Tales Of The Gurrier

“‘Jesus H. Christ, would you look at them,” said Kesey, “just look at them!”

A throng of twenty or more gathered in the pool of light dribbling from an open doorway. They stood some six feet, six inches tall, in five inch heels and crotchless nurses outfits. The Alpha Female, clad in a grim covering of plastic tubing and string which struggled to contain the mighty cargo of flesh within. Gargantuan breasts heaving with an unnatural pneumaticism, eyes the colour of melon Bacardi Breezers and a pair of bruised lips the colour of smashed arseholes. Across her head were strapped a full set of deer antlers and from the wicked bone points were festooned the night’s booty. A woman’s brassier, torn and useless waved at half mast from the top most antler, prophylactics and queerly shaped marital aids hung like like offerings to ancient fertililty Gods. Here and there a pair of gentleman’s undergarments clung in shredded, bloody rags.

Around her neck The Bride sported a splintered wooden board bearing a single sigil splashed in red by a careless hand, “L”. Teeth marks gnawed a jagged tattoo along it’s edge and down one side numerous “X’s” were carved into the rude wood. In her right hand she gripped a spiked Cat o’ Nine tails. And from each spike dripped a deadly poison. In her left, a pale white handbag the size and colour of a cows belly. The Gurrier was sure he could see teats upon the lower side of the bellybag.

A phlanx of heaving, steaming wrecks of cackling womanflesh flanked the The Bride, far gone into the drink and the endgame of liver cirrhosis and kidney failure. The bodyguard sported a trio of hags chained to one another with ropy lengths of slimy entrails and catgut. At each turn in the road one would shriek out to her fearful sisters and they would bite the head off another bottle of carbonated alcohol, guzzling it loudly as the others micturated with abandon into the public highway. The steam from their outflow enshrouded the gathering in an ammonium cloud.

“FEE-FI-FO-FUM, I SMELL THE BALLS OF AN IRISHMAN!” Bellowed The Bride, her large, wet nostrils twitching in the night air.

‘Oh, Jesus we’re fucked,’ said The Gurrier, from his place of concealment.

‘Shut up, I’m trying to think,’ said Kesey, and The Bastard rummaged in his bag of Deadly Things as The Gurrier looked on in mortal terror.

Out on the street a terrible scene was unfolding. The Barbari-Hens had cornered a pair of gentlemen out for their evening perambulations.

“IRISHMAN!” rumbled The Bride, “IRISHMAN, COME TOUCH THE MIMSY!”

She reached out a long, clawed hand and fastened it, vicelike, around one of the gentleman’s ankles.

“Jaysus! Help! HELP ME MAMMY! HELP ME!” screamed the poor unfortunate as he was dragged bodily around the corner. The pitiful  screams rose into a frenzy of high pitched wailing before abruptly falling silent. “DIS ONE BROKEN, GET MORE IRISHMANMEATS!” came the rumbling voice, like a bandsaw cutting metal.

The second gentleman needed no more encouragement and attempted to flee his captors as they squabbled over the last of the bottles of green carbonated horse alcohol. But the wretched creature did not venture twelve steps before he let out a piercing scream and fell to the ground in a spasming frenzy.

Kesey elbowed The Gurrier in the ribs, “Lookit that! Poison,” he sniffed the air, “Peruvian Fat-Frog, I’ll wager. Neurotoxin, causes the bloody flux and paralytic priapism in the male of the species followed by death from brain embolism. Still, what a way to go eh!”

The Fat-Frog venom did it’s evil work and The Gurrier turned away in horror as the figure of the man disappeared beneath the frenzied mob lust of the Barbari-Hen women.

The Gurrier was noisily sick into his bag and turned a pale face to Kesey.

“We’re doomed Kesey, doomed and it’s all your fault! I never wanted to come here, but oh no, you insisted. More Beer and Loathing you said. One more time onto the merry-go-round. A ten year anniversary trawl through the fleshpots. Well what do you think of this eh, you brute? We’ve been away too long Kesey, I have no idea what’s going on anymore. Christ almighty what the hell are those things?”

Kesey leaned back against the wall and grinned. “You’re right Murphy, you’re always right about these things, but where’s your sense of adventure man? Look at these magnificent beasts. Just look at them, why each one must weigh at least two hundred pounds and three quarters of that is raw muscle. Ten years we’ve been away, yes, but my God man, think of the possibilities!”

“Possibilities? Fuck the possibilities! The probabilities are we’re going to get raped to death by gargantuan beast women or maybe they’ll simply flay off our nads and eat them!”

Kesey chuckled to himself and lit one of his filthy cigars. “Nobody sees the big picture anymore,” he said ruefully. “Really Murphy, by now you should always be looking for the bigger picture. Now, when you get to the end of the street remember to signal to Ingoldsby to drop the net after you pass through, unless of course, you want to get tangled up with our friends out there.”

The Gurrier stared at The Bastard with a slowly comprehending horror. “No, Kesey no, not them, not those out there, not again, for Gods sake man, have you no mercy!”

Then The Bastard sprayed him in the face with Lynx.

“Better get moving Murphy, that stuff really gets them going. Desperate stuff so it is, made from boiled sheep arses and rotten cheese. I think it does things to their limbic systems, pheremones and all that. Off you go,” he took a long pull on the cigar and booted The Gurrier out of the alley.

The Gurrier stumbled into the street and stood transfixed as the stench of Lynx Arsfrica Extra Horny overwhelmed his senses. The Bride caught the scent first. Nostrils flared as the metallic tang of the deodorant entered the nasal passages and chugged it’s way upwards towards the brainstem, shouldering aside the fug of alcohol and Red Bull to ignite the mating instincts.

The effect was startling. The Bride stood bolt upright, a half gnawed limb fell, forgotten, from hairy palms. She unfurled a long, crimson tipped claw,  eyes rolled back in their sockets showing pale white in the sodium streetlights.

“MANMEEEAAT STINK GOOD!!” came the strangled cry of lust and rage.

“Ah Jaysus, not again,” said The Gurrier and began to run.

This entry was posted on Sunday, January 11th, 2009 at 8:29 pm and is filed under Tales of the Gurrier. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.