Monday, 22 October 2007


The writer lived in an old shack by the east Portugese coast. He lived here alone, wandered around the barren landscape, perpetually wild-haired and dressed in an old threadbare gown which the coastal breezes worked their way under, whispering gentle oceanic secrets to his shrivelled scrotum.
The writer slept on a mattress spread across the wooden floor of his shack. He would awaken in the night and, gripped by spasmodic convulsions, begin scribbling entries in his notebook by candlelight, his eyes rolling back in his head. Sometimes blood would stream from his nose. Other times he would emit deep, satisfying farts.
He was a legend. A genius. Unrecognised by the literary establishment due to his maverick ways. He was a maverick but, by christ, he got results. His testicles were enormous. His eyes were damp. His lips thin and cracked, they bled when he grinned. A thin watery grin. Beneath a sky you couldn't see the end of.
He preferred to live in solitude, unbridled by the peculiar ways of mankind. He needed space, both emotional and physical, to focus on his craft... to go deep within himself and purge the demons that lay dormant their with their small sharp teeth that constantly gnawed upon his soul.

But there would come times when he craved human contact. He would take a bottle of whisky in his pocket and wander into the nearby village, wander thru the barren windswept plains that seemed to mirror the desolate nature of his own soul. Little kids in colourful robes would see him approaching in the distance and rush off to warn the villagers. By the time he got to the saloon, the atmosphere within would be tense. He'd saunter up to the bar, scowling and collected, and ask for a scotch on the rocks. The petite young barmaid, lips trembling, hands shaking, would drop his drink and the whole bar would descend one or three notches deeper into roaring silence. That is, until some wiseass homosexual punk sitting at the bar would dare to smirk at which point the writer would backhand him with as much strength as he could muster. Then the barmaid would faint and slump over the bar, her pants soaked thru. The writer took this as an invitation and would climb over the bar clumsily, often collapsing drunkenly over the other side, smashing bottles, upsetting drinks. Then he would crack open a beer, drain half of it, and drop trou. His comically huge dick would spring out, alert and poised. He would yank the barmaids trousers to her ankles and insert his manhood, his eyes rolling back to the whites as he groaned in aching euphoria. Some of the local drunks would begin cheering and egging him on until he told them to shut the fuck up. When it came to the crucial moment he would pull out and spray everyone in the bar with a seemingly endless jet of thick semen. They would sit patiently, silently accepting this incredible inverted bukkake. Then the writer would stagger back outside, satiated, a wander back to whence he came, his piece of shit little shack in the middle of nowhere filled with his nonsensical scribblings and piece of shit broken press.
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