Dara on a Car - The Blue Pill Chronicles

Dara on a Car - The Blue Pill Chronicles Dara on a Car - The Blue Pill Chronicles

Status: Finished

Genre: Humor

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Humor

Summary

A cold Irish beach, a Mini and a voyeur collide as Brenda Borg must shag brilliant, towering comedian Dara O Briain on a car bonnet. Not for pleasure though. She's under orders to do it - her feckless husband will die otherwise. Imagine!

Summary

A cold Irish beach, a Mini and a voyeur collide as Brenda Borg must shag brilliant, towering comedian Dara O Briain on a car bonnet.

Not for pleasure though. She's under orders to do it - her feckless husband will die otherwise. Imagine!

Content

Submitted: October 17, 2012

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: October 17, 2012

A A A

A A A


 

 

Dara on a Car

THIS STORY IS FICTIONAL

 

 

THE seagulls lifted off the beach at Rosnowlagh as we drove by in my Mini Clubman, splashing much too fast through the puddles of the night before.

Dara O Briain looked uncomfortable, his head lightly ducked, unsure if it would slap the roof of the little car if he sat upright.

He looked at me, I could see, and looked away. I felt he was about to say something. I said nothing.

“Fuck sake,” he said, turning away, looking out the side window, one hand tapping on his chin. “No one around.”

“No,” I said. “It’s the seaside at Christmas.”

I pulled over, skidding, slipping, at a left turn laneway down onto the firm, wet sand.

We pulled up, stopped, sat in silence. I swallowed hard.

Dara breathed in deep as I cut the engine.

He looked at me: “I’ve never been forced to ride someone on a wet and windy beach before.

“And, I might just say, I’ve never rid someone over a car bonnet before either.” 

I checked the mirror. Nothing.

“Have another Viagra,” I said.

“I’ve had two, thanks. I don’t think that’s the issue. No offense Brenda, but it’s six in the morning, it’s Ireland, it’s December. Viagra or not, I’m not frankly feckin’ interested in...”

“Me?”

He tapped his face again, uncomfortable, anxious. “Please understand it’s only in the sense that I’m happily married. And if I was looking for a new thrill, this wouldn’t be my starting point. Not in a feckin’ yellow Mini anyway. A feckin’ Mini with a ludicrous number plate saying B-R-3-N....”

Christ – I’d had enough.

“You think I want to do this!? You think I’m happy about my situation? You think I even like that stupid registration? My husband is facing death unless an oversized comedian bucks me on the coast of Donegal? What the fuck Dara!”

“No, fair enough. Sorry, that is really fair enough. Hubby probably bought the car for you, come to think of it.”

I felt like screaming.

 

The silver Range Rover pulled up 100 yards behind, just like the man had said it would.

Lights flashed.

We didn’t speak as I started the car and guided it further onto the firm, wet, darkened sand.

Our tracks were the only sign of human life.

We stopped where the water began to lap at the tyres, as instructed.

One three point turn and we were facing the road, facing the big blacked-out car.

“That bastard is bound to be filming this,” Dara said.

I nodded. “We should get out.”

“We’ll bloody have to get out,” he said. “I’ve a chemically-enhanced dong on me like the head of a feckin’ bull. I’m running out of room here.”

 

We stood side by side, in the slapping wind, the spitting rain, facing the man who could kill my husband.

“Do you think he’s in the car - your husband?”

“He might be.”

We stripped off as seagulls screeched. I couldn’t much feel the cold, under the circumstances, although my nipples felt like AA batteries.

We turned to each other, our clothes being shoved around behind us by the morning’s mood.

We looked only into each other’s eyes.

“It is actually worth looking at,” said Dara, the wind buffeting his words. “Not out of any ego trip, I wouldn’t be that sort of complete bassoon. I mean, just because of the sheer feckin’ solidity of the thing. It feels like someone’s built some kind of fortified bombproof structure around my penis.”

Peripheral vision suggested Dara was riding an angry red broomstick.

And peripheral vision told me the lights were flashing on the Lexus.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but we have to do this now.”

 

My husband, a wealthy Norwegian industrialist, had more enemies than he would ever say.

This could have been any of them, Russians, Italians, British, Finnish...

All I knew was that they were all serious. When he was taken from me, at gunpoint, from our bed, I knew this was no joke.

I followed every texted instruction since, to the letter.

 

“Do you mind if I have a quick feel of your tits?”

“No. It’s all for the greater good.”

“Aye.”

“That thing feels like it’s –“

“Eh?”

“Jesus...”

“Eh? Wha? This thing?”

“...yeah... like it’s gonna come out my back.”

“Yeh? I feel like someone’s given me a feckin M16.”

“A wha?”

“An M...mmmm”

“MM.”

“Ahhh...feckin’ nora.”

“Jesus wept.”

“G’wan the Irish!”

“Christ alive.”

“Feckin’ scud missile more like.”

“Wha?”

“Aaaaaaammmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

“Oooooooooofffffffffaaaakkkkkkk.”

He held me in his arms as we looked at each other, Dara deflating within me. That big face, unshaven, soggy-eyed, grey sky above, seagulls wondering if there’d be anything left over for them.

We both smiled, both laughed.

It was some kind of relief.

 

I looked to the road.

“Well?” he asked.

“A back door’s opened.”

He turned his head around.

“Dara?”

“What?”

“Thank you. Whatever happens now, thank you.”

“It’s okay. I hope you get your husband back. And not just for Christmas.”

“Thank you for believing me. I’m amazed you did. You had no idea who I was.”

“I googled you, as you stood outside my door crying. I googled your ridiculous personalised number plate. It brought up a picture of you and your husband. A lot of people hate him.”

“So true.”

“Why do you think this gangster guy wanted this done in Rosnowlagh of all places?”

“Who knows? He’s just a pervert.”

“I suppose.”

 

A silver-haired man in an Aran jumper, blue pyjama bottoms and mirror shades stepped out of the car.

“Finnish,” I said. “That guy, I bet he’s Finnish.”

He pulled a body after him, a man in a white boiler suit.

It was my husband, pulled to the ground.

Ditched. Dropped.

The man waved, got back in.

The lights flashed once more as the car reversed.

We stood there, embraced, as it drove away.

Dara turned.“I don’t like the look of this,” he said.

 

(that story was totally made up)


© Copyright 2018 Brenda Borg. All rights reserved.

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