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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..

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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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Penetralia has been released.

November 29, 2012

 

 

Jordan Krall’s long-awaited ‘Penetralia’ is finally upon us!

Many Legume readers will be familiar with Krall’s (increasingly prolific) output along with the development of his style. Krall made a name for himself with a number of Bizarro books released via Eraserhead Press. His early books, while possessing the unmistakable ‘Krall vibe’, were (for want of a better term) traditional Bizarro and relied on high concepts. With the release of ‘Beyond the Valley of the Apocalypse Donkeys’ on Copeland Valley in 2011, a new Krall emerged. While no less weird than his overtly Bizarro releases, this new style took place in a more recognisable world and explored human psychology in a deeply uncomfortable way. This is the trajectory Krall has maintained and refined throughout each book since.

Penetralia may be Krall’s darkest book to date. Using the cult films of Andy Milligan as inspiration, the world depicted in ‘Penetralia’ is a deeply disturbing book that won’t soon be forgotten. Krall is becoming a modern day Barry Malzberg and J.G Ballard, and it is a pleasure to be a part of this journey.

The stunning cover art was provided by LegumeMan favourite artist, Andrew Gallacher.

Blurbage:

In the attic of his family home, Philip tortures abducted men in search of enlightenment. Using the knowledge left by his father, the Plague Doctor, he seeks to unlock the secrets of the universe, but weakness of the flesh won’t be ignored. The sordid overtures of his nymphomaniac sister, combined with his own perverse desires, soil his subjects before revelation can be found.

Now the return of Philip’s father is imminent. Judgment is at hand, and if the fate of his mother taught him anything, it’s that one mustn’t disappoint the Plague Doctor.

You can pick yourself up a copy of Penetralia from…

Print:
AmazonLegumeShop
eBook:
Kindle Smashwords
Let the Night be,
The Brothers Gunther.

 

Tribute

October 25, 2012

It has been an exhausting eight years in the making but we’ve finally completed our tribute to the sorely missed Rodney Dangerfield. Remember the magic. Always.

 

Let the Night Be,
The Brothers Gunther

New Release

October 9, 2012

Greetings followers of legume.

It’s been a bit of a spell between drinks, but we are more than pleased to announce that LegumeMan’s latest release has been unleashed upon the word.

TV Snorted My Brain by Bradley Sands is now available at all the usual haunts.

Sporting awesome cover art by the very talented Pierre Lloga this fantastic tale is guaranteed to bring prosperity to the life of all who read it. Click on the artwork to find all the details.

 

Merlin’s Curse Part 5.

September 16, 2012

Earlier parts can be found here

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4) Evil is Unleashed

Even the cannibal perched beyond the vomit-spattered window seemed impressed by the sheer determination Flaps showed while he dragged his pubic-hair brush to and fro, smearing pure evil across the feature wall.

Although waves of cramps and an ominous gurgling in his belly assailed him at every turn, Flaps painted on. Through the cold sweats, the gassy eruptions, the hideous bowel movements, the projectile vomits, he painted, staring down the hardships he faced by forcing the same pleasing mental scenario through his head. He pictured the first guest arriving. Pictured their pert and perfect lips forming that perfect question, so what colour have you chosen? He replayed his reply a thousand times in his mind, seeking the perfect tenor, the perfect pitch, just the right enunciation. And in every replay of his mental scenario, his stance only got more and more dramatic until it resembled less an action and more an overlay of all Shakespearian plays. He’d made a lot of sacrifices already –- not least the shaving of his pubes to construct a new brush after Mrs Nub had eaten all the bought ones in a last ditch effort to halt him -– and despite the pain that infused him to the very core of his being, Flaps was determined to finish.

Time had become a vague concept. He had no idea how long ago he’d levered the lid from the tin and the hideous hue had been revealed, only that the effects had been strong and immediate. As it had been revealed, it had been like the face of death itself, all pestilent and rotting, had reared up at him from inside the tin, triggering a fart of such thunderous dimensions it rendered his pants but a distant memory. The effect on Mrs Nub was even more impressive. With a gurgling scream, the twin eruptions from either end of her anatomy had sent her rocketing like a pinwheel through the flat. She’d knocked over furniture and shattered his statuettes of Meatloaf, all the while hosing the walls, the furniture, the windows and the roof with her pungent effluence. Briefly recovered from his own discomfort, Flaps had been overwhelmed with concern for his elaborately framed collection of spatulas that held pride of place on the kitchen wall. Fortunately before the swath of destruction reached them, Mrs Nub unleashed a further eruption of thunderous dimensions and, trailing a greenish-brown, gaseous vapour cloud, propelled herself across the room and smashed through the kitchen window to land in their small rear courtyard.

Flaps assumed she was still out there now. An occasional whimper from that general direction caught his ear but he didn’t dare stop painting to check if she was alright. If he halted now he was pretty certain he would not have the strength take up his brush again.

He’d already nearly stopped twice and almost certainly would have if it wasn’t for the kind gestures of the cannibal at the window, admiring his determination — although Flaps was also fairly certain a ruse might be in play there. The man eyed his hairless balls with a little too much relish for his taste, as though he merely used his admiration as camouflage to reconnoitre a possible haunch sweetener. But even knowing that, Flaps still couldn’t bring himself to let him down and even added an extra layer of determination to his already encased in determination features, solely for the cannibal’s benefit.

You’re so close to finishing, he kept telling himself. There was but a thin swath of the wall left unsoiled and even that was disappearing beneath the curly bristles of his brush. The cheery, well-proportioned cock and balls he scrawled in a failed attempt to bring some levity to the situation was nearly completely obscured now.

Think of the majesty! He buoyed up his flagging spirits. What does it matter if the back of your thighs are caked in excrement? Or that it feels like someone’s flossed your sphincter with razor wire? Soon the feature wall will be complete and then the people will come. Come to pay homage to the sheer coolness of the paint colour. The thought brought a vomit-dribbling smile to his lips. He’d already constructed a fairly snazzy “Homage Box” (he’d used both stickers and glitter) to store their kind words in and he fully expected it to be brimming and overfull by nightfall.

And then Mrs Nub would see, Flaps reassured himself. She’ll see how worthwhile this has all been. He knew his homage box would shortly be a sight to rival the wonders of the store-keep’s rectal vault and as the last strokes completed the abominable tapestry on his wall, Flaps let his dreams run wild.

Then it’ll only be a matter of time until people start arriving to pay homage to the homage box…

* * * * *

When he was finally done, the matte finish, unbroken for the length of the wall just seemed to amplify the effect. For a second his earlier resolve wavered in front of the sheer vileness of the finished product. It was ungodly. It was an orchestra of erupting pimples and infected sores. It was rivers of pus, full of viscous little lumpy treats, running down a funnel directly into his maw. It was the hacked flesh of grandmas, pulped down and administered enema style to a giraffe and then expelled straight into his eyeballs. It was acid thrown over a maternity ward for venereal infected babies. It was…

Gagging and panting, Flaps turned away from his handiwork, unable to bear the sight of it anymore. His stomach, bowels, even his throat seemed to rumble with a force that suggested deadly consequences if not relieved as he crawled towards the door in search of Mrs Nub. Despite his best efforts to clench, he left a thick, snail-like trail of sludgy muck behind him.

* * * * *

He found Mrs Nub twitching on the cobble stones outside and, ignoring the filth that pooled around her, squelched his way into her embrace. For the longest time, they just held each other as they stared off, glassy-eyed into the distance, each lost inside their own personal horror.

NEXT TIME: Of Failed Lamingtons and Fearsome Machines

Merlin’s Curse Part 4.

September 5, 2012

4th installment. Previous installments can be found here.

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3) The Sad Tale of the Semenal Skylarker and Cosmic Bang.

Flaps felt like a lifetime had passed before he finally slithered free of the store-keep and hit the floor in a hearty splatter of bowel butter. For a moment he stayed there, dazed, his mind still trying to process the wonders he’d seen on his Dantean voyage into the depths of the rectal vault. He was barely even aware of the paint tin clasped in his hand as his mind replayed it all. The smeared man leading the way down the exquisite marbled corridors. Then across the stinking quagmires with their noxious fumes and voices singing up to them from the depths. Then from there the descent down the seemingly endless spiral staircase until at long last they emerged into the paradise the smeared man had called the celestial plains.

From his position on the floor, Flaps grinned exuberantly at the memory. The glowing orbs spun gracefully in his mind, their luminous surfaces humming with a power that had truly made him realise how insignificant a man he was as he stood beneath them, watching universes rise and collapse across the blackness beyond.

‘What is this place?’ he’d asked his guide in a breathless whisper.

‘He didn’t tell you the story then?’  The man had briefly disappeared into a nearby cellar and then reappeared by his side, a can of paint in hand.

‘No he did not,’ Flaps murmured, unable to take his eyes off the cosmic fireworks above.

‘I’m not surprised. It is a sad, sad tale and one he is not in the habit of repeating.’ The smeared-man leant on his meringue spear and held out the can of paint. ‘Here is your paint.’

Flaps took it, barely glancing at the emblazoned Merlin’s Curse on its side.

‘Is this heaven?’ Flaps could detect the faint strains of music beneath the hum of the spheres, a choral arrangement that forced tears of beauty to his eyes.

Beside him the smeared-man chuckled.

‘No not heaven.’

‘Then what?’

The smeared man continued his chuckles and despite the sheer beauty of his surroundings, Flaps wanted to kick him in at least one of his dicks.

‘I thought you were in a hurry to buy your paint and be gone. Are you certain you have time for this story.’

But in the face of  such cosmic harmony, Flaps’ concerns about Mrs Nub’s ill-proportioned graffiti had suddenly seemed so petty. He’d nodded, still peering up in wonder at the glory above. The smeared-man had then leaned deeper into his spear and after a pronounced whetting of his lips, begun his story.

Now as he lay dazed, watching the store-keep raise his trousers and set about reengaging his elaborate buckle, Flaps replayed the tale in his mind, new respect shining in his eyes as he studied the man’s elaborately moustachioed face…

‘I’m not certain how familiar you are with homosexual pornography,’ his guide had started. ‘But this is a tale of two of its greats, The Semenal Skylarker and the legendary Cosmic Bang.

‘There was a time the both were house-hold names. The man you know as the store-keep, under the guise of the Skylarker, was the prince of the porn world. A man who bowed to no-one. Well no one except the king himself. He of the rumoured celestial cock. The inimitable Cosmic Bang. But this story begins long before that. Long before the Skylarker’s irreverent post-ejaculation cum puppet shows made him a house-hold name. No, Mrs Zanzibar and the Whoopsie Twins were but a twinkle in the Skylarker’s subconscious when he first laid eyes on Cosmic Bang.

‘A humble fluffer at the time, the Skylarker first crossed paths with Bang on the set of the third instalment in the critically lauded series, Make Love the Cosmic Way. For him, at least, it was love at first sight. He knew the instant he took Bang’s flaccid wang into his mouth and felt its power hum to life that he’d found his soul mate.

‘Unfortunately it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence and many a fluffer before him had gone down the same route. For you see Bang, despite his already legendary status, was something of an enigma in the porn world. Theories abounded about his origins. That he was the offspring of a three-way between god, a seraphim and a moon-lit vista. Or an alien sent to us by a race appalled by our poor standard of all male-erotica. Others just claimed that he had always been. But whatever school of thought you adhered to, it was undeniable that there was  something special about him and his celestial wang – the tales of how it would glow with the fires of new-born galaxies as he approached orgasm; the glittering starlight that was rumoured to infuse his ejaculate.

‘Whatever it was, the Skylarker, like so many before, sensed it and from that point his fate was sealed. Unlike the fluffers before him, he wasn’t put off by Cosmic Bang’s disdainful rejections. Instead he began work on a plan to make Bang his very own.

‘That very night he started on the piece that would eventually come to be recognised as the single greatest porn script of all time. But when he first put pen to paper, it wasn’t the accolades of his peers the Skylarker was seeking. It was the love of Cosmic Bang. He was certain that Bang would not be able to resist the perfection of his script. In his mind, the Skylarker had already cast himself as the nuclear physicist who would play the supporting role to Bang’s janitor in Bang in the Physicist, the title of his masterpiece.

‘It quickly became his obsession and even after his own meteoric rise to fame – when a producer had spotted him trying to cheer a young star who had messed a little too soon with an early prototype of his “Not in me Gulliver, Darling” sketch – the Skylarker worked on it day and night, honing it and honing it until it gleamed pure perfection.

‘Years passed until he was satisfied and in this time his unrequited love only grew. When he finally presented the script to Bang, it was as he suspected. The man couldn’t refuse. Production began immediately and things progressed smoothly until the last day of shooting when they were due to film Bang’s final scene. It was to be of Bang, a lowly janitor, finally succumbing to his desires and making love to the nuclear physicist right on top of the reactor core, just after they successfully foiled a terrorist plot against the power plant. The scene was to be the emotional focal point of the film. It would show that even severe radiation burns couldn’t quell their passion and was to lead directly into the coda of the pair as elderly men, still making love while the radiation sickness deteriorated their bodies.

‘But there was a horrible mishap during that last scene of filming.

‘Just as the scene reached its climax – with Cosmic Bang jack-hammering deep, crowing about how he was hitting the vinegar stroke – he began to spasm. Witnesses to the event describe a strange aura that surrounded his body. A glowing nimbus described as simultaneously beautiful and terrifying. Whatever the changes he underwent were, they clearly exceeded human comprehension. They culminated in a spectacle that melted the brains of 24 of the gaffers who were on set that day. With a cry of, “Here comes the motherload”, Cosmic Bang ejaculated himself through the eye of his own penis, deep into the Skylarker’s bowels.

‘And the result of that event is what you see before you today. This perfection that is buried deep inside a store-keep’s trousers.

‘No one is truly certain what happened on set that fateful day. In the years since, many theories have been put forth but personally I like to believe the one that gained popularity in the immediate months following the incident. That Cosmic Bang was in fact a cursed being, forbidden from loving anyone for fear of unleashing the power of his loins. I like to think that was why he was originally so stand-offish to the Skylarker and that, right at the end, he realised he truly did love the man and sacrificed himself to enjoy that love for just one blissful moment. It’s somehow more romantic than the theory it was an allergic reaction to the make-up they were using to simulate radiation burns.

‘But whatever you believe, this vista before you is the result and its inception also proved to be the Skylarker’s undoing. For the thing he found most beautiful in the world was now trapped inside himself, locked away in a place where he could not follow. In the aftermath he couldn’t help blaming himself for it all. He had, after all, written the script that had doomed his lover. After Bang’s death, the Skylarker’s puppet shows just lost their verve. He had a brief dalliance with a production company attempting to get an “internal furniture” fetish off the ground but it only had mild success in Japan. Finally he dropped out of porn, grew his whiskers and instead pursued a career in the paint industry…’

The words of the smeared man faded from Flaps’ mind and he looked up to see the Store-keep leaning over him, holding out a hand to help him to his feet.

‘I have seen wonders!’ Flaps announced as the Store-keep levered him up. ‘Such wonders!’

‘I know… I know…’ The Store-keep’s voice emerged as a choked whisper. A single solitary tear snaked through the orgy on the man’s lip.

Flaps shook his head to clear his own emotion and saw that the ‘keep hadn’t been idle while he’d sojourned through his bowels. The man stepped back around behind a sparkling, brand new meringue desk.

With gusto Flaps slapped the gooey tin he’d emerged with onto the new counter. He felt a little bad at the cracks that snaked out from it in the aftermath but the store-keep didn’t even seem to notice. The man wiped the tear away from his moustache, a thousand yard stare in his eyes while he ran a finger gently round the rim of the paint tin.

Finally he spoke.

‘Merlin’s curse. That’ll be a tuppence and a dash of the happy slap.’

Next time: Evil is unleashed!

Merlin’s Curse Part 3.

August 27, 2012

Previous installments can be found here.

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2) The Rectal Vault

‘Are you quite certain this is the paint you want to buy?’ the store-keep gurgled through a mouthful of vomit while staring aghast at the sample card that Flaps had handed him.

‘Yes, yes,’ Flaps muttered, still slightly dazed by the majesty of the ‘keep’s moustache that had been revealed once he’d finally managed to locate the meringue service desk. It made the window man’s appear to be sculpted by a halfwit in comparison. The figures that twined in orgy across the man’s top lip would have done justice to the temples in Khajuraho. Every act of intercourse was catered for, every hairy orifice was plundered. It even included a mind-boggling donkey-show in the right-hand corner that Flaps considered worth the price of admission alone. ‘Can I please have my paint now?’

The Store-keep did seem genuinely concerned as he safely turned the sample card face-down on the meringue desk and wiped beaded sweat from his forehead.

‘If you paint with this people will not like you.’

Flaps brow started to furrow but when the ‘keep gave a little chin wobble he couldn’t maintain his scowl. The moustache erupted in glorious, hirsute ejaculation and suddenly the urge to paint on cave walls gripped Flaps. Sometimes, he thought, beauty just needs to be captured.

‘If you are certain then.’ The keep finally acquiesced and stepped back from his desk to fumble with one of the more intricate belt-buckles Flaps had seen. ‘I am however legally and morally bound to read you the following prepared statement.’ His fingers flitted across the various dials and buttons lining the brass buckle then went to work on the hand crank on the side. After a blur of activity, he flicked the large red switch on the top and, with a hiss of escaping steam, the smell of boysenberries wafted through the air. ‘Merlin’s curse is not recommended for purchase by this store. Despite its undeniably cool name it has been proven in three different medical trials to cause nausea, vomiting, stabbing pains, internal bleeding, explosive diarrhoea, a low red blood cell count, a general feeling of unwholesomeness and in cases of extended exposure, rectal prolapse.’

The store-keep paused, his hand on the ripcord of his belt-buckle. ‘I ask you again sir, are you certain you wish to make this purchase?’

Flaps’ nod was so steadfast and unwavering that its sheer solemness shattered the meringue desk.

‘Fine.’ With a rueful glance at his ruined desk, the keep yanked the cord and his pants descended in a shower of escaping doves. Confusion on Flaps’ part led to a stray thought of bagels to which the store-keep provided the cream cheese with his explanation.

‘Merlin’s curse is far too dangerous for storage in our usual warehouse. We only tried that once and we’re still yet to get its rectum back in. And we even used sturdier poles than this.’ The Store-keep brandished a large barge pole he retrieved from the shattered rubble of his desk for emphasis. He then turned and presented his buttocks and Flaps gasped in amazement. If Flaps had likened the man’s facial moustache to the Karma Sutra – which on later reflection, he realised he hadn’t – then the man’s rectal one was Sodom and Gomorrah re-enacted for the modern age. ‘No the only safe place to keep it away from prying little fingers is the good old rectal vault, so I am afraid you’ll have to retrieve it yourself. The act of me setting foot in there would trigger a paradox of such cosmic proportions that… well let’s just say proportionately geese would have the upper hand if you get my drift.’

Flaps was pretty certain he didn’t and in fact hated the man for soiling his bagel.

‘Is this going to take long?’ Flaps finally broke the awkward silence that ensued as the store-keep began to lovingly caress his buttocks, carefully separating the vista of carnal delights with a muttered apology to the participants. Flaps could feel their accusing, hairy eyeballs on him and had to resist the urge to splutter, well it’s not my fault he keeps the damn paint in his rectal vault.

‘Be ready in a jiffy… There we go.’

A final caress parted the last of the follicles, revealing a large pucker about the size of Flap’s clenched fist. Flaps found its appearance distasteful in the extreme but before he could complain the Store-keep had wormed his fingers in and eased it apart.

It yawned into a gaping chasm before Flap’s eyes, growing until it was the size of his head, then the size of his torso. The corded muscles in the store-keep’s arms jumped and bobbed due to the strain and a puddle formed at his feet as his pores unleashed sweaty flash-floods. The hole kept growing and growing until Flaps was presented with a fleshy cavern about the right size to admit a midget. A hymen-like membrane was barely visible in its depths, faintly back-lit by an eldritch glow that glittered off a thick layer of mucus  .

‘Now you’ll want a running start to break the membrane.’ The store-keep’s voice wavered with strain.

Obediently Flaps paced one out, looking back in concern at his peaked buttocks and sending out a silent prayer that they wouldn’t chafe too badly upon entry.

He moved with the slick grace of a torpedo in his mind, executing a smooth run-up and a sleek lengthening into a perfect dive. The reality was far less graceful and it was a bruised and battered Flaps that burst through the membrane, blood seeping from every orifice, the howls of the store-keep’s agony ringing in his ears. He tumbled forward until he wedged tight in the narrow, pulsating passage and was forced into a serpent-like slither to progress along its slimy walls. As he clambered forward, Flaps could feel the muscles in the fleshy wall gripping him tightly and the first doubts began to creep in. Is it really worth it?

He only had to thin Mer… and he knew without doubt it was.

At least someone’s made an effort to cheer the place up, Flaps thought feeling grateful for the warm glow cast by the fairy-lights pegged down the length of the sombre tunnel. Despite the clear faecal matter that streaked the fleshy walls, the only smell that assailed his nostrils was the becoming one of boysenberry. Flaps made a note to ask the store-keep the trick behind this – in his mind he pictured the most joyful larking with fruit-salad farts.

After a decent smearing, Flaps, feeling thoroughly unclean and more than a little aroused, pushed through another membrane and the tunnel opened up into a wide chamber with a dainty cobble-stone path leading to a door at the far end. The chamber was lit by an elaborate chandelier whose ostentatiousness immediately had Flaps planning his accusation of showboating when next he saw the store-keep.

He was halfway through wording the first line when a segment of the fleshy wall suddenly separated and lunged at him, brandishing a spear.

His life flashed before his eyes in a series of awkwardly told fart jokes but just when death appeared to be upon him, the spear’s wickering path halted a bare centimetre from his shoulder gland.

‘Sorry,’ an urgent voice whispered. ‘I thought you were one of them. They’re on the march you know.’

Flaps took side-long glances to new heights with the one he cast upon the interloper. He was undecided as to whether it pleased him that the section of wall was in fact a man like himself, only smeared head to toe in brown sludge.

‘I never thought I’d see the day!’ The man began to gibber with excitement. ‘You’re here for the paint aren’t you? Yes surely you are. No series of wrong turns, no matter how complex could have brought you here otherwise. No, the store-keep pants are cinched far too tight for that sort of caper…’

The smeared man saw Flaps skittering glances towards the spear and did a double take as though he himself had just realised he held it.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just they are on the march again.’ The man yanked the spear away and began sucking its tip like a lollipop. ‘But they won’t catch me off guard again. This used to be my desk but I whittled it down after the first attack. It’s only meringue but it does provide ample pricking capabilities. Of course now I am unable to requisition any food as I have no desk on which to fill in the forms and am thus reduced to eating my only form of defence but I have no regrets. A lick a day and this puppy will still last me a near lifetime.’

Flaps found himself ruminating on how long the man had been locked down here. It only took him a second to realise he really didn’t care. Procuring his choice of paint was taking fair longer than it had any right doing and if he didn’t get it shortly there would be a good chance Mrs Nub would awaken from her induced spasm and, in all likelihood, spitefully deface his witches hats. The thought filled him with alarm. She had no concept of ratio. Her scrawled phalluses were nearly ninety percent ball.

‘I demand you give me my paint!’ Flaps panic made him abrupt but the smeared-man was already in motion, hobbling over to the door, gibbering away at Flaps over his shoulder.

‘I’ve spent a long time waiting for this day. They said I was useless to them, that no one would buy paint from a man with a ‘stache like this.’ The man jutted a finger at what looked like a preschoolers attempt to draw a vomiting donkey on his upper lip. ‘But I’ll show them. Executive paint stockman. That’s what the position description said. Never said nothing about the fact the only paint I’d be stocking would be that hideous hue… but that’s all in the past now. You’re here… you are here for the paint, aren’t you? Of course you are. My first sale…’ The smeared-man shot fawn eyes at Flaps. It was a look that intimated a mounting mightn’t be far off and as they walked, Flaps surreptitiously primed the boobie traps around his sphincter.

They paused outside the door and the smeared man retrieved a key from the wrinkled skin at his elbow.

‘You might want to brace yourself.’ He warned as he slotted it into the lock.

Next time: The Sad Tale of the Semenal Skylarker and Cosmic Bang.