Akabusi thumped his hand on the walnut effect table. His brown hammer fist split the table and for a moment he was reminded of Ulrika Jonnsson's well thumbed clunge. This was shit. His rider for this gig had specifically specified specific things like 500 gram Tupperware container of Reggae Reggae Sauce mixed with blue peanut M&Ms. He could clearly see that the fucking M&Ms were fucking red and there was only 450 grammes of the fucking sauce. Promises had been made.
Busi had had a bad few weeks. Him, Regis and Black had accidently burnt down a building in Manchester after a pyrotechnics display for the opening of a new JJB Sports had gone spectacularly wrong. It would have to be the last time they let poor demented OCD riddled Regis buy pyros. Or indeed anything. In the rush to evacute two Make A Wish foundation kids had been left behind and their charred electronic wheelchairs and three British Knights trainers were all that remained. Black had "disappeared" the evidence before the fuzz and more importantly the deputy chief marketing officer for JJB Sports North arrived. They had some pretty major openings in the coming weeks.
Even more depressingly Kriss's ebony pussy plunger hadn't tasted the sweet sticky sauce of a pretty major or minor opening in a while and the grisly pulsating Kaa betwixt his toned thighs wouldn't let him fucking forget. It needed feeding or it would go elsewhere. It also needed bathing but that was another story.
As Busi keyed in his agent Harvey Goldenblum's number into his Raspberry he looked around the table at the most useless eleven counts since he saw West Ham play. Jury service was the last thing he needed and when the Old Bailey celebrity bookers were going to persist in serving up red M&Ms with his sauce he wanted out. And he wanted in. A pussy.
At the moment they were deliberating over some Muslim numpty who had been caught cooking up fertiliser "above the shop". Busi had been called in at the last minute to fill the gap left by Sally Gunnell who had left to perform an emergency opening of a JD Sports in Letchworth. She got all the good gigs. The Old Bailey had made him the foreman and Busi had accepted with open muscular onyx arms. Kriss soon realized this meant he didn't get a fat reducing grill or anything to cook with and he would have to "make notes".
There was only one angry man in this room and it was Krisstopher Akabusi. The other members of the crew or whatever the fuck you called it were sure that Omar Epps was going to blow up Bluewater. Busi didn't give a monkey's clunge in hell, he preferred fucking Lakeside and he was willing to bully the others into a not guilty verdict if it meant he could get off to Cape Canerval where Roger Black and Regis were holed up. This was justice, Akabusi style.
The hot air of this cracking late April day crept into the walnut effect conference room like DJ's into the Walton Hop and found it's way between Busi's polished Texas Gold black body and his fine pinstriped dungarees that Mr Raja had knocked up for him. He could feel the chocolate liono stir as the air caressed his newly shaved rugby ball size balls. All three of his genitalia knew it was summer and knew that outside in parks, Lidos and street corners were women in tight white tops and towelling shorts splashing around in the watery arc of a burst water main. Goddamn, all four of them needed kneeding.
"Right let's get this shit over with" roared Busi as he stood upright like a cock in a fanny shop. "This is not a quarter as exciting as the fucking Phil Spectrum trial and this fucking one isn't televised. I was made promises". The eleven ugly men and true shuffled their papers, some followed Busi's gaze out the window to the frolicking pussy in the street. Some knew his pain, some didn't have a clue about Akabusi and that was their fucking loss.
The verdict in his fist, the twelve strode through the marble hall of the Old Bailey, crims, briefs and nickers parting as justice passed by. Akabusi had requested two drummers to play him in as he entered Court One and surprisingly they were there. As they pumped out the epic drum solo from Nilsson's Jump into the Fire in perfect unison Akabusi felt like a brown Buddha, a chocolate Jesus, a black...gas. But this wasn't about him. It was about Lady Justice.
Lady Justice was the raghead's brief and Busi's slit senses were enlivened and his sperm levels were raised to Severe as she entered the court in her long black cloak, white high collar and horse hair wig. He knew that beneath the apparel of law was an epic pair of bristols so firm you could make them heads of state in North Korea and a clunge so tight it fiddled the electricity.
For over a week Kriss had been asking these guys in gowns to make him a large Mocha with a side shot of espresso but it had turned out these dudes were barristers and not baristas. The law was an ass and Akabusi wanted to part it and plunge his jet black sack attack into it. The drummers stopped and once the screams and applause stopped Busi stood. As he opened his large piano key filled mouth he caught sight of Lady Justice. She had a leg up on a desk and had her gown pulled up to her arse as she smoothed down the creases in her Agent Provocateur stockings.
Busi was instantly harder than Dave Courtney's missus' clit. But without the Liz Duke T Bar through it. The power of his engorged cock tore the pinstriped dungs from his back and he stood naked and horny. He lept over the walnut effect partition and stalked Justice like an elephant at an Indian celebration that got out of hand.
"Erection" cried the clerk of the court. "Overstained!" roared Akabusi with all the might of Andre the Giant farting into a Sennheiser. Justice was up for it and she whipped off her legal gear quicker than Paul Gadd will be back in the ELC. Busi was right. This brief was epic. Her milky white duds had nipples darker than South London and her clunge was wetter than Tony Bullimore's copy of Heat and covered by a horse hair merkin.
Akabusi jumped on her like SO19 on Brazilians and tore into her like a Fitness First bag on the top deck of a bus. To the assembled crowds it looked like a feral chocolate scales of justice was attacking a white gavel of sexiness. Busi was inflicting Zero Tolerance and Maximum Poundage into the defence and she was lapping it up like a cat with diabetes.
Within hours he was was on his violent, volcanic vinegars and he let spray with such a gush of giant tadpoles the Judge fell to his knees and prayed for a Noah's Ark speed boat to pull up. Justice had been served and as Busi rolled up his Persian he thought he might just make the flight to Florida and the hook up with Black and Regis. This was a good day.
"Mr Akabumbumbum, what is your verdict?" pleaded the sodden Judge. "Quality shag. Quality" roared Busi as the twin drummers started up again. "And him? Let the all the fuckers go. It's summer time! Let's get out there."
Busi pulled on the shredded dungs and looked down upon the pile of flipping flapping spermazota, horse hair, fertiliser and torn stockings, bent down, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.