© 2013 David Jasmin-Green
“Hexcuse me, Madam,” Miguel Button said, peering at the twenty four stone body-builder sitting behind the counter of Feargal's Gym through his brand new horn-rimmed jam-jar glasses. “I've recently had a new pair of spectacles and they're taking a bit of getting used to, so I'm not sure if I'm in the right hestablishment. I require a large quantity of live codfish, haddock, bloaters and electric eels to feed to my half hoctopus grandma and my quarter hoctopus mother, and I can't find the bloody Fishmonger's shop that supplies me with such piscine delights twice a week - at an hextortionate price, I might add. Are you a Fishmonger, by any chance?”
“No, I bleedin' ain't,” the bruiser replied, sipping on a liquidised pig's liver and egg protein shake. “An' don't call me Madam, I don't like it..... 'Ere, ain't you that queer that the coppers are after for gross indecency in a public place?”
“No, certainly not! I am completely heterosexual, and I haven't dropped my kit over the nature reserve since I was a little kiddie. Whatever gave you that ridiculous hidea?”
“'Cos I saw your photo on soddin' Crimewatch last night. Disgustin', it is, you sick, twisted pervert, gettin' rat-arsed on Kestrel Super and makin' mad, passionate love to a thoroughly unconvincin' female impersonator on a bench situated on a well-used footpath where innocent children might see. An' besides, some wag 'as pasted a series of 'uge, rather more explicit pictures of you an' your so-called lady friend all over town – the coppers are takin' 'em down one by one, but as far as I know there's still one on the billboard just around the corner by the joke shop.”
“I see..... Well I assure you that it doesn't depict me, Madam, I must have a doppleganger, or helse some vicious bastard is hout to besmirch my spotless character. Forget about the fish for now, Mrs. Fishmonger – something has come up, I have to go.
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It didn't take Miguel long to find the billboard because the picture was huge, and even he couldn't miss it. The poster depicted a rather ugly, semi-clad transvestite canoodling with a completely naked (excepting his Union Jack socks) and very excited Miguel Button – either the culprit was a sh*t-hot Photoshop buff or he really had been very rude indeed with a female impersonator while under the influence of drink. Again..... A police van pulled up, and half a dozen men jumped out with a ladder and started to peel off the offensive image. Miguel ducked into the nearest shop, which just happened to be the joke shop. “Hello, my good man,” he said. “Is this the Fishmongers by hany chance?”
“No, it isn't,” the elderly female proprietor replied, “it's the bloody joke shop.”
“Ha – ha, I knew that hall along, honly kidding..... Could I have the largest false beard you have in stock, please? I'm going to a fancy dress party as a hoctopus loving pirate.”
“Are you that perv the police are lookin' for?”
“No! I'm an hundercover police hossifer, and I was very nearly recognised by an heinous hescaped haxe-wielding homicidal maniac a moment ago - I hurgently need a disguise so that I can harrest the violent barstid before he chops some innocent passer by to bits. Here's my CID card,” Miguel said, briefly flashing his off-peak bus pass. “Look, stop messing me around and gimme the f*cking beard!”
“All right, all right, keep you shirt on, stroppy. That'll be nine ninety nine, please.”
“Nine ninety frigging nine for a cheap bit of tat like this? That's habsolutely hextortionate! Here, you Dick Turpin lookalike, keep the sodding change,” he said, handing over a tenner.
“Thank you very much, you're most generous.”
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Miguel shuffled past the police officers taking down the p*rnographic poster. They were so involved in the task that they completely ignored him, even though the combination of his oversized specs, which magnified his eyes to ridiculous proportions, and the huge, ginger Grizzly Adams beard didn't exactly help him to blend into the crowd. Once he got around the corner and he was sure that the officers weren't following him he started looking for the Fishmongers again, but his new glasses made the world look decidedly odd.
He climbed a steep staircase following a sign that said 'Lloyd Dish Solicitors' that he mistook for 'Live Fish Fishmongers'. At the top of the steps he found himself on a balcony with ornate cast iron railings overlooking the High Street, and there were several small business that he never knew existed – the solicitors' office, two tattoo parlours, a psychic called Gypsy Rose Doris and finally, at the end of the walkway, a little shop bearing the sign 'Annabelle Ling's Solarium' in fancy copperplate letters that he couldn't make head nor tail of. “This must be the place,” he muttered, entering the premises.
“Good morning, Sir,” he said to the tiny half Filipino, half Chinese transsexual sitting behind the desk. “Is this the Live Fish Fishmongers, by hany chance?”
“Dish? Solicitors' office down there, you walk straight past.”
“No, Fish.”
“Aah, fish. You smell fish because this prace smell rike Fishmonger's srab, there prenty puss* here, me tell you that for nothing. What type of girl you rook for? You velly, handsome man, prenty big appetite for radies, no?”
“Erm..... I wanted a few dozen live cod, some halibut and bloaters, maybe some sprats and helectric heels if you have any. My dear grandma is half hoctopus, you see, Sir, and my sweet mother is a quarter hoctopus, and they'll only eat live fish.”
“You velly kinky man, you naughty boy! Me not know if we can cater for your unusual taste, but we sure try. Do you rike goldfish? Please stop calling me Sir, me haven't finished surgery yet, but me sure no rook rike broody man. You rike see photos of girls? Here big, fat brochure with tasteful pictures of all our rovery radies.”
“Girls? No, I'm not looking for girls – relations with the hopposite sex halways get me into a hell of a lot of trouble, you see, so I'm considering becoming celibate and joining the priesthood or a remote monastery or something. Ooh, she's nice..... What's her name?”
“Her name Foo-foo, she nineteen years old, velly tiny, velly nimble, suck you dry no time!”
“Actually this one is even more attractive. What's her name?”
“She Chi Yang, rovery girl, another hot piece of stuff, matey boy. She crean, all girls have test at STD clinic every week – bad for business have dirty girls give man scabby co*ck.”
“What about this one, she's a bloody corker! What's her name?”
“That Ping-yang Po, she my best girl, she cost prenty more money than other cheap srags.”
“Money? Is this a dating agency - are you talking about fees to meet the girls?”
“Me tell you what, mister, normarry you pay me two hundred fifty quids for this velly special girl, but seeing as you new customer me ret you have an hour with Ping-yang Po for only eighty quids, special offer. You want prenty fun, or what?”
“Fun? With this delightful creature for eighty quid? Are you kidding?”
“Annabelle Ring never kid. You want?”
“Erm..... Yes, me bloody well want.”
*************************
Ten minutes later Miguel was lying stark bollock naked on a white silk bed in a pink chiffon lined chamber (he had reluctantly removed his glasses and beard) with the most gorgeous creature he had ever seen in his life – the tiny wo/man was sitting astride him in nothing but a skimpy pair of knickers. “Oh, Ping-Pong, you're wonderful, you're beautiful, and I f*cking well love you!” he said as the seductress massaged scented oil with a hint of pepper into his body.
“You ever have rady-boy before, white man?” Ping-yang Po said, but Miguel hadn't got the slightest idea what s/he was talking about.
“Yes, of course, I'm an experienced super-stud, and I've rogered women of many nationalities. Ooh! Oooh dearie me, oh God!”
“Me best,” Ping-yang Po said, which was exceedingly difficult seeing ad her mouth was full. “You tell me Ping-yang Po best ever!”
“You're the best, you're the best ever!” Miguel yelled as Ping-yang Po slapped something he didn't immediately recognise into his face.”
“You reciplocate favour, yes? You want?” s/he said.
“What's this?” Miguel said, holding the thing that s/he had slapped in his face as a dozen policemen barged into the room.
“It f*cking ice-rorry, what you think it is?”
“You're nicked, both of you!” one of them said.
“'Ang on,” another one muttered. “That's the comedian that we saw down the canal wearin' a wetsuit and fannyin' around with that 'uge octopus – an' it's the same geyser on the most wanted list for shafting Samantha the trannie in the nature reserve an' posting massive p*rnographic pictures of the sordid act all over town. We'll get commendations for arresting this fruitcake!”
“Wait!” Miguel cried, peering from under Ping-yang Po's unusual lady bits. “I can hexplain, hofficers. It's a simple case of mistaken hidentity – I was watching Neighbours with grandma at the time, honestly I was!”
“I bet you were,” a particularly large officer said as he dragged Miguel from under the screaming prostitute and smacked him sharply in the balls with his truncheon. “You're goin' down for a long, long time, you dirty bastard!” and then several brawny policemen started to beat the living crap out of him.
“I can't go to prison, you pig-snouted, pork flavoured fascist bastards!” Miguel yelled shortly before he lost consciousness. “I'm too good looking, I'll be ravaged repeatedly by a selection of hardened criminals. And who'll look after my ma and grandma?”
