Friday, 5 February 2010

AKABUSI ON THE NORFOLK BROADS

Akabusi didn't have a clue where he fucking was. Nor did Black. And Regis was about as much use as Cassius Clay with a speculum. They were on a boat on the Norfolk Broads and everything looked the same. And all the people looking from the banks looked the same. Horrible. Akabusi wondered whether this was the first time they had seen three blacks on a boat since a slave ship pulled up at Lowestoft. Last week.

Akabusi had been very depressed since part of his £127,675 mansion near Luton had collapsed because of dry rot. Extensive damp had been caused by epic amounts of knacker suds Kriss had splashed around the house in the last five years. Akabusi was crushed. Literally. But weeks of building works and wall irrigation was a small price to pay for the great wanks he had over catalogues, Sunday fashion supplements and a copy of a six year old Loaded that now resembled a solid block of Portland spunk stone.

The boys had had to move out sharpish. He had more Polish in his mansion than Krakow. The men all had hands and faces like 100 year old bricks and the women were hardly better. His ebony clunge puncher had hardly shuffled as the naked women swung their hammers into his walnut effect flooring. And waking up to the smell of goat meat and decade old sweat was too much. Even for Regis.

Regis had been in a bad way. His nephew had been deadened and since then John's OCD had become exactly 872 times worse than it had been 28,987 minutes before. Roger Black was feeling no better. He was maintaining a low profile after completing some "wet work" in Jamaica. He had spent weeks enticing himself into the world of Bob Woolmar and in the end he'd done it for free, he'd enjoyed killing him so much. In the end "they" had paid him in scratchcards which Black had ripped up in "their" faces.

So all in all it had been a tough time for the gang. They decided to hire a 4 berth cruiser, buy a hundredweight of Greggs Steak Bakes and travel up the Norfolk Broads and kill Bernard Matthews. With extreme prejudice. Yokel Kurtz, as Akabusi had named him, lived in a £314,899 complex in Great Yarmouth and had apparently gone "native", cutting the head of turkeys and dancing around in his yellowing pants wanking on crackers.

Black was at the helm and he was bollocks. They'd killed at least five swans and one window slurper in a kayak who had become detached from his outward bound group. All six of them were in the cooler now and would barbeque a treat later on. Regis was in his element. He loved to waterski behind the boat but as this jalopy only went 2 knots, technically the speed of an old woman chewing a boiled sweet, they just dragged John through the brown water as his skis picked up used condoms, diseased turkeys and his big gob filled with loose turds.

Busi laid out on the top of the ramshackle cruiser and let the cold low sun caress his onyx chassis like an Asian waxing a Nova. His cocoa pussy beater growled as it awoke from it's slumber. It hadn't pushed it's purple head into the wet crack of clunge or an arsehole for a few days and it knew that Norfolk was full of both. It was hungry and it needed feeding. Kriss was engrossed in the latest episode of Tanni Grey Thompson Sex Stories that Redmond had forwarded him via his internet connection. He hated Redmond but these stories made his balls rise like the price of twenty snouts. As he turned over his chocolate plonker pierced the roof of the cruiser. He was as hard as a pikey's sister. They were here.

Akabusi jumped ashore, his brown rudder dragging in the water. He let slip the brass shackles of his camo dungerees and let the fetid air of the Matthews encampment swirl around his diamond hard labia cutter and his heavy balls. Black kept the engine running and pulled out a bumper Suduko book whilst Regis counted the ripples in the water.

Akabusi stalked the perimeter of the compound and anyone looking would have thought he was a huge black panther with an fucked tail. Bernard Matthews was exactly where he Akabusi knew he would be. Snapping turkey necks in his pine effect kitchen. Covered in blood. Naked. Bald. And quoting T.S Eliot. Busi pulled out a hefty machete with more grooves in it than a 70's night at the Roxy. It was from Black's vast collection of life stoppers and it was perfect for carving a fat turkey.

As Akabusi reined in his throbbing erection he stealthily moved up behind the braying Bernard and slipped the knife against his turkey neck. "Mr Abakumii, what the fuck are you doing?" said a voice from behind him as smooth and as fruity as a fart at a Camra meeting.

Akabusi turned slowly holding the machete firmly up into Matthews giblets. "Bootiful!" said Kriss as he spied the smoking hot daughter of the poultry magnet - Bernie Matthews. And she was. Busi knew that beneath her blood spattered white tunic rested a pair of epic bristols you wouldn't be ashamed to crave them up and serve at Christmas and a clunge so open it was letting a draft into the room. Akabusi dropped the twisted fat gristle of Bernard to the parquet effect flooring and pounced on Bernie like a sex offender at the Early Learning Centre.

He tore off her clothes revealing a massive set of breasts so white and creamy and capped by rock hard bottle tops it was like fondling Mrs Unigate. She was so wet Kriss thought he was putting his hand into fresh liver. As he slipped a fat brown finger she tightened, tighter than a ten year old pussy walking past the Pete Townsend Research Facility in Richmond.

He could tell by the way she gulped his king dong down her slender throat that she was from Norfolk. And married to her father and mother to his nephews, nieces and his grandmother. They were a tight family.

Within hours he was on his triumphant vinegars and he let fly with such an epic amount of ball gunk that Bernie was struggling for air like Roy Castle in a jazz club. "I love the smell of clunge in the morning. It smells like...like kippers" roared Akabusi with the power of ten Blesseds and one Biggins.

He slit Bernard's throat letting years of gluttony and several turkeys spill onto the kitchen floor. Bernie was the Boss now and Busi liked it. In the distance he could hear Black and Regis honking the horn. They were desperate to get away to the Monkey World that had just opened in Yarmouth. And so was Busi.

He looked down on the pile of spunk, milky white tits, father's blood and guts and reformed turkey slices, bent down, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

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