Don’t mess with the Graff Vynda-K
During one of my incarnations I worked as a Capstan Lathe Operator in a Precision Engineering works down by the river in one of your major English cities. It was way beneath me, obviously, but I needed to lay low because the Graff Vynda-K had a contract out on me so I had decided to spend a century or two on Earth in various guises until the heat died down.

On my first day my work colleagues – bear-like greaso-hick Neanderthal beer-monsters, proud fuckers and farters all – insisted on making me a cup of tea. I knew, of course, that this cuppa would be contaminated by them in some humorous way; maybe I would find nuts and bolts at the bottom of the mug, or maybe they had used swarf instead of sugar, or any number of hilarious engineers’ pranks. In the spirit of teamwork I accepted this cup of tea and sat down to drink it, observed by half a dozen pairs of white-trash eyes set in lardy, smirking faces. I took a sip – it tasted fine. So strong that the tannin stained my teeth and it bore at least 3 teaspoons of sugar, but otherwise quite palatable. Or was the sugar masking something UN-palatable?

I continued to drink as these ideologues and Illluminati observed me with boar-like intensity. One of them was barely concealing his mirth; nasal, porcine snorts issued forth from his pugnacious snout in spluttering bursts. I drank more, ruminating on how I would never under normal circumstances tolerate the company of such oiks and devising excruciating methods of torture for each and every one of them. But of course I was powerless as I needed to maintain my cover.

Finally, I drained my mug, and saw, to my surprise, that it was completely empty. No nuts and bolts, no swarf, no putty, nothing. Peals of plebian laughter assailed my Prydonian lugholes. My new colleagues were all cracking up with laughter, hooting and guffawing and – well you get the picture. I gazed at them non-plussed, with a sick feeling rising up through my innards. What the fuck had they done to it? Poisoned me? Were they – were they agents of Vynda-K sent to destroy me?

No. They were just normal working class cunts. Their leader, Bob, the hairiest, ugliest and it turned out eventually nicest of them all leaned over, put his arm around me, pointed at the mug in my hands, and whispered lovingly in my ear, ‘We smeared our cocks round the rim!’

Then he turned around and farted full in my face.

Damn that tyrannical Levithian lunatic!
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Fri 6 Sep 2013, 14:07, 5 replies)

shut up

( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Fri 6 Sep 2013, 14:34, closed)

I like this

(Brigadier an old boot sitting on a man's face - forever, Fri 6 Sep 2013, 14:52, closed)

i also like this

(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Fri 6 Sep 2013, 15:01, closed)

Fuck me
Have you hurt your fingers or something? It's not 5000 words long

For once I read it...quite good
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Fri 6 Sep 2013, 16:12, closed)

I read this. Which is possibly a first.

( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Fri 6 Sep 2013, 17:11, closed)