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Comedy
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| Love is a battlefield | |
| By Leo | ||||||
| 26 May 2006 | ||||||
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more demented ramblings.. Malcolm Brent. By day a nearsighted forklift truck driver of dubious competence. By night he held dominion as ‘Borag’, king of the elfin underworld. A gangling, cranefly-like specimen, he hunched into his six foot four frame. His ginger, Garfunkel-esque plume of hair added another four inches to his stature. The tuft of whiskers that sprouted from the point of his spotty chin, and the enormous sideburns, made him every inch the mighty warrior. Marion Braithwaite sat at the endomorphic end of the developmental scale. A short, comely woman, she had an enormous set of breasts that sat like a pair of beanbags in a state of permanent disarray. The sort you wanted to plump. When she wasn’t on the supermarket checkout, she too served the elfin resistance. The two had been brought together waging war against the troll army. Two lonely hearts that had fused in cyberspace. Today they met for the first time. Gazing up into his eyes, and nostrils, Marion felt like she’d been elevated to the status of queen. Queen of the entire elfin kingdom. As for Malcolm, the mighty warrior, tonight he would enjoy the spoils of war.. The evening went well and the foreplay was almost over .13 pints of Guinness, 3 kebabs and a large bar of dairy milk seemed only to fuel the animal lust. Marion tore herself from the hot sweaty lips of her brave king to visit the toilet. She needed to make sure her bowels were empty for her ascension to glory. Malcolm lay out on the bed giving his hardened loin a reassuring little stroke now and then, as he waited for his wench to return. The ginger pubes that sprouted at the base of his pulsating member glistened in the moonlight; like the flames dancing around the bottom of a space rocket, as it left the launch pad. At the root of his pubes sat the commander of 2nd platoon pubic lice, commando brigade. He was every millimetre a man’s kind of louse. Using his enormous bowie knife he cleared a rotting lump of penile protein from between his teeth. When you were a commando you had to live off the land. And soon there would be pastures new to plunder… Marion turned out the light and slid under the covers. Seamlessly setting her false teeth and glass eye on the bedside cabinet. She was ready to be taken. From the outset, the mighty elfin king took command of the love making, like a general in battle. Licking and grinding his pelvis into her aching groin. He took a big deep breath and foisted her left foot on his right shoulder in a manoeuvre he’d picked up watching his dads blue movies when his mum was at weight watchers. He felt masterful, like a king should. Not even the bunions and faint whiff of ammonia checked his sexual desire. Next, her breasts. He knew a woman had needs. He licked and teased them, with something approaching the finesse and fervour of a rottweiler going through a bowl of tripe. He felt sure he’d done enough to take her to a state of peak arousal. Time to unleash the mighty elfin love sausage.. He expertly reached down and guided the tip of his near porcelain hard love lance into the awaiting abyss. He drove his hips forward to ensure he didn’t miss. The last thing he wanted now, was the collateral damage that went with invading the lower troll hole The platoon commander issued the order.. “Go! Go! Go!” with that the entire platoon leapt the last few nanometres and crashed into the dense pubic forest. Operation ‘Enduring minge’ was in full flow. Then suddenly, without warning, from behind the huge flake of dandruff, it appeared. The titanic and terrifying form of a wart faced, clamydian groin weevil. It’s hot sulphurous breath escaping, as it opened it huge mouth to expose row upon row of razor sharp teeth… “Code red, code red!!” called out the platoon commander, “abort mission… I repeat,.. abort mission..” Too late. He turned to see the last vestiges of hope fade, as he watched the tips of Malcolm’s ginger pubes disappear over the horizon. Malcolm rolled off. 17.4 seconds. His job was done. He breathed out like a prize stallion who had just successfully serviced its mare. He lay back contentedly with his hands laced beneath the back of his head. His slimy penis withering and dying like a slug in a salt bath… The massacre of the troops coincided with the near nuclear fanny fart that split apart the musky air, as Marion reached across for her roll ups. The king had served her well. Battle had been joined...
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