Velvet Eyes
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P Coltrane

K=iss2In 1973 Pin Aloysius Coltrane was born 12 months premature into a family of travelling agoraphobics. After becoming a real boy in 1998 he spent most of his time reinforcing his assumption that he was destine for greatness by considering how to spend the rewards of his future achievements. This unfortunately left little time to accomplish anything worthwhile, which included getting himself to the bathroom in time to prevent the usual unpleasantness. In 2009, amidst his annual panic attack which started every pancake day and lasted at least until he ran out of pancake mix, he realized that he was getting nowhere fast, and so decided to channel all of his efforts into giving up 'thinking about trying' and devote the rest of his life to filling his red bloated face with biscuits from the Good for You range dipped in Reggae Reggae Sauce, while watching TV in heavily soiled underpants. This was until Velvet Eyes dowsed the smouldering fire inside him with jets of flammable inspiration.

Beginning #172-D
It was a about 9pm on a Sunday and the urge to kill myself just to avoid another Monday was building to a crescendo. Fifteen minutes and my own body weight in sugar later, I found myself laughing in the direction of something I had seen in an episode of My Family. Robert Lindsey's notoriously prudent character was close to orgasm at the thought of successfully avoiding spending lots of money, when unsurprisingly, his miniature faced on screen wife forced the ball less cretin against his will to spend lots of money. Thus creating a very funny situation, or so I thought. I assume that Robert Lindsey's character, being a heterosexual married man, would be equally apposed to being arse raped. But that certainly wouldn't make a funny situation... wouldn't it?
As I sat there staring at the TV, my laughter quickly turned to tears. How had it come to this? I'm watching the most soulless and unimaginative sitcom on TV, with punchlines that would be no more obvious than if they had a toast master announcing their arrival by setting light to himself. What was I going to do for an encore? Expose myself to some pensioners or force myself on a swan? Have I slipped this far down into the darkness that there is no way back for me? I started to feel more and more unclean, like I'd been in the same clothes for a week instead of just a few days.
At that moment I heard a loud thud from outside that sounded like a wheely bin crashing to the ground. At once my primitive instinct to protect my wheely bin at all costs kicked in. I stopped sobbing like a rohipnoyled Robert Lindsey rubbing Savlon into his anus, and got up to investigate. Cautiously I opened the front door only to find the Foxy Bingo Fox himself on all fours dragging a day old chicken carcase out of a torn black sack. Startled by my sudden appearance he stood up, adjusted his tie, and in a nerves voice said “Hello, I'm the bin inspector. “ As he waited for my response I saw him momentarily glance down at the chicken bones. “You're not the bin inspector.” I said. He turned to run but he was already doomed. I flew into a blind rage and grabbed the nearest thing from the bin I could find. As I swung my arm down the three quarters empty bottle of 'Reggae Reggae Sauce' I was holding made contact with his glossy pelt. As the bottle shattered on the back of his head, I let out an uncharacteristically high pitched scream “Yahtzee!” As he dropped to the floor like a felled tree my heart sank. What had I done? I fell to my knees like the producers of My Family negotiating another series.
Ironically, it was probably the smell of the Reggae Reggae Sauce that drew the Foxy Bingo Fox to my bin over all the others in the street. If only you could get Reggae Reggae Sauce in a squeezy bottle, then our coming together would have at worst culminated in a less tragic jet of sauce fired down my sleeve or over his head, or even a slightly amusing audible raspberry accompanied by a low pressure spray of sauce fanning out by roughly 90 degrees, give or take a degree or 5. As I sat there for what seemed like 15 minutes, trying to mentally calculate the angle at which a plastic bottle would expel its last few grams of sauce when slammed against the back of a foxes head, I suddenly sensed that I was not alone.

Dog Fight
I turned round and there in the doorway of my house was the crumpled figure of an old man dressed in charcoal slacks and a black blazer festooned with military honours. He was sitting in a wicker and iron bath chair, with his head and hands cloaked in sack cloth, he was as motionless as a pensioner at a green traffic light. But despite what my eyes saw I could feel a golden aura of wisdom and truth about him and an inner beauty that could make the marble statue of a rapist weep. Although covered, I could tell that the words I started to hear were not coming from his lips but instead channelled directly from his mind to mine, just like at a drive through. It was at that point that I knew whatever this being was going to tell me would be enlightening and wise and would deserve nothing less that my full attention. Surprisingly though, he started by suggesting I should strongly consider having relations with the corpse sprawled out on my front lawn. He was dead anyway he said so I may as well get a quick bumming in before we dump him out on the road to make it look like a car's hit him. Before I could react he also pointed out that if I felt at all uncomfortable molesting a fox's cadaver, I could imagine it to be a form of anal CPR. He then asked me to just give him a second before I started so he could get his phone ready to record the whole incident, and that, if I could hum the tune to 'She'll be coming round the mountain' through clenched teeth as I pound his rear quarters, it would really help him to maintain a steady rhythm as he watched it back later. As I vomited into my hands at the thought of sodamising the human anus of a six foot fox, I started to sense an aura of satisfaction building around the man in my doorway.

First trial passed, Check!
“Congratulations Mr Coltrane, and please accept my apologies for this evenings events” he said. He then explained that although his method may not have been pleasant, he had to be sure of my mental state: because, he suggested. “When a person is laughing at the sitcom My Family, there is every chance that they are a very disturbed individual, and almost certainly beyond any chance of rehabilitation. He continued “I can now see that you are simply a man at the end of his tether. If a regular viewer of the sitcom had been offered some lifeless bum action they would have certainly whooped and cheered like a gypo at a dog fight. But you showed me you had more respect for yourself than that the moment you vomited into your own hands.” He then started to explain that he was here to open my eyes and mind up to his world and show me what he could see. Suddenly and without warning, two enigmatic wolves dressed in ball gowns appeared behind him, each placing a pour on his shoulder and softly swaying to an inaudible but seductive rhythm.” As he spoke of the tasks he had in store for me, the nights events began to replay in two second long bursts but ordered in reverse. As the night's trial played it appeared different, instead of the vicious blow to the fox's head it was displayed as a gentle tap to the noggin with my pinkie out stretched as I held a bottle of reduced fat Reggae Reggae Sauce in a squeezy bottle. The proceedings were more theatrical this time round. The fox even bows as he removes a top hat, allowing me to obtain a cleaner blow. I started to feel that the scenes were constructed in this way to somehow repair the mental trauma I could have sustained from my ordeal. After a short while I was back sitting on the sofa where I had started. All alone again but this time something was different about me and the room I was sitting in. With a new sense of clarity that I had never felt before, I very quickly realized what it was, I could now see the world through velvet eyes… oh and he'd taken my DVD player.

 

 

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