Flaxen sat alone in the great hall brooding upon his great wounded testicles. His mind wandered to his beloved, violated Brynhildr, a lying in the midden pit a top of a thousand dead gypos. If only he hadn't thrown her in the pit, in the first place…….. Flaxen’s reverie was broken by a loud pounding on the great hall door. “By Thunnor, who can it be at this time?” Flaxen’s hand instinctively went to his trusty sword, ‘Arse, big fat arse biter.’ The door slowly creaked open to reveal the bedraggled, naked form of Brynhildr. Flaxen’s bowels stirred, then emptied.
Brynhildr: “Flaxen, have you missed me? The last I remember I was having a fit. Next I woke in the midden pit face down on a thousand dead gypos.”
Flaxen: “Who would have thought your past history of persistent petit mal seizures would be a presage of something more sinister.”
Brynhildr: “What is that awful smell?”
Flaxen: “What do you expect you have been lying on dead gypos for days.”
Brynhildr: “But the smell is emanating from you, my sweet.”
Flaxen: Er, sorry my beloved but the shock of seeing your beauteous form has acted as a powerful emetic.”
Brynhildr: Jeez, I've got an indomitable sore arse and fanny. Perhaps a long overdue thrust of your long staff will cure what ails me.”
Flaxen: “Er, yes my sweet. Though dare I venture to suggest that before our congress, you take a trip to the physic for a heavy douche with industrial strength Domestos and a light scouring of your love bucket with a wire brush?”
Brynhildr: “O Flaxen, you incurable romantic. I will do your bidding and be but a thrice. Wait for me Flaxen.”
The great door of the great hall slammed shut behind the excited and probably infected Brynhildr.
Flaxen: “O fuck.”
To be continued….
I had to research that.
For shame! A product from that Anglo–Dutch multinational consumer goods company that is ruining my homeland, and most of South East Asian, by clear-cutting the rainforest and planting a monoculture of oil-palms?
Fuck the planet!
".......your beauteous form has acted as a powerful emetic......."
Stop stealing my words, you plagiarising cunt. I reckon before you met me, your dross resembled this:
See Jane run.
Run Jane run.
See Dick run.
Run faster Jane.
Sir, I hope you are not still on the boat. Are there not savage and delightfully simple natives to be exploited?ReplyDelete
After a while, ravaging the native wenches just become so tediously repetitive...ReplyDelete
Time for another flagon of mead, I think.