And it will win a Nobel FUCKING prize. Whichever of you steals it will go on to fame and FUCKING fortune. FUCK. Anyway, it contains hookers so I figured it was appropriate for you douchebags.
FUCKING chapter one
Once upon a time, there was a princess named Iphianassa, who lived in a glorious fairytale castle in the middle of a gorgeous sequined wood, with plumed towers upon which mushroom domes were hung like clouds. The grass aroun-Wait, did I say princess? No, there was once a stripper called Claudette. Reads like the start of a limerick. Either way, she was down on her luck. Her meth addiction was driving down the price of blowjobs at an alarming rate, and it was all she could do to keep her face from turning nigger and falling off. Not least the havoc that her late night adventures wreaked with her undercarriage. Or what remained of it. And her skin was peeling worse than the wallpaper in the run-down, urine-soaked hovel in which her squatting existence manifested itself. Even her pimp was scared to beat her, in case she fell apart at the seams. He had an investment to keep. His name was Tony. Like fat Tony, except that he wasn´t fat. They used to call him fat Tony, to wind him up. I say used to, cause he shot one chap in the left testicle on a particularly windy day, and since then he´s walked bent over to the left. No one could ever really tell whether it was the wind that bent him, or the bullet/loss of a testicle. Maybe it just threw his balance. But they stopped calling Tony fat Tony. They named him WANKER instead, because he was something of a douchebag. Even for a pimp. WANKER was a douchebag among douchebags, so you can see how bad Claudette must have been in order for him to have been reluctant to hit her. I bet he did though, a couple of times. Shagged her, too. He must have. I saw his bellend, ain´t nowhere else he could have got warts like that.
Anyway. That was all a long time ago. You see, rumor has it that she was pregnant with WANKER´s child. I say rumor, it was pretty obvious really. She looked like a balloon between two rakes with a rotten melon on top. And dressed in rags soaked in rancid milk. What I mean is, it was obvious she was up the duff. The rumor was that it was WANKER´s kid. Why he´d go near that, though. I tell you. She was a minger. Had craters the size of coffee cups in the heels of both her feet, both filled with lice. That´s why she wore high heels. As well as for the sex appeal, I guess (cause goodness knows, she needed it). She really was walking on her tip-toes to avoid crushing all the filthy little maggots squirming in the bottom of her feet. Quite maternal, see? And with this baby, she had something slightly more substantial than a bunch of maggots to care about. Only slightly, though. Any baby born the size of a twenty pence piece with a meth addiction the size of a fifty is only slightly more substantial than a maggot. Claudette probably didn´t even feel the bugger wriggle out. She died, anyway. Suffered from some pretty bad diahorrea, and one day she just shat and shat until there was nothing left. Sad really. She´d had such a promising life, til she met WANKER (though in those days he was just called Tony. We´ll call him WANKER anyhow, cause he was. Even then). It was him that promised her a modelling career. This was back when such things were hard to come by, and when Claudette wasn´t a minger. It was only when she turned up for a shoot he `organised´ and found him in a deserted warehouse with a shitty camera phone that she realized something was up. He took three photos and kicked her to the ground to stick his oar in. By which I mean he raped her. Yeah, then came the protection, social blackmail, meth, whoring. Slippery slope. Ending - of course - in a puddle of diahorrea, so you could say it was slippery all the way down.
Back to the kid. Somehow the little bastard survived. Found his way at the age of three into a charity shop run by twenty horny nuns, who secretly gave each other handfuls up the cloven tuft while the customers weren´t looking. They took him in out of charity, see? Well, he stayed there for the time but he wasn´t at a loss. He had a plan. I would say he was a man with a plan, but I already kinda told you that at this point he was about three years old. More of a toddler with a plan, but quite clever for a three year old. Especially considering that he was born in a manky old hooker hovel, born the size of a slug, raised probably by other slugs. It´s amazing too, that he had any concept of a mother, considering how she´d slipped her slope long before he´d slid his. Well, I guess it must have happened at the same time. Still, he was young. But he wanted revenge from the mother fucker who´d done this to the emaciated corpse that had supposedly birthed him. Into this sticky brown stuff, from which he took his nourishment in his early years. He wanted to get that smarmy cunt back. And, while working for those twenty nuns, he got his chance.
Chapter FUCKING two
So one of the nuns was discussing finances with a business associate. By which I mean she was selling her self to the bin man. `Nun,´ here is a term used loosely. He was telling her about his other whore, blagged by this chap who was (as it goes) known by several names, but pretty generally just as a wanker. Such a wanker. The kid - we´ll call him Little Bastard - had heard enough; he grabbed the tailgate of the bin-lorry, and rode it stop-start down the street. Then he decided that it might be faster to walk. He was going to find this wanker. He managed to generate some cash income downtown, after discovering that he could easily pick up guns by waiting for nigger dudes to crash their cars and grabbing them from the wreckage while the owners were incapacitated. He kept some, but the majority were sold. The proceeds bought more guns. And some meth. Y´know. Old habits die hard, even for three-year-old arms dealers. He also began to speak to hookers, grab some dirt on the wanker. Heard tell of a junkie named Claudette, who´d died with the wanker´s child. What a wanker, he thought. Still if this kid was alive he could make an adequate side-kick. If only he could track him down...
A year. Still no news. The trail had gone cold. Nowadays, pimps kept their bitches tight, none would talk. Chattin shit was worth a cigarette in the eye, and no whore could pull with an empty socket. No takers meant no dosh, and further beatings from Johnny slappaneck. These are hard times. Still, Little Bastard managed to find a girl, clearly - from her matted garb - in the sex trade. Fuck ugly. No matter. Only a coupla years older than himself, she was rustilng out the bins behind the hotel where Little Bastard usually met his dealer. She introduced herself. After he tried to shoot her. He was lugging the sawn-off, and got kinda jumpy, what with the absence of meth. Hence his meeting the dealer. Dealer wasn´t there. Luckily Ivanette had some crack, and they got talking. It emerged that her mum was a dead cokie who´d died in a puddle of shit. Something about the puddle of shit rang true for Little Bastard too, and he invited her for drinks. She declined, but said she´d see him again. They backed away from each other, each with a fresh lead, before scurring into opposite shadows. Gutter Romeo. Juliet.
Skip forward a year or two. Little Bastard and Ivanette are behind the bins again, somewhat less clothed and turning up on the dial. Heavy petting. Bitch. He´s only five years of age at this point, but the streets teach you well. And the large quantities of drugs sped up the whole process. Lets say that for realism´s sake, he was about twelve. She was something similar. Anyway, Iva only knew her mother´s name, Claudette. In the jungle that´s all you need to know, but Little Bastard hadn´t a clue. No clothes now, and He´s preparing for entry. Heat shields up, the juggernaut bears the brunt. But, before the perforated plastic seal (please puncture before microwaving) is broken, Iva interjects. He´s cool. They don´t know each other that well, she´s right. Probably ought to ease off for a bit. But when she shows him a picture of her mother that she must have kept with her for sentimental reasons or some shit, he recognises something. That skeletal scrotal sack of a human being... Familiarity twangs the etherial bow, far off behind his looming conciousness, to the days of the brown puddle. `Mother...?´ He croaked. As this spike of sore, sodden rememberance soaked in the rotten air between them, a crash took their surprise empty into empty pockets. Large hands swam them from the bins and held them. Cockblocker. What a wanker. The intruder eyed them up. They did him too. Little Bastard´s mind was racing. It was the wanker! Here was the evil wanker what killed his junkie mum. Both of them I bet, Little Bastard thought. No wonder he´d never known his dad!
`WANKER!´ Little Bastard screamed into his scrawny little face.
`You killed my father!´
`No Little Bastard,´ came the reply, borne upon a sea of rotten fag breath,
`I am your father.´
That's FUCKING it. Only allowed 1000 characters.
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Originally Posted by jdiggity 
