British capital tale …

In a shop door on Trafalgar second power three shadowy figures stood, unnoticed in the hurly-burly of humanity thronging around on a officious Saturday afternoon. All three wore the distinctive black and white keffiyeh wrapped around their forefront, and sported full-length white thawb gown, their traditional Muslim garb a intimate pile on the streets of Jack London. Each wore a backpack, all three hanging heavily, as if filled with weight unit. glance of Brown University tunica could be seen under their robes as they shuffled uneasily, impatient for the lethal task which awaited them.

They watched carefully as, across the route, a television receiver newsworthiness bunch filmed an interview with a man wearing a hi-visibility waistcoat. Behind him a large radical of similarly dressed people wielded streamer and placard. He spoke to the tv camera, occasionally whistling involuntarily, stuttering and blinking.

"Today 's demonstration … pheeep … is all about g-g-g-getting the British and American g-governments to … kkkk … understand that Tourette 's Syndrome is a very real and and and and and and and and and curable problem. If th ... hhskkkk … the g-governments were to invest Sir Thomas More funding in research, then the problem could cured almost nightlong. As it is, phweeep ... we are misunderstood and mocked. The media portray us as stuttering buffoons, and even comedic erotic fiction author cruelly use us as a vehicle for crummy jest !"

Turning to the crew, he raised a megaphone to his lips and called out"What do we want ?"

In a well-drilled answer, the assembled crowd answered as one :

"A CURE FOR TOURETTE 'S !"

"When do we need it ?"cried the man through his megaphone.

"CUNT !"“ shag !"“ dickhead !"“ ARSE !"“ BOLLOCKS !"came a disorganised volley of replies.

With a sigh, the man shook his head and began to go the sales demonstrator along Whitehall towards Downing Street, where they intended to protest outside the habitation of the Prime parson, who was that day receiving a relegating from the American language embassy.

Unnoticed, the three men in Muslim garb filed quietly into the progression, the marvellous leading the way. His grimace was cut, wan and drawn, dark circles ringed his eyes and a goatee face fungus hung from his chin. His two companions, younger and brusk, trailed behind. One had an under-bite, the early askant centre and a drooping nose with flare out nostrils. They began to chatter to each other.

"Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh,"one chuckled"this is cool !"

"Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh,"chortled the other"yeah !"

The first man turned to his associate and hissed"Silence !"

"Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh, chill out, Achmed, fashion plate !"was the reply.

Through tightly clenched teeth, the initiatory man hissed once more than"secrecy ! I kill you ! Remember, now we do not use our rattling name, so that the infidel will not let out our true indistinguishability. You will visit me routine One from now on, and you will be phone number Two and telephone number ternary. Or else, I kill you !"

"Uhhh, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, that means you 're a Number Two, Beavis ! I did a number two in the can yesterday that floated there for historic period uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh !"laughed one of the unseasoned men.

The reply was pained and immediate"Shut up, Butt-h-"

"SILENCE !"hissed # 1 once to a greater extent, interrupting.

The younger two fell quiet, but one raised his clinched clenched fist behind the man 's back, the middle digit extended. The other tapped a digit against his temple, then rotated it in mid-air, signifying that he believed him to be mad.

Soon the advance neared the end of Whitehall and turned into Downing Street, its security gates conveniently having been accidentally left open air by a police officer in a serendipitous move which allowed the plot to motivate directly outside Number Ten, whereupon the three be-robed figure, no longer requiring the cover of the advance, separated themselves from the demonstrator, and scurried along the sidewalk to the incoming of the bloom Minister 's home, guarded by a single policeman who challenged them as they approached.

"Ello, 'ello, 'ello. What 's all this 'ere, then ?"the old copper enquired.

# 1 answered quickly, his laughable Middle-Eastern accent becoming noticeable for the first time in the story."We 're with ze caterers."

"What 'ave you got in those dish then, gents ?"the police officer retorted laconically.

The three men paused momentarily, holding their breath, a look of panic upon their faces. # 1 opened his rucksack and pulled forth a container of pliable gel. Waving it under the police officer 's nose he said hopefully"Hummus ?"

The Brits bobby wrinkled his olfactory organ at the smell of garlic and hastily waved them past. As the door closed behind them they found themselves in the shameful and white tile receipt area of N chocolate Ten Downing Street.

ventilation a sigh of relief, # 3 spoke first."Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh. That was amazing, dude ! Good thinking to contribute along a pretender packet, to mask all this Semtex. aplomb !"

Deadpan, # 1 spoke"That was not forward planning."The other two looked at each other in alarm."That was my packed lunch."he said, turning his binding on them once more and proceeding towards the main staircase.

The two jr. men laughed once more."Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh !"

"Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh !"

"SILENCE !"admonished # 1 again.

As they reached the top of the stairs they slipped quietly through an open up threshold into a turgid, high-ceilinged chamber containing many people milling about, chatting. Unnoticed they made their way to a table of canapés, picking a crustal plate each and blending into the crowd. Smartly-dressed waiter circulated, carrying trays piled with cocoa wrapped in silver grey foil. A slick-haired man in an expensive-looking case climbed up onto a raised dais at the far end of the elbow room. Using a microphone, he began to verbalize, in an exquisitely unnatural classy English accent :

"Hello, good good afternoon and welcome to my home ! I, as you are of form are mindful, am David Arthur Michael Peter Camshaft, BA hons, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, number 1 noble of the Treasury, top dog Minister for the Civil Service, drawing card of the Conservative company, head teacher of the Governmental coalescence, and Member of fantan for the town of Witless, Oxbridgeshire."he paused for breath"But you can call me Dave."
There was a brief smattering of applause, then Dave continued"I would wish to welcome our adept booster, his excellency Joel Kennealy, the Ambassador for the United States of America."

Another suited gentleman joined Dave on the pulpit and spoke into a arcsecond microphone"Thank you, Dave. May I say what a pleasure it is to be here, and thank you for inviting so many of my swain American ruralist and women here today, too."He cast his gaze at the smorgasbord collection of diplomats and renown scattered around the room."I do believe you have an especially English treat for us this afternoon ?"

"Indeed we do have a very 'British'theme,"Dave replied, emphasising the Logos 'British'. He continued"We have assembled a team of notable Brit to greet you all, and we will shortly sit down to a selection of taste-tester dishes of traditional British foodstuffs. You are all currently enjoying, I hope, a glass of finest English sparkling wine as an aperitif."He too looked around the room at the piece clump of overpaid reprobate.

He saw the ambassador 's married woman take a sip from her glass. Her locution screwed up in horror, as if she had just imbibed a solution of vinegar, stinging nettles and bulldog urine. Discretely she spat the wine back into the glass and poured the integral message into a nearby plant-pot, which contained a tall, healthy-looking green plant. Dave continued"We are rosy to have our meal this afternoon prepared by one of this res publica 's Prime Minister chefs and his brigade, a star not only of the humanity of cuisine but also on our television cover on both sides of the Atlantic with such programmes as 'Kitchen snake pit'and 'The C Word', my master, lady and valet de chambre, I give you …. Mr Gordon Bastard !"

On cue, from a door at the side of the elbow room a man dressed in a double-breasted T. H. White chef 's jacket crown and wacky blue and whiten checked baggy pant ran out and theatrically spring onto the podium to much applause from the audience. He attempted to utter into the microphone but Camshaft hastily snatched it away before his words became audible. Dave spoke hurriedly"Thank you, Mr Bastard, I understand that when all is deliver and correct in the kitchen you will be joining us ?"

The white-jacketed man nodded and mouthed some inaudible Scripture before returning to the kitchen. Camshaft and Kennealy stepped down from the dais and began to indulge in small-talk with the assembled guests, a mixing of British and American English political leader and celebrities.

The Lord Mayor of London, Ivan Goodwood, approached Mrs Kennealy. His bulky, six foot four, two hundred and ninety pound shape dwarfing the petite woman. Due to his elevated height he was able-bodied to look directly down the woman 's décolletage, the square cut of the battlefront of her wearing apparel exposing the tops of her breast.

"Baps."muttered Goodwood, dreamily."Lovely, lovely baps."

"Excuse me ?"asked the Ambassador 's wife, puzzled.

Snapping out of his reverie, the city manager hastily added"Baps, er.. er.. I ... er ... that is to say, I hope we have some lovely baps with this jolly old luncheon, what ? I do so like some squeamish buns."

"Ah yes."was the adult female 's mazed reply.

Seeking to make small-talk, Ivan continued"Er, I say - shall have to have a word with old Camshaft, that plant there,"he indicated the plant pot side by side to the charwoman"looks rather wilted, does n't it ?"

Suddenly, a build pushed past them. Dressed all in fatal except for a bright, sparkly, glittering silver cowboy hat and brown wraparound sunglasses, he leapt onto the stage and began to shout through one of the microphone."ALL YE, HEAR ME NOW ! Ye should all be talking about how to save the world ! Who will utter for the children ?"

"Oh, Christ !"muttered Goodwood"Its bloody Bonko, the boringly heartfelt Isaac Bashevis Singer with the dance orchestra FU !"he rolled his eyes.

Holding his munition blanket the man on the podium suddenly brought his hands together with a loud clap. Several seconds passed, then he clapped again. A unusual silence had fallen over the room, holding all submit in bondage. He clapped once more, then spoke into the microphone, his Irish people accent evident"Every toime oi bring moi hands together ..."foaming at the back talk he clapped again"a child dies ..."

"wellspring stop bloody doing it, then !"Ivan roared. David Camshaft raised his vocalism :

"Security ! Constable Paynting ? Security ! Throw this lunatic out, he 's not supposed to be here, he 's bloody well Irish Gaelic, do n't you know, old chap !"

A door opened and the officer from outside lumbered in."You rang, m'lud ?"he asked. Seeing Bonko, he seized him by the arm and began to sweep up him towards the door. As he was propelled towards the hepatic portal vein, a protesting Bonko yelled over his articulatio humeri ;

"You ca n't do this to me ! Do n't you know who I am ? I did that concert in '85 with Bob Gelding to flow The World, and now cipher 's hungry anymore, and we did that concert in 2005 to End World poverty and now no-ones poor anymore ! Well, certainly not me anyway - I made 1.7 billion dollar bill in Facebook percentage, which after tax is … er … 1.7 billion dollars !"

Constable Paynting began to shove the still protest Isaac Bashevis Singer through the doorway, who continued to gush on, crook, outcry, rattle and hum."Watch it pal !"the rabid Irishman warned"I 'm close-fitting to The border !"

The doorway slammed shut. Audible suspiration of relief were breathed in the room.

Camshaft apologised to Kennealy, but the American simply shook his head and smiled"We 're quite used to Mr Bonko, he spends a lot of fourth dimension in The country. It 's our streets you see - many of our city streets are numbered, like 42nd Street and so on - Bonko seems to like it where the streets have no names. He still does n't look to have found what he was looking for, though. However, I must say, I do n't do it what he 's doing here ?"he jerked a pollex towards a small, skinny pale teenager. The young was wearing a baseball cap back-to-front, and his trouser hung down at the waist, exposing his underwear. He fiddled with an expensive-looking cellphone.

Camshaft looked at him quizzically."I have absolutely no idea who he is. My deputy sheriff organised the invites, we tried to get as many famous Americans as we could who were in capital of the United Kingdom at the moment, just so this would be a great photo opportunity for us all."

Kennealy replied"That 's Jason Beeper - he 's a pop maven alright, but he 's Canadian !"

"Oh bloody hell ! Where 's Legg ? LEGG !"he yelled. The Deputy heyday rector, Rick Legg, an insignificant little man with a impudent lawsuit and foppish haircut, appeared.

"Yes, Dave ?"he squeaked in a high voice.

"You invited a Canadian, you idiot !"

"Sorry, Dave. They all sound the same to me."he trilled.

Camshaft cuffed the pocket-size man around the head."Go and see if illegitimate is nearly ready, then we can show our guests the menu."

"Yes Dave."yelped Legg.

"Well, what are you standing there for ? Run along now, there 's a undecomposed crevice !"

"Yes, Dave, sorry Dave."piped the piffling man before scuttling off.

Across the room two men were deeply engaged in conversation. Multi-billionaire American business leader Ralph Sachs, owner of Sachs Plaza, Sachs towboat, the Sachs cassino, Sachs Air airline business, Sachs headphone cellphone caller, Sachs Drugs pharmaceuticals, Sachs toy dog novelty giving firm, the Sachs Appeal charity and many other party, innkeeper of democratic American TV show"The Dogsbody"chatted to his opposite number, multi-millionaire noble Alun Honeycomb, host of the UK version of 'Dogsbody'. Two smartly dressed char stood with them.

Honeycomb was an East-London Max Born and bred man had started out as a market carrell trader in his teens and worked his way up, unlike Sachs who had inherited the crime syndicate business from Ralph Sachs senior after finishing a business concern degree at Harvard.

Honeycomb was speaking ;"Gor, blimey Ralph, me ol'chinaware, robin to lay me mincing machine on yer again, its been a longsighted nickel since we net had a coney innit ?"

"I 'm gloomy, I 'm afraid I do n't have a cue what you 're saying."said Sachs, confused.

The char accompanying Honeycomb spoke up. Tamara knight, the winner of last yr 's 'Dogsbody'wore a chic clientele cause, with a skirt just above the articulatio genus, white blouse and luxuriously dog."He says 'Hello Ralph, my old mate, good to cast my heart upon you once more, its been a longsighted time since we last had a public lecture, is it not ?'” she translated. Seeing Sachs'space manifestation she said"Cockney rhyming vernacular. He speaks like this all the meter off camera."She rolled her eyes."Communist China scale, Ilex paraguariensis, Erithacus rubecola Hood, good, mince pies, heart, nickel and dime bag, prison term, rabbit and pork barrel, talk."

"Blimey, I do n't adam it ! Do you septics ever use yer loaf ? Your thirty-three 's bit tasty too, Ralph, squeamish barnet, pretty human, cracking thrupennies and khyber, adorable 1st Baron Verulam, that short uncle above her biscuit shows 'em off proper, she gets my Hampton standing, knowworrimean ?"burbled Honeycomb.

Tamara translated again"He does n't believe it, and wonderment if American language use their mind. Robert Adam and eve, believe, infected tank, Yank, loaf of bread of gelt, head. He was also complimenting Mrs Sachs on her appearance."She smiled, not wishing to read 30 three and a third to bird, a slang full term for woman, Barnet fair to hair, human race to brass, thrupenny, or three penny bits to mammilla, Khyber Pass to ass, bacon and eggs to legs, Uncle Bert to skirt, biscuits and cheese to knees and Hampton taper to prick.

"She 's 'is trouble ?"exclaimed Honeycomb"Gordon Floyd Bennett ! wellspring I never ! Made a bit of a 'James'of meself there !"

Giving up the pretence of translating, Tamara simply said"He did n't realize that Annelle was your married woman, Mr Sachs, and he fears he has made a fool of himself."She felt it unnecessary to translate 'James Blunt'from the vernacular.

Sachs replied"No, no, that 's okay. I did n't see a give-and-take of it anyway. How on earth did you pick up what it all means ?"

"I learnt Cockney from my aunty Louis Comfort Tiffany, she was a early Pearly Queen of London !"said Tamara, enthusiastically.

"Aunty Fanny ?"enquired Sachs with a snigger.

"auntie Tiffany."Tamara corrected.

"Whatever, if you 'll excuse us, we 're off to blab out to individual who can speak English people around here. Come along, Annelle."He swivelled away through 90 level. Unfortunately his toupee only turned through eighty-five degree, ending up at a flimsy Angle across his head.

Sachs'married woman, Annelle glared angrily at the leering Cockney businessman. She also glared jealously at Miss horse, who was dressed in a exchangeable business sector causa, short skirt and heels corps de ballet as herself, but was about XX age younger, then spun on her heel and followed her husband.

In a ludicrous eastern European stress, Annelle spoke to her husband"Ai know zis is my firstly visit to zis contry, but zey are so strainge. Ai vonder vhy zey are so veird ?"

"You 'll get used to it - the Brits are naturally eccentric, and if you spend too much time here you end up the Saame way."her husband replied laconically."Like my old sidekick Jim D'Loreal. He 's in prison at the second y'know ? Started his own byplay building the D'Loreal mutation car, but ended up smuggling cocain to keep his business afloat. Sad shell. Gone completely mad. Last time I went to visit him he was gibbering, told me that when he gets out he 's gon na convert one of his cars into a fourth dimension machine, go back in time and prevent himself going incorrectly. looney idea."

In another part of the room, American singer Kitty Parry chatted to a ginger-haired young man. She wore only diminutive hot-pants with wiz and stripe printed on, and a glittering, gold, tight strapless boob-tube top, which was struggling to hold in her ample breasts. She giggled coquettishly as she spoke in a diffused Southern accent mark"So, y'all really the likes of went to the war in Iraqistan, then huh ? Y'all must be like, so brave."

The Englishman 's gaze was fixed firmly on her tit. His eyes did not lift as he spoke, his upper-class speech pattern as shrewd as a rhomb cutter."Oh yah, one certainly did serve one 's meter out there with the jolly old troops, what ? Never showed an snow leopard of fear though. One used to fly one 's jolly whirly-copter around, machine-gunning those damned Tallybun fellows just like in a telecasting game. They used to try to disguise themselves by standing out in opened fields, tending great deal of sheep but they could n't put on one, one used to let 'em deliver it just the same !"

"Golly,"simpered Parry"it must be like, so cool being an English Prince and all, y'highness."

"Oh yah."retorted Prince Barry"By the way, I say, jolly resplendent wheeze of you to come in a fondness dress costume, you look just like Wonder cleaning lady !"

"Fancy dress costume ?"replied Parry, confused"No, I like, always dress like this."

"Ah, one sees."said the Prince, deflated."wellspring, anyway, perhaps we could go somewhere private after this, and one will show you one 's Royal brand ?"he winked.

At that level a gong rang, summoning them all to the conterminous Terracotta Dining Room, where they were all to be seated around a large circle table.

The three shadowy trope in Muslim attire watched intently as the various famous person and politicians, the great and the good, obediently filed into the Dining Room. They saw diplomatist and royalty, singers and histrion, so many renowned faces.

There was Jeremy Clarkshead, donor of hit TV motoring show Top snick, broadsheet Shitner and Clark Westwood, veteran actors, Darren Peckham, soccer instrumentalist, EP Jims, writer of the mysteriously successful erotic best-seller '50 refinement Of Grapes', a bizarre tale of S & M set amongst England 's wine-growing frat, which had originally started life as a fan-fiction version of receiving set 4 's 'The archer', and a smiling inadequate man with frizzy, permed hair wearing candy-striped Dolfin shorts and a pink waistcoat festooned with Swarovski crystals, who jogged and danced on the spot as he queued to enter the dining room.

Shitner flipped unfold his clam-shell cellphone and muttered quietly into it.

As the diners began to settle in their prat, Annelle Sachs quietly whispered into her hubby 's ear, excusing herself. She tottered on her dog towards the threshold which was marked WC but at the finis mo, glancing over her shoulder to ensure no-one was watching her, she slipped instead through the threshold to the kitchen.

Around the table the guests began to inspect the menus set out on the table before them. Ralph Sachs regarded his with a potpourri of suspicion and disrespect."What the hell is this ? heptad courses, and I do n't recognise any of them !"he roared.

"Would you like me to explain them to you ?"uttered the sweet tones of Tamara Knight 's voice.

Sachs whipped his head word to the rightfield, towards the sound of the vocalisation. His toupee, caught unexpected, righted itself upon his pate. He smiled as he saw that the attractive Ms knight was seated to his right.

"Okay,"he said."What the hell is this - cocky-leeky Soup ? Is it made of prick ? And Lavabread ? You make lolly out of lava ?"he guffawed loudly.

Tamara smiled"No, silly, cock-a-leekie is made from wimp, barley and scallion, topped with prunes. It originates in Scotland. Laverbread - with an'r'– is a Welsh dishful made from seaweed."

"Not bread, then ?"asked Sachs, confused.

"No. Not bread."said Tamara.

Not wishing to appear pillock in front of the attractive young fair sex, Sachs perused the ease of the computer menu in silence.

''Toad In The cakehole'? What the fuck - they eat frog here ?'he thought to himself. His eyes scanned the sleep of the menu. 'Faggots in gravy ! holy crap ! I knew these Brits were a bit backward, a bit stand by in the yesteryear, but eating homo ? Jeez, that 's harsh !'His eyes bulging, he leaned across the mesa, to where the frizzy-haired man with the crystal-encrusted top sat quietly smiling, humming a gay little tune to himself and doing small aerobic actions with his hands.

"Simmonds !"he hissed, in a harsh rustling."Simmonds - a word of warning ! I 'd hold open quiet if I was you. You do n't wan na fuck what they do to people like you in this country !"

Sachs looked further down the card. 'Spotted shaft ! With custard ! Sheesh ! I think I 'll nullify eating this diddlysquat and go for a MacKing hamburger afterwards. Not even the Brits could fuck up a right fast-food burger … could they ?'

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Annelle Sachs quietly observed the scene, as chef Gordon bastard gave professional advice to his brigade of trained cooks.

"YOU !"he screamed."WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT ? ITS SO BADLY BURNED IT LOOKS the likes of A PORTRAIT OF NICKI LAUDA ! ITS SO BLACK THAT THE FUCKING KLU KLUX KLAN WOULD HANG IT ON visual modality ! YOU ! GET THOSE FUCKING BANGERS IN THE FUCKING hitter AND INTO THE FUCKING OVEN RIGHT screw NOW - YOU 'RE SO ass SLEEPY THAT NOT eve A kiss FROM A piece of ass HANDSOME PRINCE WOULD WAKE YOU UP ! YOUR psyche SHUTS DOWN Thomas More OFTEN THAN THE nookie AMERICAN administration ! YOU 'RE SO SLEEPY AND DOPEY YOU COULD BE 20 octonary POINT FIVE PERCENT OF THE nooky SEVEN gnome BY YOURSELF !"

"Yes !"was the squeaked response.

"YES, WHAT ?"yelled Bastard.

"Yes, Chef !"replied the hapless caterer.

"WHAT YES CHEF ?"

"Fucking Yes, Chef ?"came the quaver, nervous answer.

"RIGHT ! FUCKING 'FUCKING YES, CHEF !'WE 'LL MAKE A screw CHEF OF YOU YET !"turning round the elbow room, he shouted"AND WHERE IS MY nookie PENCIL ? AND ..."His eyes saw Mrs Sachs for the number one metre."AND WHAT THE fuck ARE YOU DOING IN MY shtup KITCHEN ?"

"Chef Bastard, I must … mouth vit you at vonce."she said, solemnly and quietly."Eet is emportant ! Somevhere preevat, perhaps ?"

Gordon 's already furrowed brow managed to ruckle even more. Puzzled, he indicated a doorway which led through to a walk-in solid food storage room. Annelle stepped through, followed by shit, who closed and locked the door behind him.

"What the shtup is all this about, dame - and be quick, I 've got a shtup meal to air out soon, solid food in, cooked, sent out, done."he said.

"I hef to say zis to you ..."said Annelle, falling to her knees, her curt skirt riding up, displaying the lacy round top of her Negroid stockings, offsetting the creamy white-hot milkiness of the soft shine tegument of her second joint."I haf alvays vanted you, you are so strong, so mastervul, so manly, and now zat I am here I must haf you, here und now !"

She grabbed his trouser, tugging them down. The elasticated waistband easily allowing her to take out them to his knees. His cock swung free, and she plunged her sassing over it and began to shake her head teacher back and Forth, her lipstick leaving a brilliantly red tide-mark around the al-Qaeda of his stiffening member.

"Here, what the roll in the hay do you recall you 're do ... .ooohming"SOB began, his row fading as he looked down to see that Annelle had loosened her blouse, and that her ample cleavage was now seeable, the picket Caucasian flesh of her heaving titty complimenting the ken of her spreading thighs. As she sucked and slurped greedily at his rampant rod he closed his heart, allowing himself to succumb to the pleasurable star coursing through his body.

Suddenly she broke away and, twisting around, she pulled her skirt up around her waist. She bent forward across a convenient work-table, spreading her legs and pulling the black lace of her panty to one side, exposing her glistening twat."roll in the hay me, fuck me now, Chef !"she urged, with a breathless sex,"Thrust your brat of ecstasy deep into my schnitzel of delectation !"

"shtup me,"muttered Bastard"That cunt is so wet it looks like a fucking freshly gutted mackerel !"

He stepped forward and penetrated her, his manly heart cleaver slicing between the voiced folds of her ardent feminine pulp. They began to bray together, she gyrating her articulatio coxae back towards him, whilst he grasped her making love handles, pounding into her with assuredness. They humped together into a rodeo of passion, each jabbing bringing airless the orgasm they both sought in their brutal, animal love-making. Their breaths now becoming shorter Annelle began to moan with pleasure. shit too began to grunt, as his pleasure rose, his bollock bulging with repressed come, seeking to unblock their load.

Finally, Annelle shrieked"I come, I come, my interior goddess squirts the succus of blessed dearest !"

As her paraurethral epithelial duct secreted liquidness, which passed out through her urethra with a force out of 2.74 pounds per square toes in, his own ejaculation began, his sex funnel blasting its creamy fondant icing lading into the cavern of her waiting moist donut.

Panting, he withdrew from her. She stood up straight and, after re-adjusting her clothes, bring forward, gave him a wad on the boldness and walked out, casting a cheery"Zank you !"over her shoulder as she did so.

She slipped back into the dining way unnoticed, calmly taking her keister at the table once more. She noted with displeasure that her new competitor, Tamara horse, was sat on the early position of her husband.

Meanwhile, Dave Camshaft looked around the table. He was annoyed to see one president empty."Legg !"he cried out.

"Yes, Dave ?"responded his surrogate, eagerly trotting around to his master 's side.

"Who 's supposed to be sitting there ?"he said, pointing towards the vacant seat.

With consternation, Legg said"Oh, that 's supposed to be Wankl Pose, of the rock group Guns And Posers, Dave."

"Huh !"snorted the nearby Jeremy Clarkshead, rudely interrupting"He 's always bloody late. In fact, he 's the a la mode rock champion .... in the world ! He was hours late when he was doing our 'Star In A Crap Car'feature for Top Notch."

"I do n't remember seeing him on your display ?"queried Camshaft.

"No, he was so late it had got dark and the photographic camera crew had … gone home ! So he did n't appear !"

Camshaft looked at the TV presenter."Why do you put those long pauses in your conviction, Jezza ?"he asked.

"I have absolutely … no estimate !"was the reply.

"Anyway, Legg, go get someone to supercede him, find an MP or someone."said the Prime Minister.

"Yes Dave, sorry Dave !"piped Legg, disappearing off.

Outside the dining room, the three foreign figures huddled together. # 1 spoke,"Now is our time to strike ! You know what you each have to do. Allah will reward us ! Do what we have planned, my young friends !"

The two younger men walked away in paired focal point, # 1 towards the kitchen, whilst # 2 slipped quietly back on a lower floor towards the strawman door. As he tip-toed quietly down the stairwell, he saw two suited men beginning to ascend. Ducking unseen into an alcove he allowed the men to pass off. He overheard one chortle and say"Are you really for certain I should be here, Legg ? I do n't recollect Dave will appreciate it ?"

The simpering wrick Legg answered"No, no, Dave told me to get an MP or something - you 'll do !"

The two men passed by, and # 2 continued down to the inside of the nominal head door, whereupon he quickly removed various packages of plastic explosives from his rucksack, taping them to the inside of the room access, and connecting them to a cell-phone. He then drew a Glock pistol from the bag, and scrambled back up the stairs.

As he had done so, Constable Paynting had emerged from a position door in the vestibule, zipping up his fly after a surreptitious visit to the men 's room. He had ducked behind a tall-backed chair, and slowly followed the unwitting # 2 up the staircase.

Meanwhile, upstairs, # 1 had walked into the kitchen. From his ruck-sack he had pulled an AK-47 and fired a volley of shots into the ceiling. The stir and bustle of the meddling kitchen came to an quick halt, as the chefs froze, staring at the man with the gun.

Gordon Bastard roared"WHAT THE FUCKING HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY FUCKING KITCHEN ? FUCK OFF YOU shag FUCK SCROTE ! YOU 'RE ABOUT AS MUCH FUCKING USE AS A nookie subterfuge LESBIAN AT A FUCKING FISH-MARKET ! WE ARE FUCKING CHEFS AND WE HAVE piece of ass meal TO PUT OUT, COOKED, PLATED UP, OUT, DONE !"

# 1 spun around, and aimed a burst of gunfire above Bastard 's oral sex, blowing his hat off. Bastard froze, only managing a squeaky"shag whoops !"in a high voice.

As all this occurred, Rick Legg had sat the newcomer in the vacuous seat at the dining way table. Dave Camshaft had broken away from his conversation with Clarkshead and Keneally, his boldness a rictus of amazement and disgust.

"What on earth is HE doing here, Legg ?"he said.

Legg stammered his answer"B-b-b-but you told me to get an MP or something, Dave !"

Camshaft 's grimace was now enrage"I meant one of OURS, you idiot ! Not Nigel pasturage, loss leader of the UKXIP, the United Kingdom Xenophobic Independence Party !"He reached across the table and cuffed Legg around the ear once more.

"Ouch ! Yes, Dave, sorry Dave !"squealed Legg.

Forage guffawed"Do n't care, Dave ! I can acquit myself - at least these Yank are almost Brits - its not like they 're from Bongo-Bongo acres or anything is it ?"He was silenced by the audio of the discriminating theme of gunfire from the neighbouring kitchen. Everyone around the tabular array froze, and flinched once again at the phone of the second salvo of bullets let loose next doorway. In that moment, terrorist # 1 stepped into the room, waving an Uzi 9 mm machine handgun. He too fired a flare-up of guess into the ceiling ( this being very much the done thing in such office ).

The kitchen door opened, and the chefs filed into the room with their hands on their heads, followed by # 1, his AK-47 levelled at their backs. # 2 entered from the former side, brandishing the Glock. All stage muttered to each other, in whispers of affright and desperation.

# 1 spoke in a loud voice"SILENCE, heathen ! YOU ARE NOW PRISONERS OF THE PEOPLE 'S social movement OF JIHAD !"at that, he whipped off his thawb, exposing a brown armed forces tunic. His two fellow traveler did the like, and they now stood in their uniforms and headgear.

Ivan Goodwood spoke first"Ha ha ha, gracious one ! Are they a Yasser Arafat tribute act ? A male version of the Andrews Sisters or something ? just one, Legg, we can always rely on your for some entertainment !"

Terrorist # 1 glared at him, whilst rick Legg shook his head, denying all affaire in the current twist of storyline.

# 2 muttered"Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh, I thought we were the international jihad multitude 's Front ?"

Through clenched teeth # 1 hissed"No, multitude 's Front Of international jihad. jihad People 's figurehead ? Cawk ! Splitters !"

# 3 whispered"Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, I thought we were The Popular Front Of jehad ?"

"FOOL ! Popular nominal head ? Splitters !"hissed # 1, now beginning to salivate slightly after so much fizzle. He continued, towards the hostages"We will throw you jailed until our demands are met, infidels !"

At this, the previously unnoticed constable Paynting stormed into the room."STOP !"he cried"You are under hitch ! If you do not comply, I warn you that I am armed, and will draw my weapon if requirement !"

The three terrorists looked at him in warning device, but did not respond. Paynting took a recondite breathing space and reached inside his crownwork. With a flourish he pulled forth a foot-long wooden truncheon."Ah-ha !"he said confidently.

The three terrorists stared at the billystick, then at their own firearms, then back at the police officer. Recognition that his billy-club was useless against pistols, machine-guns and rifles began to dawn on him."Ah ... er .. um .."he muttered"I guess I 'll join the prisoners, shall I ?"

The three terrorists smiled and nodded.


Terrorist # 1 continued to issue rescript to the hostages"We will release all you chefs - you are of no use to us. You will leave by the fire loss at the rump. When you get external tell the heathen security service that they will abide by with our demands or we will obliterate the surety. All the entrances are booby-trapped ..."

"Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, he said ... dope !"muttered # 3

# 1 continued, after flashing an angry glimpse at # 3,"All the entrances are rigged with explosives, and we will detonate it if there is any endeavor to enter the building."

# 3 began to show the chefs through the fire going. As he did so, Chef Bastard crouched amongst them, attempting to hook out too."NOT YOU !"screamed # 1, firing another fusillade of shots above the chef 's principal, sending pieces of plasterwork and detritus cascading down over the hapless crouching man, who turned around and slowly grovel back to rejoin the rest period of the renown surety. After the freed chefs had descended the fire escape outside # 3 closed the door and attached charge card explosives to it, as # 2 had done to the front door. # 1 herded the hostage into the kitchen, in order to construct it easier to keep an eye on them.

# 1 remained in the dining room. From his back-pack he pulled out a modest loud-hailer and strode across to the window. Hiding from aspect behind a curtain he peered out into Downing Street below. Despite the unfeasibly abruptly period of time of clock time from releasing the unimportant hostages, policemen were scattering around. Police cars, their blue luminance flashing, were parked across the street in both directions, marksmen in riot gear pointing rifles towards the windows of turn Ten.

At one end of the street fire motortruck were parked, their crews all were either stripped to the waist or with their crown undone, exposing their taut torsos, their finely-honed six-packs and their luxuriant tanned skin. They adopted manly airs, leaning and posturing around their gleaming machines, in the manner of fire-fighters across the globe. No-one knows why firemen do this, but it drives the women wild.

At the end of Downing Street, in the thoroughfare of Whitehall, a thin blue line of policemen stood, their arms linked, holding back a surging multitude of Thomas Young people, mostly hysterically screaming girls and Whitney Young homosexual men. Behind the line a policeman yelled into his walkie-talkie"SARGE ! We need more men down here, there 's thousands of them ! encumbrance of teenage cocotte and poofs ! Its all to do with that Jason Beeper - he 's tweeted that he 's a surety and now all his Beleepers are on their way here - they reckon there 's fifteen million of 'em !"

Inside Number Ten, still hiding behind the drapery, # 1 used his loud-hailer to yell into the street"WE HAVE THE HOSTAGES ! WE volition killing THEM UNLESS OUR DEMANDS ARE MET ! WE WILL make out OUR DEMANDS SOON !"

tush him, a phone began to ring. Terrorist # 3 picked it up. A representative said"hi, I am detective inspector Michael Sheke of the Metropolitan Police strength, we are get up to negotiate. What are your need ?"

# 3 began to laugh softly, as was his wont"Uhh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh ! You mean we can exact anything ? Hey, Beavi-uhh, number two, we can demand anything ! Cool !"

"Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh !"chortled # 2"Hey, lets demand pizza pie !"

"Yeah, pizza, pizza with spear carrier pepperoni !"grunted # 3

"But no anchovies ! Huh-uh, huh-uh !"

"And beer ! Uh-huh, uh-huh !"

"spear carrier pepperoni ! Huh-uh, huh-uh !"

Suddenly noticing the two untried men on the speech sound, # 1 screamed through his loud hailer"SILENCE ! Let me talk to the infidels !"striding over to the telephony he continued to use the megaphone"INFIDELS !"

At the other end of the phone, Inspector Sheke recoiled as the feedback from the loudspeaker system whined in his ear. Holding the headphone at arm 's duration he listened as # 1 made demands for the release of political prisoner world-wide, secession of Western scout troop from Islamic State of Afghanistan and Iraq and a nice dish of falafel with an eggplant fattoush and tabbouleh.

Ending the call, Inspector Sheke spoke to his deputy"We need to call up a group meeting. Have everyone at my spot in New Scotland thousand in half an hour."

Within thirty minutes an compartmentalization of police officeholder, anti-terrorism experts and army officer had assembled at the headquarters of British capital 's police force-out. That good afternoon 's edition of 'The Fulham & Hammersmith account'ran the headline 'Mike Sheke brings all the boys to the Yard'.

At the meeting, Brigadier-General Sir John St-John Johnson, commander of the SAS, assumed boilersuit thrill. His plan, he revealed, was to surround Number Ten with a cordon of crevice commando soldiers to prevent anyone going in or out, then to rage the building at nightfall with an elite team of SAS troops.

"What, a squad of troops with no underwear on ?"asked Inspector Sheke.

"No, you idiot, Marine Commandos !"was St-John Lyndon Baines Johnson 's pained reply.

Meanwhile, back inside Number Ten, it had been put to the terrorists that as a gesture of good will they should release one surety in takings for the solid food that was to be sent in, in edict that the circumstance of the remaining hostages could be assessed and assured. # 1 spoke to the hostages, penned in inside the kitchen"muteness ! We are to exhaust one of you. Who should it be ?"

The side hostages leapt to their feet, each one pleading that it should be they who was to be set free.

Prince Barry bleated"It should be one ! One is too unseasoned to die ! One is the spare in case one 's brother snuffs it - One 's an important fellow, do n't you know ?"

# 1 snorted"silence ! I should kill you - you obliterate many just fellows by 'bravely'machine-gunning them from your chopper. But ..."he paused, a lecherous grinning on his expression"... your mother, she have several honest Muslim rooster before gentile Special Services bump her off - Paki Doctor, rich shop-keeper 's son, she have many Robert Brown in. For that, I spare you !"

"Me ! Me !"wailed Nigel Forage"I promise I 'll say only nice things about you rag-headed goat-herders in future ! I 'll be a changed man !"

"No, it should of course be … ... ... me !"Intoned Clarkshead.

"Me !"pleaded Tamara knight"My auntie Louis Comfort Tiffany will be so occupy about me !"

"aunt posterior ?"giggled # 1.

# 2 and # 3 chortled."Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh - she said 'fanny'huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh !"

"Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh !"

No, Aunt Tiffany !"corrected Tamara, crossly.

"Does this mean we 're not getting any dinner ?"asked a handsome but bewildered Darren Peckham.

Camshaft, Legg and the puffing Goodwood all also made their plea. Meanwhile the American language, as one, all pointed at the man with the crystal-encrusted sweater, who was quietly jogging on the spot, smiling and still humming a little line to himself.

"HIM, HIM !"cried the Trans-Atlantic visitors.

"Very altruistic !"mused # 1, his vocabulary suddenly becoming expanded."You imperialistic infidel dogs surprise me."

"Nothing altruistic about it !"answered embassador Keneally"We do n't want to be cooped up in here with him - kick in him another half-hour and he 'll stimulate us all sweatin'to the oldies !"

# 1 spoke again"Very well, we will commute this old man for our falafels and … pizza."he hissed the final Son of the sentence, adding a gnarl"Imperialist Western junk food, pah ! It is as bad as your pagan movies !"

"Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh, like what movies, beau ?"enquired # 2

The answer was sharp"Like your foolish 'Flintstones'– my cousins in Dubai do not like it. However, my full cousin in Abu Dhabi do !"

All three terrorists peeped out from behind the curtains into the street as the man in underdrawers and aglitter pinafore jogged his way to the police cordon, passing a bulkily-dressed man carrying several boxes of food. As the man neared the door of Number Ten, terrorist # 1 exclaimed with alarm"No ! I do n't think it - I recognise that man !"

"Uhhh, like who is he, dude ?"said # 3

Taking a sharp ingestion of breather, # 1 said"He 's The Popular Front Of Jihad !"

They watched amazed as the man reached the steps of Number Ten and, pulling a electric cord from inside his clothing, exploded. Cous-cous, chick peas, pomegranate seeds, cheese, pepperoni and body parts flew in all directions.

Realising that their dinner had been destroyed, all three terrorists yelled at the remains of The Popular front Of Jihad as it flew past ( and partly onto ) the windowpane"SPLITTER !"

The blast-proof threshold of Number Ten remained undamaged.

Whilst this took place, the surety had begun to spill amongst themselves. Veteran actor Bill Shitner sidled over to Clark Westwood"Psst ! Westwood !"he hissed"When they come back in, I 'll submit out the two little guy rope with my phaser, you shoot the big guy with your .44 Magnum !"

Westwood sighed"You have n't got a phaser, Bill."

"No phaser ?"said Shitner, his hand flying to his hip"Damn ! This planet must have an anti-weaponry shell around it, it must have dematerialised my phaser when I beamed down. Okay, I 'll take the big guy out with a clout, you shoot the former two !"

In the kind of vocalism normally used when talking to small youngster Westwood said"I have n't got a .44, Bill. It 's not real."

Shitner flipped open his cellular telephone once more"Berk to Enterprise, this is master Berk here - there 's grounds of some sort of brainwashing or hypnosis going on at the aliens'pinnacle meeting. point of view by for further information."He shut the earpiece.

Around the room, others were talking. The surety, fearing for their lives, had begun to say out trashy matter that had been cooped up within them for years. They began to discourse things they had never revealed to a subsist soul before, in rules of order that they might clear their consciousnesses if they should die.

Kitty counter spoke firstly"Ah have something to say."she said, in her ingenuous southern accent"Do y'all remember mah low hit ?"

Ivan Goodwood interjected"Oooh yes, that one about kissing a girlfriend and liking it ? Splendid air - I loved the approximation of you snogging another chick, I wank ... er listened to that many a metre !"

parry fluttered her eyelashes and continued"fountainhead, it was n't that when ah first wrote it, the record ship's company made mah change the words. The master was 'Ah Kissed A Goat And Ah Liked It, and it was a confessedly report ! When ah was a adolescent ah once had it with a goat, just to see what it was like, ah went into a field, took off all mah clothes and got down on all fours in front of this caprine animal, and he climbed up on meh, and 'did it'if y'all know what ah mean value ?"she blushed.

Everyone 's jaw dropped, no-one knew what to say. Finally, Mrs Keneally broke the silence"That must 've been awing !"she exclaimed.

"Oh yeah."Parry replied"When ah went to kiss him goodnight, his breath smelt terrible."

"No, no, I mean it must 've been painful, were you suffer ?"was Mrs Keneally 's reply.

"Oh yeah, really hurt."said counter"When ah went back there the following day he did n't even make out me, acted like he 'd never seen me before. The bastard !"

Tamara Knight spoke next"I 'm so envious of you, Kitty."her looked with near idolization towards the American singer"You 're so sexually liberated. I 've never had an coming ! I 've tried it with respective different men, but it did n't happen."She looked down sadly.

"Y'all should try it with a woman !"said Parry brightly.

Goodwood could contain himself no longer"What, you mean you really do lez it up sometimes ?"

parry blinked her reply"Why sure - ah am from the trench due south, ah have been having sex with all mah buddy and sisters. Since the age of long dozen !"

Goodwood began to dribble at the nook of his mouth.

Tamara stood up"Would you try to move over me an coming, just once, in display case we die ?"she asked.

counter said"Why, sure dear, if only there was a topographic point we could go ..."

Gordon Bastard coughed and motioned towards the room access of the walk-in food storage elbow room where he and Annelle had enjoyed such rampant sex just a short time earlier.

Blushing, Tamara stood up as pool took her manus and led her towards the store-room. Ivan Goodwood leapt to his feet with surprise agility for one of his majority, and attempted to follow the two women through the door.

Surprised, puss said"Just what do y'all mean you 're doing ?"

"I wan na watch !"said Goodwood, beginning to salivate at the voyeuristical possibilities unfolding before him.

Confused, Kitty shrugged her bare shoulders and, in one deft movement removed an expensive-looking Cartier timepiece from her wrist and dropped it into Goodwood 's hand. She slammed the door shut in Goodwood 's face and dropped the latch.

An aggravate Goodwood stuttered and flustered"B-b-b-but, but, er … ah … I did n't mean I want a watch ...."he shook his head, then pressed his ear against the threshold to listen. Due to the thickness of the insulate door he was unable to hear the two women commence their love-making, and sadly returned to where the repose of the hostage were sitting.

Alun Honeycomb was convulsed with laughter"Looks like you missed out there, Ivan ! Nice Cartier, though. When I used to own Yiddenham Hotspurs football game Club,"he pointed towards the good-looking but permanently bemused football player Darren Peckham"we used to call him 'Cartier'”

"Why was that ?"asked Goodwood, puzzled.

"Because he comes in a Posh box !"spluttered Honeycomb, referring to Peckham 's married woman Posh Tart, from the young lady group Pop-Tarts.

Mrs Keneally spoke up"Mr Bastard, I must say I admire you very much. I am particularly impressed by the way you have succeeded despite your Tourette 's, in prospect of the manifestation outside earlier."

bastard exploded"TOURETTE 'S ? FUCK OFF YOU snatch ! I SPEAK LIKE THIS ON FUCKING intention, I DO IT TO IMTIMIDATE, BELITTLE, DEMEAN AND EMBARRASS OTHER TOSSRAGS AND TO hide MY OWN PERSONAL INSECURITIES AND INADEQUACIES."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the store-room door, Kitty and Tamara had removed their clothing ( it had n't taken Kitty long ), and Tamara had laid full distance along the board. Kitty was gently stroking her hands along the smooth soft skin of Tamara 's ruffle body. Up and down, from the earlobe and nape of the cervix, across pale-skinned berm, voiced, yielding breasts, taut belly and on, sliding quickly over the os pubis before stroking thighs, sura and finally feet.

pool gently sucked on Tamara 's big toes, first left then right. The prostrate woman sighed gently, enjoying the well-practised men teasing her physical structure. jackpot 's lips and tongue began a slow journeying up her easily parting legs, finally arriving at their destination - the terminus of Tamara 's sex, the soft pink lips of her womanhood parting damply as kitten 's tongue and fingerbreadth probed them, a pollex circling the starfish of her anus below.

Kitty laid into her with outstanding aplomb and much zest, becoming a slurping, licking, gulping, fingering dervish of passion. Tamara moaned gently, enjoying the feelings, but her breathing held steady, sweat did not bead upon her goose-bumped skin, her boldness did not level red with pleasure, disordered chaotic hotshot did not course like flack through her dead body, nor did any of the other clichés associated with female climax in erotic fiction occur.

Eventually a perspiring, panting Kitty pulled away from the subject of her torrid battery of love-making.

"Jesus Christ Christ !"she spluttered, her backtalk dripping with sparkling love-juice"I 've tried everything I know, and still no dear ?"

An embarrassed Tamara shook her mind. Silently the disappointed pair dressed once to a greater extent ( that did n't ingest Kitty long, either ) and rejoined the others.

Expectantly, Ivan Goodwood boomed out"So ? What happened ?"

Both women shook their heads.

Spluttering with laughter once more, Alun Honeycomb blurted out"I guess that just goes to prove the old proverb … ... .. 'Tamara never comes !'”

Miss knight glared at him"Shut up, Honeycomb, you 're nothing but a lying, cheating, old barrow-boy, my Aunt Tiffany told me so, she remembers you when you were Edward Young !"

Still laughing, Honeycomb said"Aunty Fanny ?"

"AUNT Louis Comfort Tiffany"said Tamara angrily.

The disappointed ( and hungry ) terrorists rejoined the hostages.

"SILENCE"yelled # 1. Everyone rolled their center, beginning to get bored with him shouting that all the time. He continued, pointing at Chef bastard"YOU ! You will misrepresent us something to eat. Do you have anything Halal ?"

cocksucker shook his head"Sorry, we only have organic meats here, cipher that has been tortured to death."

# 1 raised his brow threateningly, but before he could talk Alun Honeycomb interrupted.

"Betcha got some Kosher stuff though, eh, son of a bitch ?"he chortled.

mother fucker shook his oral sex once more"Sorry, we only have organic fertiliser meat here, zip that has been tortured to death."

"quiet !"screamed you-know-who again"YOU ARE YIDDISH DEVIL ?"he pointed his weapon at Honeycomb"I KILL YOU !"

Honeycomb laughed"With a expert Jewish gun ? Way to go I suppose !"

# 1 glared at him, then stared suspiciously at his firearm."This .... is Jewish ?"he said uncertainly.

Roaring with laugh Honeycomb said"Of course of instruction ! The Uzi nine-millimetre was developed for the IDF by John R. Major Uziel Gal in 1950 !"

"But, but, but, but …. Arnie … in that pic ...'I 'll be back'..."he shook his head, becoming tempestuous"SILENCE ! I KILL YOU ALL !"he levelled the weapon.

Alarmed, # 3 spoke quickly"Uhhhh, dude, if you kill 'em all ..."at this point # 2 briefly nodded his head rapidly, his hands imitating the acting of an invisible guitar"... we wo n't bear any surety left, and the infidel dudes will bust in here and belt down us !"

"Allah will honor us, my Friend - seventy-two Virgin await us !"snapped # 1"But … you do get a point. Perhaps we do n't need to go to Allah just yet."he added hastily. To the surety he yelled"I KILL YOU ALL … LATER !"He stomped back into the dining room.

Relieved, the hostages began to clack amongst themselves again. Several of them quietly praised the two younger terrorists, who had saved their living - at least for now. A few of them began to make funny interference with their back talk, weird, unworldly, disjointed sounds.

"Oh my god !"exclaimed Ivan Goodwood"They 're beginning to show planetary house of Stockhausen Syndrome !"

"Do n't you think of capital of Sweden Syndrome ?"interjected Dave Camshaft.

"No, Stockhausen."continued Ivan"They make all sorts of strange electronic type auditory sensation, that multitude pretend to appreciate but really no-one ilk or understands them, its all some arty-farty orchis !"

Suddenly, led by puss Parry, female voices burst into Sung dynasty, as Mrs Keneally, Tamara and Annelle joined in a Sweet chorale tune :

"Is n't it rich ?
Are we a span ?
Me here at shoemaker's last on the reason,
You in mid-air ..."

"Oh fucking hell, its getting worse !"Goodwood blurted out.

"What now ?"asked a confused Camshaft.

"Stephen Sondheim Syndrome"said Goodwood.

At this breaker point, broadsheet Shitner spoke up"Do n't vex folks, just when it seems we 're doomed, Snotty will find a way to turn back the polarity on the dilithium crystallization and send an inverse tachyon balance beam through the forward antenna array to get a lock on our signal, and just in time we 'll all be beamed out of here, leaving the bad guys unrewarded. And I 'll get to shag the green woman."

Everyone sighed, shaking their heads. Westwood whispered to Shitner once more"Its not real, Bill."

"Perhaps we should all make a massive orgy ?"said Kitty brightly ( and rather hopefully )"If we 're all gon na die we could at to the lowest degree go out with a bang !"said

"Rather !"said Prince Barry, brightly"If we 're going to be cooped up in here, then we could all get wino and bring our wearing apparel orf ! Its jolly serious fun !"suddenly realising what he had said, he blushed and, his voice falling to a whisper, continued"wellspring, it worked for me in Lope Felix de Vega Carpio, anyway !"

For some reason, all eye in the elbow room drifted to EP Jims, best-selling ( for some unfathomable reason ) writer of poorly constructed erotic pseudo-literature. She smiled"That would be a expectant way to add Thomas More sex, if this was a story,"she said, pausing for a moment"but it would take a lot of description. If you were working to meet a deadline you 'd never have fourth dimension to put such a conniption in, even if that was what you had intended to do right from the start."

As the irony set in, each role looked around the room. A silence fell, as the death rays of the afternoon sun shone through the window.

Suddenly, there was a expectant noise and clamour. Glass shattered as smoke grenades and thunderflashes exploded. Men were heard shouting in loud, harsh articulation. The three terrorists scurried amongst the hostages, throwing off their uniforms as two balaclava wearing soldiers of the Special Air servicing burst into the way brandishing firearms.

"WHICH ONE IS BEAVIS ? WHICH ONE IS BUTTHEAD ?"they demanded.

A terrified # 2 muttered"crap, Butthead, they know our epithet !"

"AH-HA !"yelled one soldier"YOU 'RE BEAVIS ?"he pointed his gun towards the frightened young man.

"No, I 'm Beavis !"squealed Kitty.

"No, I 'm Beavis !"echoed Tamara.

"No, I 'M Beavis !"exclaimed Annelle.

"I 'm Darren ?"said the perpetually perplexed Peckham.

"Huh."tutted one of the soldiers."I know what to do ... .has soul in here been ...."he paused, taking a abstruse breathing place"BREAKING THE LAW ?"

Involuntarily, both # 2 and # 3 leapt to their feet, nodding their straits wildly, their men thrashing about in mid-air as if playing guitars. They chorused a mantra of"BREAKIN'THE LAW, BREAKIN'THE LAW - BREAKIN'THE LAW, BREAKIN'THE LAW - BREAKIN'THE.."

Their voices were drowned out as simultaneous blasts of gunfire from the two soldiers cut them down.

Meanwhile, terrorist # 1 had slipped unnoticed out onto the fire escape. Quietly he tip-toed down the cast-iron steps, intending to make his cowardly safety valve. He reached the bottom and began to fawn silently away.

Suddenly, from the phantom stepped another soldier, his putting green beret and the obelisk emblem on his shoulder identifying him as a appendage of the British people Army 's 29 Commando Regiment. He pointed his rifle at the terrorist.

Their eyes met for a legal brief bit - hunter and hunted, piranha and target, experienced soldier and frightened amateur. prison term seemed to stand still for an eternity, until the terrorist made a sudden attempt to prove his weapon.

A blast from the ranger 's L1A1 rifle took him down.

As he regarded the now-dead terrorist, the soldier allowed himself a wry smile at a job well done. He raised the gun barrel of his weapon system to the vertical and with a single breath theatrically blew away the wisp of smoke that coiled from it.

He uttered but a single Word of God, his Birmingham speech pattern ringing all the way in the early on evening air.

"Twat."

Shouldering his weapon, the old soldier turned and walked slowly into the sunset.



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Epilogue ( pt1 ) :

As the relived surety left the building, Tamara Knight was greeted by her auntie, who explained to her that her epithet was, in fact, Fanny, but she 'd never had the substance to correct her social-climbing niece.

Ralph Sachs, wandered quietly into the nearest branch of MacKing, only to discover that, having been hold back XX instant to take in a lukewarm and tasteless Burger, the British people can indeed get laid up fast food for thought. Beyond all recognition.

Darren Peckham, still confused, wandered about, complaining that he had n't had the dinner he 'd been promised.

kitty, Annelle, Tamara and Mrs Keneally surreptitiously disappeared off to an expensive hotel, where they booked themselves into the biggest suite there and participated in an athletic lesbian orgy which lasted most of the night. Tamara still did n't birth an orgasm.

Chef Bastard swore a bit.

The rest of them prepared to spell ledger based on their experiences, and signed multi-million dollar hand with 'Hello', 'Life'and 'Playboy'magazines.

They all lived happily ever after.

Epilogue ( pt 2 ) :

Meanwhile, in a blank space and time beyond recognition, two new men awoke in a elbow room filled with billowing swarm of fragrant steam. They were naked, face-down and saltation to matching chez-longues by diffuse scarves of silk.

They heard the distant, indistinguishable cackle of immature charwoman and, as the steam began to clear they could espy a gaggle of attractive young women, wearing the seven veils of seraglio womanhood, peering from behind lace drape hanging across an bowed doorway into another room.

The two men began to chortle.

"Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh !"

"Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh ! Hey ! D'ya reckon those are the virgins we were promised ?"said one.

"Huh-uh, huh-uh, yeah ! But why are we tied here, the babes wo n't be able-bodied to reach our weiners if we 're face down !"

Suddenly, they heard a conversant shriek behind them, followed by a howler of"secretiveness !"

"Huh-uh, huh-uh, Achmed, fashion plate ! You made it too !"exclaimed one of the bound men"Our babes are in the side by side room, sheik, huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh !"

Then a huge voice boomed out, almost deafening in its intensity and chroma."ACHMED ! BEYOND ARE LXX Virgo, AS PROMISED !"

The articulation of Allah continued"BUT FIRST, YOU MUST DEAL WITH THESE TWO !"

"Aggh ! No !"squealed Achmed.

"HUH ?"said the two younger men.

Achmed began to holler, an agonized, mournful howl. As the two untried men realised their sodomistic fortune, they too began to scream - all three chorusing a wail that echoed into eternity ... ..



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Authors Note :

The writing of this account was begun in early on September 2013. Towards the end of that calendar month a real-life terrorist siege occurred in Nairobi, Kenya, which left 70 hoi polloi dead. put to work on this report was abandoned in the light of those terrible events but, after some soul-searching, writing re-commenced some week later.

A conclusion was reached that, for the ordinary man and woman on the street, the best way we can stand up to terrorism is to carry on as normal, to show those who would use the turkey and the slug that we are not afraid. There are many precedence to picture how wit has been used to hold up terror in the past.

When Britain faced its glum hour in 1940, with the strength of a belligerent United States Army poised to infest, and end raining out of the sky by night and by day, the multitude of Britain did not shirk. Rather, they sang bawdy song speculating on the genitalia of the administration of their foeman, they put up humorous posters and they told jokes.

In the United States of the States, in the wake of the dire atrocities of September 11 2001, the likes of Jeff Dunham ( who's work has been so blatantly plagiarised here ) also satirised those who would use terror as a artillery. An recognition also to the work of Mike justice, which has been plagiarised here also.

By mocking act of terrorism we defy it, and lessen it. We shall not be cowed by those who would attack and vote out innocents.

So there ! Nah-nah nah-nah-nah !