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Merlin’s Curse Part 6

November 30, 2012

The latest installment has arrived. To catch up on the story to date gohere..


5) Of Failed Lamingtons and Fearsome Machines

It took a sizeable portion of inner thigh (not to mention far more fore-skin than Flaps would have liked to part with) but he finally convinced the cannibal to clean the flat for him while he baked a nice bunch of lamingtons to lure Mrs Nub back inside. Regrettably though, he’d also stooped to using a ruse: the promise that there’d be the odd bit of innard in the waste that coated the flat. Because of this, as he’d stirred his batter, Flaps had been distracted. He’d kept peeking across at the cannibal, dreading that the man would discover his subterfuge and, as a consequence of his distraction, his lamingtons, when they finally emerged hot from the oven, were not of the calibre a man of his training would have hoped for. Rather they appeared to have transmuted into a clear film that greatly resembled semen. He sincerely doubted their ability to lure anyone anywhere, yet alone someone showing the level of recalcitrance that Mrs Nub currently did.

With no hope of a salvage operation, he flung the failed cakes aside on the bench and, averting his eyes from the feature wall, scurried to the bedroom to seek an alternative.

Fortunately his coathanger chest sat full to the brim and, an hour later (sporting several calluses in rather unexpected regions) he emerged hauling a contraption of such non-euclidean geometries that, if it wasn’t for the rather heroic cape Flaps had fitted it with, would have threatened insanity to all who beheld it.

It was a cumbersome affair to say the least and it required an immense effort on Flaps’ part to haul it back through the flat. A least on his return he’d found that the cannibal had finished the cleaning. The man had returned to his perch beyond the window and now lay sated and curled up in sleep. Flaps knew it would only be a temporary boon. The cannibal’s appetite was insatiable and it would not be long before he roused and began his lurid gyrations anew. But at least he didn’t complain about the lack of innards in the filth, Flaps thought to himself as he hauled. Although after a moment’s reflection he wasn’t certain if that should alarm him or not. A dread grew that maybe, just maybe, he had lost just a little bit of himself during his painful evacuations.

As he wheeled his contraption toward the door he slipped his fist into his rectum and rummaged, slipping into an ungainly gait which later, in his exceedingly long-winded and universally frowned down upon biography, he would term the fistbooty boogie. Nothing really felt out of place but then it was the first time he had ever attempted to probe his (as per biography) “inner wonderland”. He still had his doubts as he pushed open the door to find Mrs Nub sprawled in a bloody pile atop a bed of shattered glass, her body caked in excrement. He couldn’t help shooting irritated glances at the slumbering cannibal, certain that he was keeping something from him.

Mrs Nub still twitched slightly and had screwed her eyes so firmly closed that the large coach bolts protruded from beneath her chin, giving the distinct impression that a vampire impersonation had gone terribly awry.

‘Come on Mrs Nub. Enough of this childishness. The deed has been done. The wall is painted. Now all we must do is sit back and await our kudos. You should see the majesty of the homage box I made.’

Mrs Nub gave no answer and Flaps felt his irritation spike.

‘Fine then. I didn’t want it to come to this but you have forced my hand, Mrs Nub. I warn you I have created a machine. A fantastic device. I now have the power to move you back into the flat even if you don’t wish me to.’ Flaps sent out a little prayer that this was true. Now that he’d had a little time for reflection and his initial creator’s chub had died down, Flaps realised he probably hadn’t applied even close to enough rubber cement on the machines joins; that indeed constructing his machine of coathangers may have been a very big mistake in the first place. He had severe misgivings as to whether its bend threshold could withstand Mrs Nub.

‘It’s a very good machine. Sturdily built,’ he continued confidently, hoping Mrs Nub wouldn’t call his bluff. He crossed his fingers, relying on her memories of the fearsome machines he’d constructed in the past to get him across the line.

Fortunately Mrs Nub’s memory did not fail him. With a shuddering hand, she levered herself to her feet and stood swaying.

“Well aren’t you the queen of the ruses today!” The screech that resounded had him looking in every which direction but he was unable to locate its source, despite his finest detecting stance and a hearty bout of world class squinting.

Instead he turned and hollered at Mrs Nub, ‘That a girl!’ He forced his voice to swell with enthusiasm even though a small part of him, despite his doubts, was saddened that his machine’s mettle wouldn’t be tested after all. Since Mrs Nub insisted on securing her lids with a second set of coach bolts before entering the flat, Flaps gratefully used the lull to attach the hooking mechanism to a passing marmot. He enjoyed a serene, blissful moment of swinging it to and fro until the strain became too much and his contraption exploded, adding a coating of shredded marmot to their already filthy frames.

Flaps turned and led Mrs Nub back into the flat.

The first thing he laid eyes on was his failed attempt at lamingtons. During his sojourn in the backyard it had somehow acquired a thin slit of a mouth topped by a bushy moustache.

‘You, governor. You, sir, are a right cunt,’ it informed him in the same very unpleasant, high-pitched screech that he’d heard mere minutes ago in the backyard.

NEXT TIME: Mrs Nub’s Prolapse

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