bit of shopping. At the end of the street he turned onto the main road, and straight away he noticed that some bastard had daubed graffiti all over the side of the sports gear warehouse opposite the Butchers' shop. He couldn't quite make out what it said just yet, because he needed to go to Specsavers to have his eyes tested – several people had told him that recently, so he guessed there might be a grain of truth in it.

“Houtrageous,” he muttered to himself. “Graffiti is mindless, hunsightly and hutterly hunnecessary vandalism. Why don't the pigs put up a security camera to catch the destructive tits red-handed? They're too bloody stupid, that's why.

What is it this time – Aston Villa are shite? Alan Sugar is the world's biggest wanker? David Beckham is a great, steaming Jessie? Simon Cowell is a prize cunt? Actually those options are all pretty truthful – if someone had written something like that they should get a bloody medal and a few grand in prize money.”

As he got closer to the warehouse his mood plummeted. The six foot high red and white letters stood out incredibly sharply against the black painted brick wall – Mr. Patel, who owned the building, had experienced trouble with nocturnal graffiti artists before – and they spelled out 'Miguel Button Is Bent.' “This won't do,” he said. “This won't do at all.....”

“Pooftah, pooftah, Button is a pooftah.” a band of scruffy youths on skateboards sang as they sped by on the other side of the road.

“Go and fuck yourselves, you highly hobjectionable fishy bastards!” Miguel roared.

“A pooftah, a pooftah, the nutter is a pooftah!”

“You rampant fuckin' 'omo!” a trio of men yelled from a passing Mondeo.

“Suck my cheesy hoctopus stump, you bunch of harse-holes!”

“No thanks, mate, we ain't benders!”

“Look at that, Miguel,” Mr. Singh, who owned the newsagents, said as he came out to see what the fuss was all about. “Bloody disgusting, it is, I don't know vot this country is coming to. I think the vankers should be severely punished.” All of a sudden he ran back into his shop, because even his huge black beard was unable to disguise the mirth plastered across his face.

“I think it's an abominable crime to write such a thing about a man whose only sin was to have an affair with Samantha the tranny from the NHS Walk-in centre,” Mr. Prendergast from the Post Office said.

“I did not!” Miguel said. “We're just friends, we shared a Spag Bol and a few bottles of Blue Nun and got a bit pissed, that's all. How was I to know she wasn't a proper woman?”

“Fucking great, isn't it?” Mrs. Warthog chuckled as she came out of the butcher's shop with a heavy carrier bag. “Everybody's on about it. 'Oo's the queer bastard that that absolutely 'ilarious graffiti refers to, do you know, young man?” at which point the butcher ran out and whispered something in her ear. “Nice talkin' to you, son,” Mrs. Warthog said, “but I 'ave to rush 'ome, I've left me kippers in the oven on gas mark four.” The decrepit old woman covered her mouth with her free hand and scuttled off down the road giggling uncontrollably and leaving a trail of steaming urine in her wake.

“This isn't fair!” Miguel cried, falling to the ground and impotently hammering the pavement with his fists. “I am not fucking bent!”

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

Miguel decided to go for a walk over the nature reserve instead of going into town as he couldn't bear the thought of further hassle, but he had to retrace his steps because it was in the opposite direction. When he re-entered his street he discovered that someone had attached notices to every available surface – there were hundreds of the bloody things decorating telegraph poles, advertising hoardings, walls and gates, and at least fifty were taped to the front of his house. “Some fool's gone to an awful lot of cost and trouble to hadvertise a missing pooch or pussy-cat that's probably lying dead in a gutter somewhere, if it's not been curried and eaten by bloody himmigrants,” he muttered.

As he reached the nearest piece of A4 stapled at eye level to a telegraph pole he realised that he wasn't looking at an advert requesting news of a missing pet, he was looking at a crystal clear photograph of a man and a woman making out on a familiar looking pink paisley print settee. Only the woman wasn't a woman, it was Samantha the tranny, and the man snogging him was obviously Miguel, and his hand was up Samantha's skirt. 'Miguel Button Is A Bummer – Haar Bloody Haar', the message in bold print beneath the picture stated. “Oh, for fuck's sake,” Miguel grumbled.

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

Half an hour later he was sitting on a bench in the middle of the nature reserve where, he hoped, no one would bother him, and he was wolfing down a bag of greasy but nevertheless delicious chips – even the woman in the chippie had sniggered at him. “Do you mind if I join you for a while?” a husky voice said from behind him, snapping him out of his reverie.

“No, of course not, Madam,” Miguel replied. “I was just, erm, heating my chips and hadmiring the lovely view. I like it by this here lake, I hoften come and sit here when I need to think, and sometimes I hexercise my grandma here – she's half hoctopus, you know, and she benefits from a nice long swim in hopen water.”

“I like it here too,” the nylon leopard print clad pretend woman said as she sat down, crossing and uncrossing her fishnet stocking clad hairy legs and batting her dead tarantula false eyelashes provocatively. She rubbed a bit of mud from her six inch bright yellow stilettos with a tissue and applied an excess of turquoise eye-shadow and blood red lipstick, but Miguel couldn't fully appreciate her questionable beauty because he desperately needed glasses. “It's a delightful place, don't you think, dear? So many secluded thickets with soft, grassy clearings ideal for lying down and leisurely snogging the gob off one's lover, and so far away from prying eyes.”

“Erm.....our voice sounds familiar, you sweet, foxy looking thang,” Miguel said. “Haven't we met before?”

“I don't believe so, my lovely. Especially not in the NHS Walk-in centre, I've never set foot in that place in my life – I'm a nice, healthy, disease-free girl, me. And as you can see I'm a natural blonde, unlike that nasty Samantha the tranny.”

“You know Samantha the tranny?”

“Yes, unfortunately. She - or should I say he – is my twin brother, which is probably why my voice sounds familiar. We fell out ages ago, though, I haven't spoken to the dirty trollop for nigh on ten years. Call me homophobic if you like, but I don't agree with his lifestyle, I find the idea of men dressing up as women and fiddling with other men unnatural and deeply disgusting.”

“Actually I find him distasteful too. The Cupid Stunt lookalike - look, this is difficult to tell to a stranger. A couple of weeks ago Samantha the tranny got me drunk on copious amounts of Blue fucking Nun, and he took advantage of me – I didn't know he wasn't a proper woman, I have very poor eyesight and I need to go to Specsavers, but I never quite get around to making an appointment..... Can I hask you what your name is, my pretty?”

“Er..... My name is Celestine Moonflower, and I'm all woman, my love, nothing like my big, butch but sadly perverted brother. I can only apologise for his unforgivably atrocious behaviour, your story makes my heart bleed.”

“It gets worse. This morning I was walking into town, and I saw some nasty graffiti on the side of the sports gear warehouse. It said 'Miguel Button – that's me, sadly – is bent.' I wished the earth would hopen up and swallow me, heverybody was laughing at me..... A bit later I discovered that someone had put up loads of pictures of Samantha the tranny and I snogging on his sofa in a drunken stupour. I ripped down most of them, but there were so many - and there were loads of curtains twitching and gangs of kids giggling at me. I don't know what to do!”

“Never mind, Miguel, my precious. Dry your eyes, there, there, there. You need a nice feminine shoulder to cry on, that's all. Come here, let me give you a hug. Have a feel of these beauties, they're real, one hundred percent natural woman titties – they'll soon have you feeling masculine again.”

“Oh, Celestine, I love your tiddies. You're divine – you're all woman!”

“Yes, yes I know, and you're all man. I'm gonna mess you up big time, honey-bunch, you bet..... I've got a few cans of Kestrel Super in my bag – unlike my dastardly brother I never drink Blue Nun. Do you fancy a little drinky-poohs?” As Miguel and Celestine started to get carried away a twenty four mega-pixel Nikon with an expensive telephoto lens started snapping revealing pictures from the cover of the bushes some fifty yards away.