"Fook
Fook," she
shrieked. "I must speak with you
immediately".
Feijoa just
knew it was going to be another of those days
pandering to the vicissitudes of the hapless stream
of misfits who frequented Pithy's
Bar.
"I'm coming Madam".
As the words passed his palate, he realised the poor
choice of phrase.
"Oh stop teasing me Fookie,
why must I always be the object of man's
desire."
Madam Mangoes had
been the result of an over-indulgent mother and an
indifferent father.
Spoiled rotten on the one hand, confused and
alienated on the other, by the fact that, although
her father had consummated the marriage, he had since
then ceased to have need for the opposite sex in a
physcial or emotional sense.
"Yes Madam,
how can I help."
"Who are those two 'hornbags' at the end of
the bar?"
"That's Carrot
und Schtick
the identical twins."
"Impossible, they look nothing alike."
"Schizophrenic. Don't let on you know."
Carrot und Schtick has
been discussing their latest group session.
"I don't agree with the diagnosis that
Lothar has Tourette's Syndrome just because he keeps
saying kiss my arse."
Madam Mangoes
swept down the bar, like a galleon under full sail,
her voluminous breasts heaving forward as if to
engulf everything in their path.
"Can one of you boys light me up?"
she oozed.
So overcome by her countenance, Schtick
dropped the already alight Zippo into her cavernous
cleavage, searing the flesh as it descended.
"Deranged faggot". She screamed.
"I may be confused, but I'm not a pillow
biter".
Running Pithy's was
not Feijoa's
first choice of vocations, he had been forced to find
legitimate employment after a disastrous foray into
Gerbil Futures. For the moment, he suffered in
silence.
In another part of town was a scenario of another
fragrance.
Armand de Quince was
toiling in his laboratory with his nephew. Plotting
to overthrow the popularity of Pithy's
after being ejected following the incidence of his
self-exposure to (and delight of) Madam
Mangoes.
"Bring that apparatus here you snivelling
wretch," whined Armand.
"Why can't you treat me like a real Persimmon?"
lisped his nephew.
Persimmon's
preferred handle in his own milieu was Homo Erectus,
self-explanatory in itself.
Unbenown to Quince, he
was derisively referred to as Old
Lemon Lips.
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