I was traipsing around skips last night looking for some good scum-humping action. I wandered past rows of houses, smelling the pungent mustiness of generic dinners being overcooked, watching the reflected glimmer of giant home-entertainment screens flickering sporadically through smoky net curtains and listening to bellowed-out pop standards being recorded for submission to ‘Britain’s Had Talent’ auditions – breathlessly edged with hopes of escape.
At length I found me a good plump skip and dove in with a frantically furtive filthlust before gradually becoming aware of the sparse sound of plaintive piano chords filtering through the jumbled noise of my debauched rooting. The wistful, open harmonies drifted fitfully to my ears as if the notes were diffusing through the still air like the filigree whorling of a drop of ink spreading through a glass of water. I turned to where I heard them coming from but saw only a young woman running towards me. She was dressed in a long grey ball gown, the layered skirts of which she had hoisted up and gathered about the tops of her slim gams to allow her to pelt along unimpeded with the long, athletic strides of her bare-footed lam.
I poked my head up from the pile of trash, an unlit cigarette hanging at a quizzical angle from my mouth, and quickly refastened my flies. Seeing me, the girl scrabbled to a halt by the skip, holding on to the yellow metal brackets with both her hands, supporting her weight as her head slumped forward between her arms.
“Do you...” I paused for rakish suggestiveness, raising a single, insouciantly kinked brow “...scum hump?”
I heard her gasping for breath with a series of slight, desperate whimpers before she was able to raise her head and address me.
“Run!” she said, “run!” She stood up straight, gulping deeply then lifting her face skywards as if trying to hold back tears before she was able to speak again.
“The grotty people have started to eat the lovely people,” she stammered.
“Hmm, that could explain a lot…” I mused.
“For so long they watched and mutely scrutinised," she said. "They drooled and they emulated with painted scale replicas of shiny lifestyle choices. But now creditfeast has finished and they still want more. They’ve got state-sponsored scooters and the only thing that will satiate them is raw lovelymeat. The grots are eating the shinies! The grots are eating the shinies!” Her brow furrowed in profundity. “They like to eat them in cars and bars and sometimes jars.”
At that moment, a crowd rounded the wall at the end of our alley. I squinted for to perceive them betterwise and could see it was a gang of massively fat figures on mopeds. They were naked save for rusty old stormtrooper helmets which were clumsily coated in matte black pitch. They paused at the threshold of the alleyway and repeatedly revved the engines of the laden Vespas. Through the choking clouds of ochre two-stroke smoke, I could see the sheen of their sweaty round faces, smeared with ritualistic symbols drawn in dried skinnyblood… I saw the rolling reams of their bare midriffs, undulating hypnotically in standing waves from the vibrations of the engines beneath them… I saw their wide, gelatinous white thighs oozing over the labouring frames of the scooters… I saw the flaccid wobbling of the mottled slabs of peoplemeat hanging from their pasty dimpled arm-flanges… I saw their incongruously gaunt pudenda flapping like floundering catches on the reverberating sweat-stained faux-suede saddles…
And I could see that each had skin covered in cerise lattices of suppurating scratches and bites.
They edged closer to the entrance of the alley. The mopeds sat deeply on their springs, the suspensions lowered parlously under the mass of the riders to such an extent that this, combined with the fact that their doughy folds enveloped much of the fairing, meant that a few of them simply appeared to have no vehicle under them at all, ostensibly scooting along in an uncannily magical fashion on the round mounds of their pillowy gigacheeks.
The lead rider stopped and surveyed the alleyway before him, grinning with a wide open mouth as he saw the girl and me. Then he reached up to a strap on his helmet and pulled down a red plastic whirling-wheel-whistle. He placed it to his lips and blew long and hard. “Fffpppppwweeeeeeehhhhhhh!” it went, the sharp pitch cheerfully rising then fading as the little plastic wheel spooling inside slowed to a halt in its spittle-sprayed bearings.
“Because we deserve it!” the fearsome pack echoed as one in a predatory cry of bloodlust, gunning their throttles fully open. In their turn, the mopeds cried out too, the engines screaming with torquepain as the fuel flooded through their carburettors to launch themselves forward. And forward they lurched. Slowly, under the immense loads, slowly but inexorably, they accelerated forward, each rider wobbling the front wheel in jerky corrections, padding along frantically with bare puffy feet until enough momentum stabilised their awful progress.
The girl watched them as they approached then abruptly turned to look at me with a new and suddenly defiant fire in her eyes. Calmly, deliberately, and continually maintaining electric eye contact with me, she dropped an elaborate curtsy.
“Are you ready for this new game?” she growled in a low voice.
Then, with an exultant gleam, she reached up to the tightly wound tower of her uptied hair and cast loose her braided chestnut locks to fall about her honeyed shoulders.
I watched and thought they looked like lustrous fine strands of melted chocolate drizzled over voluptuously swollen swirls of thickly whipped caramel.
Then, with a single vigorous flourish, she ripped off the lengths of her frock skirts, tearing them away up to her thighs to enable her to run freely.
I watched and felt a palpable squirt of saliva eject against the roof of my mouth.
Maddeningly languid, she unfurled an arm in an arabesque series of mimed curlicues and ran her tongue along it in one smooth movement from the top of her shoulder to the tips of her fingers. She tipped her head back and I saw her upturned eyes quiver with pleasure under half-closed, iridescently made-up eyelids. “Mm-uh…” she shuddered, “that's going to taste good.”
She took a step towards me and swept away a silky slice of hair to present to me an unadorned morsel of succulent neck and shoulder. I closed my eyes and leaned forward to taste as taste can the cloud of volatile molecules suffusing the air that coated her skin. It tasted coolly bitter like a fizzing mist of gin and tonic bubbles and warmly salty like sleeping skin. It tasted smoothly sweet like thickly mixed gateau batter and sharply sour like the memory of breakfast milk.
“Are you ready for this new game?” she asked again, her lips so close to my ear, I could feel the air that they moved.
With an impulse doubly strengthened by its future shame deferred, I pitched forward, opening wide my mouth to savagely take the biggest bite I could. But my teeth came down jarringly only on themselves. I tried to open my eyes but they would do so only slowly, a long drawn-out blink lasting an age with the deafening rush of loudblood in my ears. Eventually, when they opened, she had gone.
I blinked again, my eyelids once more closing at glacial pace while the roaring whoosh of brainboom crashed immense in my head. When they re-opened at last, the world was blurred, my vision distorted by speed. Because I deserve it… because I deserve it… I remember thinking. I could feel the rush of air against my naked flesh, the hot metal of machinery revoluting painfully between my legs. I looked down to see what I was astride and felt the shifting weight of something heavy on my head. I could see the fairing, the polished mirrors, the faux-suede… before I slo-mo blinked again with dream-like torpidity.
When my eyes opened next, I saw that I was lying in the skip. Sticky trails of frothy red and yellow gunge ran down the front of my shirt and trousers. They were thick and crusty as though I had spewed them slowly and gradually from my mouth and they looked like raw, semi-digested chunks of deliquesced flesh-meat and mucus.
To be honest, I think I must have just humped some bad scum. I’ve heard if it’s cut bad it can send you a bit doolally tap and muster up some bad trip crap. Remember that last time I humped some bad scum and thought I was a martingalean organ of Westphalia? Guess the Southern Fried Animal Fats I had for lunch must have got vommed up with aplomb, too. I really need to kick this scum humping habit, I know. Anyway, again dangerous visions, it seems. I don’t think the grotty people can really have started to eat the lovely people.
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