CONTENTS      LAST VINEGAR STROKE     DOORKNOBS     ROCK MAGIC     FROM THE CHANCERY ARCHIVES OF KING HENRY V     A POCKETKNIFE AND A CIVIL UNION     EVEN YOU CAN BE A WINNER!     AUTHORS

       "Gotcha now mate," Scarface sneered, as he waved the photograph triumphantly in front of the prisoners nose, "What you got to say now hey?"
       He answered them with a yawn; this was the third time he'd been caught. Only this time the security guard, had had his Polaroid at the ready. Caught him in the act, like the Paparazzi.
       Longchin, glanced at him via the rear view mirror, "Filthy beast," he swore, "Chopping off your balls is too good for the likes of you," he paused to growl at the prisoner in the rear view mirror showing his yellow stained teeth, "Hey Dan."
       "Oowh... D'no mate," Scarface winced as he stroked tenderly over his trouser crotch, "Glad its not my little man Brian. How bout you mate."
       "Too late for me," Longchin mumbled, "Her indoors put me straight."
       "Bit of a lad then were you Brian. Like our mate back there then, hey?" Scarface joked, though Longchin was not amused in the slightest, as he accelerated harder, making the engine scream through each gear.
       "Oowh, hit a nerve I think," Scarface tried to humour him.
       "The navy," Longchin hissed, "Wouldn't have made me do it otherwise."
       "Nuf said Brian mate."
       The prisoner dry coughed as he listened to the two men, they hadn't even given him a drink of water. He knew he'd blown it, and yet for some reason, deep down, he just didn't seem to care anymore. He was a sex addict, and couldn't help the way he felt inside. Burning desire which fired his loins, and led him towards the quick fix he needed.
       With a long tiresome sigh he let himself lie down on the thin grubby mattress and let his eyelids close listening to the monotonous sound of the engine. It was all too much for him, maybe when he opened them again he wouldn't even be here. Maybe he would wake up in his own bed instead; then all of it would have been nothing but a bad dream. Leaving him free once more to follow his natural instincts.
       He had no idea how long he'd twitched and drifted in that fitful sleep when he was awoken by a series of sudden jolts, as the transit turned off from the main road and bounced its way over a mud track littered with potholes.
       His anticipation grew worse with every meter of the slow journey. One which seemed to take for ever, until the transit finally lurched to a halt with a squeak of brakes.
       A longer moment, as he watched Scarface smoke a cigarette, and listened to Longchin take orders from his boss via his radio; his head turned toward the farmhouse, as he nodded with each affirmation.
       Then at last the moment came, as the two men farted and belched, climbed out of the transit, and strolled behind it.
       He blinked madly at the torchlight which blinded his sore eyes as the transit's rear doors clicked opened; his night vision slowly returning, until he could make out the two men framed there in the opening: Scarface — a square stub of a man — cracking his fingers. Longchin — resembling a wiry scarecrow — sneering again, a pole held in his hands at the ready.
       He dry retched and knew he was too weak with exhaustion to fight back, as they made their cautious approach.
       And then pounced on him.
       Clinging to the mattress, as it slid out with him onto the road, whilst his captors continued to pull him unceremoniously forward, towards the front door of the dimly lit farmhouse house, his legs dragging in the wet grass behind him.
       The door opened, and he began to cough harder, hoping for mercy. Not wanting to meet the stern eyes of the elderly General.
       "Bloody hell," the elderly General fumed, his face growing red with anger, and his moustache twitching uncomfortably at the sight before his eyes, "I bloody well told you didn't I."
       "Must've jumped over a eight foot fence to get at her, sir." Longchin reckoned, "Ms. Mandrake, says best to get him sorted or she'll see to it he's put down."
       "Oh my word, Ben," there was gravity in his voice, as his handlebar suddenly drooped at the corners, and he crouched down level with his dog, "Poor sod."
       "Here's proof sir, see for yourself," Scarface said, as he shook his head solemnly, and handed the man the Polaroid snapshot.
       "Well I?" the elderly General began haltingly as he stood up to study the picture of his collie-cross mounting a prize show poodle in the middle of the manicured grounds which surrounded the nearby show kennels, unable to hide a chuckle of amusement as he pretended to clear his throat instead, "Only one thing for it then I suppose," he sighed, and regarded the two men with a look of pity as Ben whimpered, "Off with his furry balls."
       "Take it from me sir, it don't hurt," Longchin enlightened him, as he loosened the hoop collar with a twist of the pole and allowed Ben to slink, back inside the warm farmhouse, where water and meat awaited him in two bowls with his name on. His tail tucked tightly between his legs, covering the most threatened part of his canine anatomy.
       "Can't leave babies in every port," Scarface added.
       "Sorry," the elderly General asked, "I don't think I get your meaning."
       "Ignore him, sir," Longchin advised; "A bit touched you know," he finished pointing at his head and making the loco sign.
       "I see."
       "Yes sir, Just a quick snip sir, and it's all over."

Copyright 2006 by Jon Brown