Friday, 5 February 2010

FARMER'S MARKET

Akabusi sat in the Corsa playing with the indicators. He was fucking bored. Since Tanni Grey Thompson had retired he felt a void in his life - he had nowhere to direct his immense hatred for the woman. "Harry Potter in a shopping trolley" was the quote he gave The Times as reporters had surrounded his £126,876 mansion in Luton. Eventually he had been forced to send Regis out to clear them away. Two journalists were killed and for a brief glorious moment John Regis' rampant OCD was replaced with sociopathic rage and violence. One day at a time.

Since then Akabusi, Regis and Black had been holed up in the mansion playing strip Kerplunk and devouring KFC Mum's Week Off Buckets like Yorkshire policemen into a Sheffield crack mum. There were more bones strewn over the walnut effect flooring than an after party during London Fashion Week. After seven days of debauchery and finger licking the boys had decided to get out of the house and visit a local farmer's market. Black loved expensive bread with currants in it and doctors had told Regis that it was healthy for him to mix with other vegetables. Akabusi, on the other giant brown hand, hated the fucking places. "Overpriced cunt soupery" was the quote Kriss had given The Times.

As Busi moved from the indicators to the hazard lights he looked out the window at Black unfolding his Bags for Life and Regis counting the clouds in the sky, he reflected on the real issue of the last seven days. His meaty pussy pounder hadn't felt the rush of blood and the silky touch of a sopping fanny since "The Transformer" had retired. Kriss had sneezed this morning as Black was writing his shopping list and spunked 72 hours worth of man slush out of his large nostrils and onto his granite effect worktop. Maybe the farmers market would throw up a clunge and a bristol.

Akabusi wiped spunk snot from his dungerees and joined the boys. As the gang strolled into the farmers market Busi felt the rancid air of middle class self satisfaction and Safeway Savers potatoes covered in shit waft betwixt the denim of his dungs and his toned onyx frame. He welcomed the twinge that flickered down his resting chocolate plonker and could feel his weighty balls gurgle like Marc Almond in a cock shop.

He followed Black over to a Greek olive stall. Roger had purchased a small plastic container with 4 olives for £25. Akabusi roared with a laugh so long, dark and violent shoppers thought Winston Silcott was back in the area. "You fucking mug, Roge" cried Busi as he popped the four olives in his huge, piano key filled mouth. Kriss was enjoying himself - he loved all the media types struggling to carry bags of forty quid ham and fifty quid bog rolls made of papyrus. There were more weirdly shaped glasses than a Belgian public house.

Akabusi was having so much fun he decided to let free the heavy shackles of his denim dungs and let the low winter sun lick his chassis with all the skill of an office junior on the back of the Queens head. As he stood there as naked and hairless as Britney getting out of a Lambo, he began to sense a stirring his chunky weiny marrow. He needed clunge and he need it immediately. Or sooner.

Akabusi ducked behind a cheese stall and let his colassal phallis smell the air. He'd drunk so much celeriac juice from the Original Organic Celeriac Juice stall that he was bursting for a slash. As he let loose a violent stream of horse piss into a pile of organic satsumas he thought it inevitable that someone would bottle his hot steaming yellow fluid and sell it as cider or vinegar or Akabusi piss at a 500% mark up.

As the last remnants of the torrent sloshed around the floor he heard a scream from beyond the Organic Sex Toy stall. He hurdled the satsumas looking like a horse with three legs to find a young blonde woman being harassed by two hoodies. Before he knew his eyes were all over the blonde like organic flies around shite. He knew beneath the tight white blouson was a pair of bristols so pert you could hang war criminals on them and tucked into the those sprayed on Armani jeans was a clunge as tight and prudent as Chancellor Brown.

Blood filled his meat feast as he dived into action, smacking the two yoofs with his increasingly engorged donger and making wild animal sounds. "You're Kriss Abamjuki innit?" barked one of the knuckle draggers. "I loved you on Gladiators. Safe innit" burped the other. As Kriss's penis reached full erection and his hoodie pulled back into attack mode, the hoodies ran away screaming.

"Mr Akabumbum. You're my hero. How can I repay you?" said the young girl as she wept for her lost pink mobile phone and the clumps of her hair that lay on the ground. "You fucking know how. fucking. That's how" roared Akabusi. "What's you're fucking name lady?"

"Chloe. Chloe Madeley" she purred as she swept the matted blonde hair from her oval face. Akabusi instantly knew what he had on his hands and inevitably on his cock. He had the prospect of plunging his blaxcalibur into Richard and Judy's smoking hot daughter. Pre cum formed on his diamond hard helmut as if to announce the start of a great epic battle.

He tore her blouson from her back revealing the naked product of the unholy union between Dick and Judy. Her milky pert tits had all the weight of the mother and as Kriss ripped off her jeans her glistening paper cut looked like her father - a thin, shaggy haired cunt.

He leapt on her like Rik Waller at a fat finger buffet and went up to the hilt within two strokes. "You say, I spray" thundered Akabusi as his hands explored her body with all the throughness of a OFCOM investigation into phone scandals.

Within hours Akabusi approached his vinegars with all the conviction of a man walking out of Tesco's with a trolley full of wine without paying. He let spray a tsunami of thick creamy knacker soup all over the heiress and flopped to the floor like Stallone's arm at the end of Over The Top. In the distance he could hear Regis and Black pushing over the apple cart and pushing 60 quid melons into the face of farmers and knew that he had to leave immediately. Or sooner. They'd head for the sanctuary of a Nandos.

He pulled on his denim dungs, reeling in his flacid phallis like a Japanese trawlerman hauling in a tuna friendly doplhin. He looked down on the pile of matted blonde tits, empty wine bottles, fashionable stubble and shattered viewer confidence, knelt down, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

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