Candace Lipsalve-Bagwallader has just earned the easiest roll of monkeys she will ever retrieve from her cleavage. A top Tory minister has just paid her a sackload of reeking moolah to get her all nude and buttery in the sack. But what the Rt. Hon member for Shipton-by-the-Leem-Wold doesn't realise is that he may just have, by jumping into this particular sack with this particular sylph-like khazi stalker from the Betty Ford escort agency of hand relief, got himself tangled up in a whole other sack. And a far less stimulating and fragrant one it is too. This is the kind of sack they heave you out of office in saying p. off dolt breath and shaft your poll tax you burgling bugger, dumping you in the cruddy grime of the Embankment without even a lame duck Fourth assistant junior minister to the Secretary of State for Meadows and Fields portfolio to snuggle up with. It's cold, dank and abject down among the dossers and bag ladies and gentlemen, the other failed supremos spewed out by the careless Whitehall rubbish shute into the scary bristles of the Londinium evening. Ms. Lipsalve-B may have taken him halfway to paradise and back home the slow way in a fur-lined rickshaw , but Archie Krugerpistol never counted on washing up in this particular postcode of Wandsworth, tied up with cellotape and reeking of bisto in a home fit for cowards on a sunk estate with a head like a bashed weasel's gonad for his trouble. And light of a few thousand bob to boot, "the scheming udder pinching bint bag" he curses with miffed disdain all over his gistening chops.
CLB hot heels it to the offices of the Daily Murk where, dealing out the saucy snaps like a crap game wizardess on borrowed time and mescalin, she teases a ruefully impressed smile from patrician editor and cat flogger, Piss McFlaphound-Brevity. He knows a funked up Tory arse quivering when he sees one - and this has all the hallmarks of a crisis-meltdown-vote purge, if ever there was one. The hootenanny might just have cooled down a calvin or two by the time they've tippexed the old scrote off the birthday honours. McFlaphound-Brevity chortles, squeezing a bug like a pussy bottom boil. He hates the lot of them and still hasn't forgiven the Tories for the penny in the ponce hike on tabloid gutter-blood-red ink that's sliced a cool several hundred beavers worth of loot off his personal estate. He'll bring the slimey slag dudes down if it kills him in the process. They don't call him the Brisbane bastard crunch for nothing. He cackles like a villain and drags Candace and her unfeasible double barrel down the Naughty Fleshgizard and Scampi to get very very drunk on strong beer.
Back on the banks of the wet trench of drizzle that trickles warmly down the leg of the boss town of England, Krugerpistol lies bound and augmented like a poove from a sexslave catalogue pointing pointlessly at another man's crutch to highlight item 44576/D. Gurning like a marmitey pleb, he hears a piglike snuffling emanating from the kitchen that makes him feel all blotchy like a sweatmonger. "Shitting sandballast", he scoffs and tugs up his lederhosen like a startled goatherd on a rutting splurge in the Ionians. In the dark, with only the light of his digital radio alarm anklet watch to go by, the soon to be dishonourable member sees the fragile glint of a Stanley blade scything through the darkly dawn. "Cobblers", he realises "they really mean it this time. "
To be continued......