agentblack

Out late last night, as is my fancy.

We ended up watching a DVD of David Bowie, Including, but not limited to, his ill advised drum and bass come back.

"You little wonder, little wonder, little wonder, You little wonder, little wonder you."

Ouch.

I drifted off gently to sleep, dreaming of Rome:Total War. Only to be awakened by my boy Alex, who prodded me and suggested that I might be more comfortable in an actual bed, like a proper human being, as opposed to an armchair, like a family pet.

I made a quick exit the next morning when his parents arrived home, guessing that they wouldn't be too chuffed to find out I was sleeping in their marital bed. Some people can be funny about that sometimes.

Gunning my diesel powered chariot out of suburban hell, I headed home.

Home is the nether regions of the Essex Rural wasteland, a bizzare tract of land inhahbited by a strange crop of people, most of them related.

Inbreeding happens for many different reasons, communities can become isolated and cut off, Religious or political ideals can force the concentration of bloodlines.

Where I live, It happens out of a basic lack of imagination. I never really fitted in when I was young, mostly because I could count past five and had opposable thumbs.

My parent's moved here when I was very young. I've lived here most of my life, and yet everyday I find something new to amuse me. Somestimes I go looking for.

Today was just such a time. Buzzed by the success of escaping from Al's, I took a detour down some country lanes, leaving the main road behind me, determined to find that fresh slice of macabre grotesquerie that Essex was going to amuse me with.

Which was how I came, in a roundabout fashion, to be gagged and bound with masking tape in an abondoned barn, being beaten by a fat man called Mr Eddie.

Mr Eddie had bulky, brutal looking shoulders, that his gut hung fat and pendulous off of, like an obscene great tumour. His skin was stretched tight by the weight of greasy intestines and entrails pressing against the skin.

He had a snarling Tiger's head tattooed on his chest that was glazed with thick slimy sweat.
Shirtless, I could see his gut swing and bounce as his fists swung and bounced of my face head and neck.

When he got in close to work some body combinations, I could smell him, a thick spicy smell of garlic and herbs, paprika and cumin.

He moved slow, weight shifting tidal from side to side as he advanced, slowly gathering momentum for when he oppen up with a strong right cross that connected clean and hard with my forehead, snapping my head back on my neck and making my ears ring.

Behind my duct tape gag, I could taste old copper and snot. The only other person was a man sitting in a folding chair some distance away.

Slim, grey ahired, some where in his late fifties, he was idenified only as Maurice. He was dressed impecabbly in a sky blue suit, with a light salmon shirt and a cravate. He was apparently reading Voltaire's Candide, reading some passages out loud whilst Mr Eddie was taking a breather, sweat dripping from a bulbous twice broken nose, hands on knees, chest heaving.

But I had noticed that he would occasionaly look whilst Mr Eddie worked me over, and grab at his crotch.
The first time he had done this, I had looked questioningly at Mr Eddie, mute behind my gag.

In reply, I'd recieved a slight shake of the head. Mr Eddie was obviously aware of this, but was pretending that it wasn't happening. I didn't want to provoke him by pushing the matter.