Go Get Graham - The Blue Pill Chronicles

Go Get Graham - The Blue Pill Chronicles Go Get Graham - The Blue Pill Chronicles

Status: Finished

Genre: Humor

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Humor

Summary

A hayshed, a looming chat show disaster and outright fear collide as Brenda Borg must have sex with hilarious Irish telly host Graham Norton. Not for pleasure though. She's under orders to do it - her feckless husband will die otherwise. Imagine!

Summary

A hayshed, a looming chat show disaster and outright fear collide as Brenda Borg must have sex with hilarious Irish telly host Graham Norton.

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


 

 

Go Get Graham

THIS STORY IS FICTIONAL

 

“Big issue?”

The last words I heard, my last memory.

I woke up, a crack of light hitting my eyes from above.

I turned away.

It must have been the countryside.

I could feel sharp hay on my face. I could smell machinery, rain, cow shit.

My hands, my feet, all tied.

For a second I imagined my mouth would have a black gag of tape across it, but I was wrong.

I opened my mouth, but stayed silent.

Then I whispered, quite as can be: “What. The. Fuck. Is. This?”
My right arm hurt, my right leg too.

Maybe it was the way I’d been transported here, dropped here.

My vision was coming back.

A huge shed, corrugated walls, bent out of shape in parts.

The chunk of light came through a twist in the roof.

Lines of light cutting around a huge high door.

A slight wind outside.

Isolated, scared, cold, trapped.

 

“Big Issue?”

They were the last words Graham Norton said before he broke off for lunch.

“Perhaps not the world’s best come back line,” he said to Nora, buttering a slice of tomato bread.

“Oh, you’re too fussy. If Graham Norton turns to the camera and says ‘Big Issue?’ it’s funny. And it’s not because you look like a homeless person.”

“Okay, well, that’s good to hear. I think.”

Neither of them had noticed the woman, Brenda, standing at the back of the studio.

They had missed her being chloroformed and carried away by two men.

All the focus had been on him, on his interview with Brenda’s husband, a man who had built 5,000 homes and was giving them all away.

“Could you believe that Swedish bloke?” said Graham. “Generous or mental?”

“Hard to know. Did you know the police were in earlier about him?”

“No – why?”

“They said he’s under police protection.”

Crikey - why?”

“They didn’t say but, a quick snoop online later, and rumour has it no one got paid for building the houses.”

“Uh oh.”

“Yep. Maybe they’re not really his to give away.”

“Then why, Nora, have I just told the world he’s so wonderful he’s making himself homeless for bloody charity?”

“You haven’t, not until it airs.”

 

They barged in on a wave of light like victorious Vikings.

My arms were grabbed as I tried to push myself back and they dragged me to a bare concrete patch on the floor.

One of them – four or five in all – was smiling as he read a text on his phone.

He looked up at me: “Where can we get your husband, Brenda? Where is the weak point in this protection of his?”

“Fuck off.”

“Honestly Brenda. As it stands, you are the only weak point. If we have to exploit you to get to him, we will.”

“I said fuck off.”

“No problem. Your husband is not answering his phone, calls from you. Don’t you two chat?”

“As I said...”

“No problem. The 5,000 free houses thing – it’s not happening. Got that?”

“What do I care?”

“Well, if it goes any further without my client getting paid, there will be a spot of bother. Do you understand?”

“You’re a dick.”

“And if we can’t get to him, the bother will be all yours. Clear?”

“You’re a dick and a pussy. Why don’t you go fu...”

“BRENDA!”

“..ck yourself.”

“You’re a silly woman, you know that?”

“And you’re a bollocks. Graham Norton is scarier than you.”

“You’re very funny, Brenda.” And he paused... “Tell me, is your fellow countryman Norton a friend of yours? Of your husband? Is that how this interview came about?”

“No. Wise up will you.”

“First actual answer you’ve given me.” Looking up: “She’s lying guys. Go get Graham.”

 

They took the blindfold off him in the barn.

He stared down at me, the sorry state of me, tears and dirt and hay and terror.

He was angry, totally bewildered.

He looked around, five men.

We all watched as he leaned forward and wretched.

“What was that bloody drink you gave me? I thought it was poison or something yet, oh joy, here I am.”

“No it was just something to get you...”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”

He was raging.

“Graham,” I said. “Gangsters. It’s to do with my husband...”

“Oh wait a sec, right. This is the whole free homes bullshit, yes?”

“Yes.” I was nodding, as if I knew all about this, as if it made sense to me, as if I was something to do with it. “They snatched me too. They want my husband.”

“Oh, well I don’t know anything about that.”

He turned to the man with the phone.

“This lady plays no part in her husband’s business, I happen to know that because he told me,” he said. “I think it might be best if you let us...”

“Shut up Graham.”

“Thanks Graham,” I said.

“No problem. Now listen....”

“I said shut up Graham. Get the show pulled before it airs, or we will be making a little bit of TV of our own.”

“I can’t...”

“One call Graham. Tell them you are in trouble, the show has to go. If this free homes shite goes any further, it’s going to get nasty.”

Graham looked at all their faces, then to me. I shrugged.

“I don’t know what they’re going to do,” I said.

“Fuck them,” he said. “I’m not about to start working for gangsters, God knows I’ve come close enough in the past.”

I laughed. “Good for you.”

 

My husband was texted a link to a porno website.

The film had been viewed 162 times by the time he got round to ending his calls, to pouring a whiskey, to clicking.

Throbbing with medication, Graham does digital before mounting me, my legs splayed, amid the hay.

His face was steely, his body firm, his manhood like brass.

“Sorry about this,” I said.

“Oh no,” he said, “I’m the sorry one.”

“Ah what the hell,” I said.

“Yeh,” he said, “anything for television.”

We laughed as began pumping, pushing my down and down into the hay, it folding over us as our captors filmed.

 

Early morning.

The blindfolds were removed and we were ejected from the car on a street neither of us knew.

Ahead of us, a tube station – Cockfosters.

We brushed ourselves down, almost giddy, as we made our way.

“Bloody hay,” said Graham. “Doesn’t it just get everywhere?”

“You’re telling me,” I said. “I’ll need to hire a hungry horse to get cleaned up.”

The newspaper stand featured his image.

“NORTON MISSING”

“Oh shit, shit, shit,” he said. “How much of this story do you think they will believe?”

We both laughed again.

Neither of us saw the end of the article.

“....Police also confirmed that Norton had earlier interviewed a Swedish industrialist who was found dead at his home last night. A crime is not suspected.”

 

(totally made up story – and if you think it wasn’t you are insane)

 


© Copyright 2018 Brenda Borg. All rights reserved.

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