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Comedy
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| Group Writing 4 | |
| By coosh | ||||||||||||
| 02 October 2006 | ||||||||||||
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It's either this or the tax return... Pustule spent the whole day on the case. By 5.30 he had discovered how to work the catch. “There’s evidence in there,” said the crime scene investigator, illuminatingly. “We need to dust it for fingerprints.” “Typical woman,” thought Pustule. “Always thinking about cleaning.” Mind you, since he’d rediscovered his sexuality, his house had certainly been a lot tidier. “Don’t worry, love,” he said, “I’ll take it home and give it a wash.” When Pustule returned home, Alan was there. There was something reassuring about having a seven-foot gay Hell’s Angel permanently creaking about his kitchen in crotchless leather trousers. “Have an éclair,” said the inspector, pointing to the plate of confectionery on the table. Pustule always had éclairs. It was what had first attracted Alan to him that day in the patisserie. “We need to have a serious chat, Pussy,” said Alan, whipped cream and chocolate dangling tantalisingly from his nasal hair. "Do you still find me attractive?" “Not at the moment, Alan,” replied the inspector. “I’m on this case.” “Your work is interfering in our relationship. You’ve become married to the job,” Alan continued, the whipped cream and chocolate now dripping alluringly from his bicycle chains and rippling enticingly over the giant scorpion tattoo on his buttocks. Pustule forced open the briefcase and began rummaging. “Sorry, Pussy. I have to tell you. I’ve been creaking around someone else’s kitchen these last few week-ends.” “That’s horrendous!” cried Pustule, staring at him in astonishment. “I thought you liked me being a messy eater,” said Alan. Pustule held up a piece of paper. “I've found this photo,” he said, “It’s you. And you've got Dribble on your lap.” (tax return is now starting to seem a more attractive proposition)
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