HANG BANG
A killing choke broke by my filling poke.
Every evening I cycle to work on my shiny new bicycle, which I lock to a lamp post. However, this leaves my precious machine exposed to the elements, especially our regular English showers, which I fear will tarnish my pristine transportation.
One wet Saturday I arrive to find that the trendy boutique abutting my office has its facade covered with scaffolding. I observe that the frame’s lower platform would serve as an ideal rain cover for my two-wheeler if I chained it to the base of the assembly, its rigid construction providing adequate security against theft.
However, as I am about to fasten my velocipede a man stomps out of the establishment and confronts me. He asserts that my bike will impinge the swank image of the shop. I argue that, as the establishment has closed and the street is now empty of customers, it will make no difference. I further point out that the area is already a mess, cluttered with rubble and equipment from the building activity. But he insists on his stance, bearing down on me with his bullish demeanour.
I resent the domineering manner of this officious, ugly bully. I wonder how such a person has come to be at this fashionable outlet. Is he a security guard or some other churlish jobsworth?
Although I am not afraid of this boorish buffoon, I decide to put my pedalled propulsion elsewhere because I am worried that he will, if I leave it by the store, damage it out of spite once I am gone.
The following day I turn up as usual. As this is a Sunday the adjacent outlet would have been shut, so I determine it should be safe to bolt my conveyance under the scaffold, a downpour seeming imminent. But I notice, to my alarm, a limp human body dangling from the erection, placed exactly where I intend to park. It is a nude, deceased woman, tied at the neck by a noose, her toes dropping to the height of my saddle.
I cannot help but mark that the fresh, feminine cadaver was someone fit and attractive, finely proportioned and in her prime.
Suddenly I am possessed by a welter of emotions, including an intense carnal urge towards this elegant corpse. Surveying the quiet dusk to check that my surroundings are clear, I resolve to satisfy my forbidden desire. So, after removing my clothes, I lean my commuter so that I can, by perching on its crossbar, set myself next to the suspended body, wrapping it with one arm while gripping a vertical support with my free hand to maintain my precarious position. Thus, I initiate my gruesome coitus, feeling the passive weight of the still warm tissues as I thrust deep into her spiritless yet receptive vagina.
As my excitement surges, I perceive slight quivers and twitches in the pretty carcass that I ascribe to imagination. But upon climax my eardrums are burst by a piercing scream as my pendulous companion springs into animation, writhing and wiggling in orgasmic ecstasy.
Despite my odd predicament I compose myself and assess the situation, lifting her onto the planks to relieve the pressure of the garrotte. Supporting her responsive physique, glowing with post-sexual heat, I discern that the rope has changed into some sort of organic fibre, like an umbilical cord. I bite the fleshy twine, severing it between my grinding molars and releasing my panting partner from her knotted bond.
Then my exquisite lady rouses, beaming a lush smile of pure affection at me, like Sleeping Beauty upon perceiving her Prince Charming. I cradle her in my muscular arms, standing strong and dominant like Tarzan with his Jane.
Simultaneously a troupe of can-can dancers appear, arranged across the higher walkways. They perform their frisky choreography, swishing their petticoats and swinging their flexible, stockinged legs while accompanied by brash vaudeville music and their own enthusiastic squeals and whoops.
As the tinny strains diminuendo to a steady pianissimo the cheeky ladies form tight chorus lines, declaiming in their squeaky voices,
“Yes he can, can, can,
Be a man, man, man,
Guess he can, can, can,
See the plan.”
“Yes she is, is, is,
Rightly his, his, his,
Guess she is, is, is,
Quite a fan.”
“How his kinky jive
Made her blink alive
By shoved death loved breath can sigh.”
“Yes they stuck, stuck, stuck,
Through a f,,,”
“Get off there now!” roars an imperious voice, arresting the catchy song mid-line. Everybody freezes and stares at my blustering nemesis, swaggering on the pavement below our jubilant burlesque.
Immediately the revived damsel slips from my hold, scurrying down the poles to cringe before him like a scolded dog called to heel. The show-girls descend the ladders, shuffling into the twilight with a guilty silence. I linger nonplussed until, realising I am unclad, I get dressed, gazing hard at the vulgar clown as I gather my apparel.
He glares back, impotent rage burning beneath his dull countenance, as I scoot a few paces along the road, clamp my transportation to its familiar column and saunter into my place of employment, waving a cheerful goodbye to that incongruous couple, the naked, vulnerable waif shivering besides the scowling, arrogant oaf.
