MacGowan Dew - The Blue Pill Chronicles

MacGowan Dew - The Blue Pill Chronicles MacGowan Dew - The Blue Pill Chronicles

Status: Finished

Genre: Humor

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Humor

Summary

Overgrown lady parts, a boozy afternoon, a dark room and outright fear collide as Brenda Borg comes under orders to have it off with the legendary toothless singer Shane MacGowan. Not for pleasure though. She's under orders to do it - her feckless husband will die otherwise. Imagine!

Summary

Overgrown lady parts, a boozy afternoon, a dark room and outright fear collide as Brenda Borg comes under orders to have it off with the legendary toothless singer Shane MacGowan.

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

Content

Submitted: October 16, 2012

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: October 16, 2012

A A A

A A A


 

 

 

MacGowan Dew

THIS STORY IS FICTIONAL

 

My fly was everywhere. Every time I had a glass of red wine, this little critter would appear, swirling around my face, divebombing in and out of my vision.

My sweet little fruit fly. I’d had her for weeks. It felt as if everywhere I went, as soon as I charged my glass, there she was – zooming, playing, feeding.

The world’s slightest guardian angel.

My husband didn’t believe me at first but, as my hand flapped in front of my face day after day, he was getting the message. I called her Belle because...

 

...she was killed when a man caught her between his two fingers.

Crushed. A tiny murder. Tiny instant grief.

He took a wobbly stool and grinned.

“My husband’s sitting there...”

“No he’s not, love.”

“Seriously fella, he’s just at the jacks.”

“He’s not, love. He’s in our care now.”

They’d taken him, he said, stuffed him in the back of a van as he made his way to the bogs.

“You as pissed as he is?” he asked.

“Who the hell are you?”

“He’s langered, love. Half eleven in the morning. Tut tut. You don’t look too sharp yourself.”

“Who...?”

“I’m Draper.”

I chucked the wine at him. Bastard. At him, on him. “Well here’s to you Draper.”

“Right Brenda,” he said, wiping an eye. “You’re coming with me.”

 

No one in there cared. The barman even nodded at him as he rushed me to the door.

I yelled on the street.

A car door opened and, fast, I was in the back, flanked by bastards.

I let rip, terrified.

“GIVE ME MY HUSBAND. LET ME GO.”

And onwards.

Draper said: “Would a glass of wine relax you?”

I felt like saying ‘yeah.’

“Give me your phone,” he said.

 

 

In a room, the door locked, one slice of light from under it.

Place smells of piss.

I stood, holding my breath, the blood drumming in my ears.

Breathing. Definitely not mine.

A man, sleeping, in the room.

“Baby? Is that you? Baby?”

I stepped into the dark, arms out, down on my hunkers.

“Baby?”

“Wha?”

I stood up.

And in front of me, a darker blackness began to rise and take shape.

Taller, fatter than my husband.

“Who are ya?”

English, had been drinking.

“Brenda. You?”

“Shane.”

I stepped back to the door and he followed. We looked at each other’s feet, tried to use it as some kind of guide.

Nothing was said. I tapped a toe.

“You have big feet,” I said.

“Big cock,” he said.

“Right,” I said. And then, “why are you here?”

“Dunno. They took me from a pub, ditched me here.”

A breathy laugh, pushed out, back of the throat, an exhale of laughter, a comforting, stinking waft of pub.

“Same.”

“Did they fill you with Viagra too?”

“Viagra? Not that I know of.”

“Jesus,” he said, sitting, sliding down, his back to the door. “I need a drink.”

 

 

We sat beside each other, breathing in the darkness, breathing our stink over each other.

He cackled, exhaled, on and on.

His spirit was good.

I wasn’t scared with him.

We’d both been drunk for days.

Was this the reason we were here?

“An old slut and a scumbag,” I said, and his laughter cut the air. “Maybe it’s like that movie Seven, we’re here for our sins.”

He found a corner of the room to piss in.

I went after him, the other corner.

“Mine’s all up the wall,” he said, slumping back. “My cock’s like the prow of the ship on a dark night.”

 

They kicked at the door to open it, kicking us away.

We squinted as light roared in, two bastards in silhouette.

“Get up,” said Draper.

I looked at Shane and he grinned. A big round head, a mouth punched by a cannonball.

“Jesus Christ - it’s Shane MacGowan.”

“Aye,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Booted and rooted.”

Strip lighting flickered on above us.

An empty room, stinking, brick, rivers of gold.

Draper’s mate lifted a video cam.

“What the fu –“

“Shut up, Brenda. Your husband is still with us. I can guess your questions so no need to ask. Your husband owes money to the wrong people. We’re just going to show him, nice and gently, how creative the wrong people can get when they get pissed about.

“You do what we say and your husband lives. Oh, and we thought Shane would add a bit of colour to the proceedings.”

“Whoever you are,” said Shane, “your balls will get kicked into your brains.”

“Aye Shane,” said Draper. “That’s right. Now, if I’m not mistaken, you have something pressing to attend to.”

 

The gun changed everything. It made it urgent. It took away the murmuring excitement of meeting Shane MacGowan.

We had to make love. On camera. Love by mouth, then love by loins.

Shane’s mouth, as if bolted to my sex, was a perfect machine, a hot, chowing knobbly, rutted rubbing device with a tongue inside.

He went for it well.

And as I tried to chew on his fetid, super-dense, gristled admiral, I started to think we could really save a life here.

And then, of course, I’d kill my stupid husband.

Shane apologised as he mounted me, and I told him not to worry, to go for it.

And he did, like a hung bunging raging bull, shoving me bit by bit across the floor, right to the feet of our captors.

They stepped out of the way as he laughed, exhaled and pumped and glided.

He eventually made a face like a farting cow’s arse and fell forward on to me in a corridor stacked with boxes of Christmas crackers.

 

I would later find out it was the day Shane decided to get his teeth fixed.

The day I decided to give up drinking.

The day my husband watched a video and wept, the day he apologised for everything.

 

It was the day Belle died.

 

(that was a made up story, if you think otherwise you are stupid)

 


© Copyright 2018 Brenda Borg. All rights reserved.

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