India

They found a mint condition MX Peacekeeper missile.                                                         Fover two decades the peace had been kept.                                                               Until now.                                                                                                                       They fired the damn thing at three cities.                                                                                       One nearby city was on fire...                                                                                                 three separate 1 megaton airburst weapons from India fell upon them...                                     a counterstrike would soon follow and more besides.                                                               A game of chess with 1 megaton bombs and millions dead...                                                   It was beautiful.                                                                                                                             Each blast was a sunset...                                                                                         Our American missile set World War 3 off.

Spud Time

Cecil Eccleswaite the 3rd was a raving lunatic. You didn't mess with Cecil. He's put to create kaos, destruction and take over the world. Currently he's on the number 13 bus from Manchester to Bury, Lancashire. No one in Bury had any idea what would shortly happen. And only one man had a chance of stopping Cecil - Gonk, a Royal Marine.                                                                                                                                         

Cecil was sat upstairs. He smiled maliciously to himself. Suddenly he stood up and reached into his pocket. A big breasted woman screamed and pointed, "Oh shit! That man has a suicide vest on! We're gonna get fried!"

"We're all going to die!" shouted the woman, her big cleavage wobbling like prize award winning spuds.

Slowly Cecil removed his hand from his green jacket. It held a potato. His smile was evil. So were his words. "Wrong! I'm the spud thrower."

"Are you on drugs?" a brown haired youth asked.

"Shut your tater hole!" Cecil angrily replied.

"Fuc..." was all the youth managed to say. A single potato hit him in the mouth, wedging there. The force smashed his head through the window. Blood jetted everywhere and his neck was broken. Panic erupted!

Cecil Eccleswaite the 3rd stopped it. His hand moved faster than Ricky Valentino with his gay lover. A medium sized spud looped through the air, bounced off a seat and hit a red haired man in his throat. "Ugh," muttered the dying man.

The blond lady jumped out of her seat and ran at Cecil. A potato hit her upper right arm, breaking it. She became violent. "You fucking weirdo!" A metre from Cecil, she jumped.

"No you don't," he retorted. Another spud hit her temple and half her skull fell away. Still she advanced!

"Death by cleavage! I'll show you!" were her last words when she fell upon her enemy. Her 84DD tits popped out of her gigantic black silk bra. They were like quivering live things unlike her almost dead body that had a figure like a sack of spuds.

"Get off me you mad head!" roared Cecil. The woman's big breasts straddled his face and her nineteen stone flattened Cecil. A potato went ballistic and hit a quiet pensioner, killing her. Cecil's lights nearly went out. Two breasts, each one weighing as much as a lawnmower suffocated Cecil. Would the dead Russian shot putter, Olga, save the world?

No! Cecil invoked the alien God of Mauve potatoes and threw the Russian bird off him like a drunk downing a pint. Cecil was mad!

"I'm the potato gangster! Die you human underlings! Death by potato," he screamed, red in the face. he chucked three dozen spuds. The remaining six on the top deck died. Their injuries were severe and fatal.

"Who's the man? I'm the man, the man of spuds!" shouted Cecil as he ran to the stairs and jumped down. A man was on his way up to see what the commotion was. Cecil's size 6 gardening boot sent him flying and a small potato entered the top of the man's skull, such was the speed of Cecil's superhuman strength and aim.

"Oh God save us!" whimpered a body builder, his beef cake muscles trembling.

Cecil heard him and grinned. Holding up a potato, Cecil nodded, "Do you know what this is? Do you young man?"

"A potato," answered the alpha male.

"Yes, a humble potato."

"Are you ill in the fucking head, you spud brain? You waffle on about bullshit."

"No, I'm the spud chucker!" laughed Cecil. In an under arm move he launched the spud. It hit the fifteen stone muscle man, breaking three ribs. One popped through his spam vest.

The man stood up, spoke and took a step forward, "You fucking freak."

"Good observation," confirmed Cecil, aiming again. The potato hit the muscle man, knocking him down dead. Twenty two other passengers sat still, frozen in awe and fear.

"Potato death time!" whispered the madman. In a power wank move that a humming bird would have envied, Cecil launched seventy potatoes. Ten missed due to the panicked bus driver swerving his bus of death. Blood ran down the walkway. Cecil advanced to his last enemy - the driver!

"Who are you? Are you mad? What the hell are you? You got a chip on your shoulder?" challenged the driver, frowning and failing to hide his terror. The answer was a barrage of baby spuds, five hundred of them. Perspex shattered, plastic punctured, metal bent and the driver died. By psychic spud power the bus drove straight and level, a steady 30mph.

Cecil Eccleswaite the 3rd sat down on a flip down seat like a couch potato. I've done a terrific job on my step to take over the world, he evilly thought. Soon this planet will be mine! All mine and I'll colonise it with more alien spuds, then take over the universe...

The number 13 bus pulled into Bury bus station. No one dismounted. Everyone was dead except Cecil. He reminisced of HIS moment. That time he was abducted by mauve aliens in a potato shaped UFO. A voice monotoned on: "Oh they took me. And experimented on me in twenty six ways. Oh how I enjoyed their strange technology and sense of humour. I'm my own person now. But most of all I love the gift they gave me. Look at the beauty of it. Look at it!"

Around Cecil, a sea of death oozed, dripped and occupied. The only person dismounting the bus was Cecil...

The Saturday shopping day in Bury was busy. A European market, full of damn foreigners. Cecil hated them. It made him boiling mad. Especially the French. He spied a Frenchman. "Hey you! Your potatoes are crap! Not like mine. Mine are the best, finest taters in the universe!"

The small Napoleon sized Frenchie ran round his stall, goaded on by Cecil. He carried a fake French stick with a steel cosh inside. With surprising agility the man swung his tool. And missed! In bemusement he looked around.

"Behind you big man! There you go Mr French Fry," Cecil whispered. A barrage of potatoes obliterated the French market trader. His body was broken.

"I'm the potato chucker and it's spud time! Spud time! Spud time! Spud time!"

People ran around in terror! Most thought it was a joke by the EDL till an English trader had his head removed by a large spud. His headless corpse ran about, blood shooting from his neck. An eerie call echoed over the market. "Spud time! Spud time! Spud time!"

Cecil's spud throwing exceeded ten thousand medium sized potatoes a minute. He threw them rapid rate. Broken bodies stacked up like severed limbs on the battlefield. In three minutes over two hundred people were dead. Sixteen nationalities, male and female, young and old.

"I'm the man! I'm Cecil Eccleswaite the 3rd and I'm the spud thrower. Spud time! Spud time! Spud time!"

He moved to the shopping centre and more carnage. Some shoppers had glimpsed the market horrors and ran for their lives. Then stopped. Cecil stood at the main entrance, a black menacing shadow against the high summer sun. CCTV recorded his every move. A code blue call had been issued. The Marines were coming! They weren't happy, having to leave their chippy tea mid meal.

Taking a step forward Cecil opened fire. A torrent of spuds cut forth. He knew the soldiers were coming! His next three minutes were well spent. Aim, fire, aim, fire. On all three levels of the shopping centre, in a hundred and eighty nine shops it was the same story - death! Cecil murdered over three thousand people. Everyone inside the Wheatsheath shopping centre. Task completed, he emerged at the far exit.

"Job well done!" he muttered. Suddenly Cecil heard and faint roar and shouted orders. The Royal Marines were here. Before battle commended Cecil had one last job to do. Wipe out all the other chippies, shops, businesses, houses and factories in Bury. Holding out his hands before him, Cecil opened fire. It was ferocious and out of this world - half a million mauve spuds shot out of his hands in a treacherous stream. Individual spuds were invisible, it was a river. Upwards and out it went, to seek out and destroy people wherever they were. Hiding or being indoors would do no good - these were hunter killer tomatoes! Half a million people would soon die.

"Open fire! All weapons, rapid fire! Now!" came the command. It was high pitched and belonged to a big Marine, a yank, embedded within the British Marines. His unit opened fire with all manner of weapons: 5.56mm SA80s, SAWs and M-16s; Heckler and Koch 9mm; Browning 12.7mm sniper rifles and M3 heavy machine guns; Javelin missiles, bazookas, 81mm mortars, 105mm howitzers and potato shaped hand grenades.

Cecil was hit six thousand times and stood his ground. Every single bit of ordnance bounced off him. He grinned and commented, "That your best shot lads? Keep your eyes peeled and you might kill me."

"Re-load and open fire!" came the reply, the Texan accent strangely odd in middle Lancashire.

"Fuck you yank! Spud time! Spud time!" roared Cecil. His potato fire mostly silenced the second bout of Marine fire. He held his hands outwards and arced them upwards. Ten thousand spuds whooshed heavenwards, to fall upon the distant howitzer guns and nearer mortar crews. A single swipe silenced the Marine's remaining small arm fire. Bloody and broken mashed up bodies showed a brave and futile defence. Bury was fucked. Or was it?

"I'm Cecil Eccleswaite the 3rd. Soon this whole planet will be mine. I'll kill you all by potato fire. What a scoop that'll be."

A single gunshot echoed forth. Gonk, a small fry eight stone marine, had sniped Cecil ever since CCTV had picked up the market attack. The 50 cal Raufoss mixed use bullet blew Cecil's fucking head clean off! Armour piercing, incendiary and high explosive splintered his alien induced brain, like a masher mashing spuds.  Only his standing body remained, looking like a battered chip.

"Don't fuck with the Marines! One shot, one kill. That's a scoop. Happy days!" smiled Gonk. With difficulty he shouldered his Barrett rifle. It was as long as he was tall and a challenge to lift. "Happy days indeed."

Jumping off his rooftop onto a car roof, Gonk fell through the glass sunroof, before emerging at street level from the Lada Riva estate. "Fuck a duck! Works in the movies."

Cecil remained in position, headless and still. Gonk advanced upon his enemy, rifle ready. But Gonk wasn't ready for what happened next. In an alien movement, controlled from afar, Cecil's tweed trousers fell to the floor. He wore no underwear.

"You gotta be shitting me! He's got no cock. It's a... potato stump!" Gonk gasped.        

Cecil's potato stump was indeed that, a potato stump, implanted by aliens back in 1986. He gyrated his hips and fired one six in potato, mauve in colour. Gonk fired his rifle. And missed! Gonk never missed. Till now. The spud removed the Marine's head and Gonk fell down dead.

Cecil grew a new head! A potato sprouted forth. And his body rapidly changed, turning into a large spud.

"Now I'm Mr Potato Head! A real hot potato!" he shouted.

Suddenly Gonk stood up. He was a spud too! "You are my Spud Gun Soldier!"

"What the fuck have you done to me?" Gonk, now renamed Spud Gun Soldier, asked in shock. Looking down at himself, with his new head, a potato, Spud Gun Soldier tried to pick up his gun.

"Oh no my dear Spud Gun Soldier, you won't need that useless toy now. You're like me, a potato killer. An alien. You kill by shooting potatoes at people from your hands. The same way I do," Cecil, now called Mr Potato Head, explained. He looked like Humpty Dumpty.

Spud Gun Soldier tried to shoot a spud at Mr Potato Head to kill him. A small baby blue spud emerged from his hand and fell to the ground. "What the fuck?"

"You're my slave. Together we shall conquer the world and kill everyone by potato violence. Prepare to go to war!"

"Hooya potato death! Gimme some more chips!" screamed Spud Gun Soldier.

"One potato, two potato, three potato, four..." sang Mr Potato Head...

Soon the world would be theirs and then alien potato heads would invade.

 

my you tube channel check my mad vids out lol

https://www.youtube.com/user/nickspoetrybooks/feed?view_as=public

wreck the tv lol

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NZKZ-jn7_54

CHOKE POINT

CHOKE POINT

 

Our roads are at choke point

as traffic descends into gridlock chaos.

Cars, lorries, buses and vans

all bumper to bumper in a traffic

jam ten miles long. This is a vision

of the technological world

in which we live where both man

and machine grind to a halt.

 

Above Our City

Messerschmitt Me-410 night fighter formates behind his prey - a Lancaster bomber. Hunter and hunted in formation. Below the city glows and pulses like a live thing. Orange lighting up the ground clear as day. Bright yellow when incendiaries ignite or buildings collapse. White flashes when high explosive detonate. Our German kin are being murdered down there.

Above us is darkness, black night hiding clouds. Trapping the souls of the dead so they witness the spectacle below. Pin pricks of light, hundreds of exploding flack shells from our guns. Hell is here! I feel my pilot throttle back. I know he is aiming at the Terror Bomber. Our little surprise will wake up the Tommie and send them straight to hell.

Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam! roars our 2 and 3 centimeter cannon. Dozens of cannon shells spear forth into the night, crossing the two hundred meters between out 410 and the Lanc. Contact! Small explosions sparkle and dance between his port wing engines. Live flame circles and roars. Metal falls away like confetti upon my dead wife.

I see none of this attack. I sit facing rearwards, aiming the rear guns, manning the radios and radar system. I loosen my straps and lean forward. Over Rudi's shoulder I can see hell unfold. Our Lancaster flies wings level, on fire, over the city. One engine is dead, he slows. As does Rudi. I can even see his bomb bay doors open! I watch speechless, in awe. Rudi fires again.

Hello, my name is Hans. I'm the rear gunner and radar man. I explain to the Tommie. He smiles, I'm Dennis. I'm the rear gunner. Your cannons blew me in two. It's ok. Rudi is in deep conversation with the Lanc's pilot. Your plane is really magnificent. We've nothing like that. Easy to shoot down though with our cannon. Alfie replies, Yes to both old chap. You hit our bombload.

(based upon a black and white painting I saw as a kid in a book)

BRICK WALL

BRICK WALL

 

 

This high brick wall borders East and West, a Cold War frontier that symbolises the divisions between two mindsets. A time of paranoia and of being taken away in the night, soldiers only following orders, you’re going to the East, not to be seen again as you’re an enemy of the state, Stassi style.

For those who resist and fight there is only one option, eliminate the enemies of the East German state, line them up against the wall and shoot them in the name of Communism. For over 60 years, in a time of Germany’s rise and fall this wall has seen it all, the bricks know some stories as the bullet holes show. Each one a life that wanted to leave this state-run prison and head for the west and freedom.

From the last war to this one, fading graffiti marks a 60’s revolution that failed, now long forgotten, rotting condoms from some Fraulein’s trade, the oldest game. This is Berlin and the divided city, in the divided country, in the divided world.

One wall tells a people’s story, as plaster falls to the ground, a battle with time and tyranny, it stands strong like the people it repressed in 1970’s Germany. If her population could look to the future, they would see freedom and the fall of the wall,

not this one but their wall, the Berlin Wall and the death of their enemy – Communism.

Yet too late to save the fallen ones, murdered by the State for daring to have an idea and to dream.

 

Fey Times

Fey Times
Oh this unwelcome thing in my head has returned on this beautiful July summers day. I felt its onset, of this thing, last night. My sleep was troubled. Like a few rough waves before the cyclone hits home. An hour ago it hit me, a varied mental assault. Anxiety machine gunning my mind. Taking no prisoners here. Hidden inner darkness rattles its lid and wants to escape the box. Fuck you! Stay where you belong. Don't bug me. Instability wants to up end my stability for a laugh. I won't let it. This shit is invisible to others but real to me, even though it's in my head. Lodged in my brain. Some say I'm dangerous and crazy, what do they know? If I let the genie go, such people would be fucking dead. I fight, not them but the inner demons that taunt me, try to take away my happiness. This is war and I'm out to win. Even when life kicks you in the teeth, keep fighting. Don't ever give up. I won't.

YOUR HOUSE

YOUR HOUSE

 

You build your home in a dangerous place: don’t you think you’re at risk against nature’s might? A danger of landslides and bush fires all waiting to happen to you and your little home. You say the view is great and there’s so much land.

Just stop and think, remember back to last year and the tragedy when ten died fighting to save what was theirs and failed.

Now you’re okay and the sun shines down making you happy, no cares in your world.

Who knows how long till the flames will sear your bones and char your house in the next disaster in your area?

Hell Fire Fairies 

   Stacy was a girl who was just like any other; she had nice long light brown hair and grey eyes that were full of intelligence and life. She was a tall captivating lady with a full figure and ample assets, not too big. She caught the attention of a guy quite early on in her life. His name was Nigel; he was only two inches taller than her and of equal intelligence and creativity. He was an author, matching her career as an artist. Both were the best in their fields and had made considerable money from their endeavours. Neither was materialistic, both lived for one another and the simple joy of being together and unconditional love. For five years they had been couple and they were planning a pagan hand fasting wedding the next summer, it had to be right and just for them. Something very special to remember that day bringing them closer together, the start of the rest of their young lives joined as one. Both had the same tattoos on their left arms, a dark fairy with the words “Hell Fire Fairies” delicately inked on by their local tattooist.

   Stacy’s grey eyes sparkled when she greeted Nigel when she came home from teaching part time at the local college. Stacy smiled, holding Nigel’s gaze. She walked over and embraced her lover, kissing him slow and passionately on his lips. He didn’t mind this break in writing his new gothic horror story on the computer, a follow up to his two earlier best selling books. His hand found her waste pulling her closer towards him. Slowly he moved it down the back of her light weight summer skirt feeling her firm backside under the delicate expensive material. Onto her thighs, which were seductively visible in the bright daylight, an inviting outline. Quickly he ran his hand lower up to her lower legs and lifted the skirt like a spring breeze. He smiled and kissed his bride again, enjoying the timeless moment, bringing his hand up the smooth flawless flesh of her upper legs. He groaned in ecstasy, this was his most favourite place leading to somewhere even better but Nigel was a legs man first and foremost. And Stacy had superb legs; she moaned gently leaning on him as he caressed her legs in gentle circles, turning her on. For minutes he did this, she leaned into him kissing him and then she sat down on top of him on the computer chair. His hand remained where it was between her luscious legs. Getting comfy, she kissed her man deeply with tongues hers meeting his, exchanging spit as Nigel called it!

   No words had been spoken since she returned from teaching; none needed to be, love crossed all boundaries, especially unconditional love. And this is what this couple had in abundance. Both were very alternative, not just in their creative careers, being tattooed and into gothic/alternative music, they were pagans and absolutely worshipped nature and her environment, one hundred percent. Their passion for earth based matters was only exceeded by their love and commitment for one another. It was nice to know some things in their lives were permanent. She joked their love was more permanent than the tallest mountain, even nature would wear the same mountain down to grains of sand one day and then mounting building would start all over again. Their love would endure long after their mere mortal bodies had turned to dust. It was black and white, he loved her and she loved him, unconditionally. He knew this when his hand found her warm pussy; quickly flicking her white virgin panties aside he inserted two fingers up her beautiful erotic fanny revelling in the warmth and wetness of his lady.

   She squirmed and wriggled in absolute anticipation just loving it, eagerly ready for what would come, love making in the most special and intimate way. Slowly Nigel moved his fingers up and down Stacy’s pussy enjoying the feeling of her tightness though she was fully moist. The material of her panties was soaked, part of her skirt would be but that didn’t matter, soon she would be naked not needing any second skin to hide her beauty for they had no secrets or inhibitions. With his thumb he tickled her clit in a difficult action only few men could do accurately. She let out a huge groan and kissed him deeper. He matched her passion and turned her on even more bringing her up the path that led to the summit. Here she would orgasm in the most stunning display of enjoyment she knew possible – total heaven brought on by her pagan lover and soulmate Nigel.

   Those cool grey eyes were shut and her head moved in unison with his while they kissed. He briefly opened his green eyes to get a snap shot of his lady doing her thing, surrendering to him totally. He increased the pressure on her clit and watched the ecstatic expression on her face as he moved his thumb. Her hand moved to his black jeans and found his cock. It was bulging through the thick material. Nigel closed his eyes while she rubbed his dick. It wouldn’t be long till he spunked up in his pants and not the first time. His lady was close to orgasm now. She arced her back, pulled away and screamed. In rapid breaths she moaned in pleasure. “Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes!”

   Wetness covered Nigel’s hand; his lady was so moist it was unreal. He brought her to orgasm, not letting up in his effort or technique; knowing just where to touch and what to do with his darling. Her cum cascaded over his hand, she nearly fell off his knee. Nigel hurriedly held onto her with his free hand and satisfied his woman.

   Stacy’s efforts to make him cum never stopped, she traced slow circles on his denim where his cock thrust through. A gradual wetness of pre-cum seeped through the fabric. His orgasm started rapidly catching Stacy’s, so they both came together. He held his breath, groaning and shouting her name when exotic eroticism overtook him like a rampaging storm tide, drowning everything else out of their world. She screamed and collapsed onto him, her hair hanging loose from her stormy orgasm. For a timeless moment they remained in each other’s arms, exhausted by a simple joint orgasm. Lovemaking would be later. Both would take their bodies on an unbelievable trip into sensory stimulation.

   In bed Stacy was totally naked with nothing except a single white satin sheet over her form like a veil over a gothic princess. She was a woman waiting for her knight to protect her from the evils of the world and bring bliss into her bedchamber. He walked into the room and stopped a metre from the bed, looking down at his lovely future pagan bride. She was really something. He wanted no one else only her. He belonged to this woman before him one hundred and ten percent. Nigel wore a simple red silk robe draped over his shoulders, hanging down to his ankles and open revealing his hard twitching cock, eight inches of throbbing gristle pumped full of blood to do his bidding. A smile and chuckle escaped his lady’s lips. She knew what was to come in the following minutes, absolute heaven.

   His jackhammer would pound her pussy into submission and bring a new chapter in their lovemaking and being together. He planned to say his pagan wedding vow to his lady while he made love to her. Would she say hers to him? Both had talked and agreed on this but kept their verse and words secret till the time was right, making love. Who would go first? Stacy because she was a lady or Nigel taking the initiative? Fate held the answers. He let his robe fall to the floor and stood totally naked before his woman.

   Her eyes took in his well-toned body and firm figure, almost athletic. She lingered on his cock, that powerhouse of muscle that brought so much happiness and feeling. All eight inches of it waiting to be used, she saw it twitch once. With one hand she beckoned him over to join her in their marriage bed, pagan man and wife together in idea. In their hearts they were already married and nothing could ever change that, nothing. He walked over to the bed and joined his lady, gently removing the single sheet that barely covered her and looked. Her body was like ivory and perfect in everyway. Yes, she had a vein on her right leg that was a slight imperfection but this added to her beauty, like her neurosis from her breakdown when she was eighteen, half her life ago now. She would never be right but was perfect in his eyes, a lovely gothic artist of amazing skill.

   Nigel’s cock twitched and he gently wanked himself to stimulate his senses, never taking her eyes off Stacy. She smiled and opened her legs so he could see her pussy. It was nicely shaved with pretty lips. Parting these with a finger and gently playing with herself to do her bit, Stacy showed she had no inhibitions. Her man wanked before her. They watched one another in a display of voyeurism. Nigel’s big cock throbbed and pulsed like a live thing when he wanked, quickly bringing himself to orgasm. He focused his gaze on her cunt, at her fingers probing into her most secret sacred place. She inserted two fingers inside to finger fuck herself and then concentrated on her clitoris, the special nub where all the nerves met bringing unreal pleasure. Her fingers played a steady rhythm on this area moving with her body, moaning and groaning coming up to her orgasm. It started to wash over her, invigorating her body with a feeling of lust and happiness. She screamed when she came, her eyes swam unfocused unable to keep her gaze on her lover, who came himself. Nigel’s spunk shot onto the bed sheets and her leg with violence, such was the power of his orgasm. His gasps filled the room. With cum dripping from his dick he leapt onto the bed and kissed his pagan bride to be, whispering, “I love you my Stacy! That was awesome to watch, it really was.”

   “I enjoyed watching you play with yourself, my dear. And I love you too my darling,” Stacy replied, kissing her man passionately like it was their last day on earth. Little did they know the trick fate would later play.

   Grasping his hard cock, Stacy put him inside her feeling his eight inch member enter its home; the snake was in its lair where it belonged. Gently he thrust up into her using his muscles to propel it all the way up her lush tight cunt. How it remained like this, when Stacy was in her mid thirties was a mystery. Was it because she was a goddess? She matched his rhythm, enjoying the feeling of having already cum and working towards that second even more powerful orgasm, what joy! Missionary style, they made love till Nigel tapped her leg and indicated he wanted Stace on top. He rolled off her and she positioned herself on top, guiding his wet missile into the launcher ready for love. She rocked back and forth. He held her hips when she found her speed and traced her toned muscles with his fingers, closing his eyes, thinking totally of Stacy. Remembering this moment forever. On and on they fucked, doing the oldest human act of enjoyment that there was. Both lovers groaned and moaned in unison, united by heir love and intimacy. Nigel was in a reverie when he spoke his pagan hymn wedding verse, struggling to focus because his orgasm was near:  

   “My pagan bride my Stacy, you’re the one for me and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, only you. I want you to be my wife, please say yes. And when we’re together in the world of spirit I want us to be together forever, as pagan man and wife, hand fasted together from this moment on. You’re my rose quartz crystal so full of unconditional love, for our world and me. Do you take me as your husband my pagan bride?” 

  “Yes my pagan husband,” was Stacy’s reply. “Yes, I will be your pagan wife! So mote it be!”

   “Thank you my queen, my pagan bride. I love you my Stacy,” Nigel replied, almost a hostage of his orgasm and to his wife’s beauty. Now it was her turn to say her vows: 

   “Nigel my pagan husband, how I have loved you since the day we met. I will love you for the rest of our lives here on earth and in spirit. I want you to be my pagan husband to be with me through all of the hard times and good times. You accept me and my disability for what it is and for that I’m eternally grateful. Will you Nigel be my pagan husband? You’re my silver cloud and I love you to bits!” 

“Yes my wife, my pagan wife my answer is yes!” agreed Nigel. “Now we are together as one, nothing will ever part us, nothing my wife.” Now they were together in union, it only needed to be made official at the hand fasting ceremony in the near future by their pagan high priestess.

  Stacy came, the first of many orgasms, screaming and scratching Nigel’s chest with her fingernails drawing blood. This drove him wild and he doubled his effort thrusting up into her. She screamed and shrieked like a demon possessed her, the demon of love and orgasm filling her body with stunning desire and feeling. Her orgasm lessened and faded to a background sensation, his started slowly coming to him from the distant horizon like an old friend that gave the portent of a good time, the lovemaking of his woman. He gasped and breathed heavily such was his exertion, sweat covered his face and he smiled – Nigel was in heaven. When he spunked up into his woman it took him by surprise, boom! His cum shot up Stacy and she screamed in delight, startling her lover who grinned like an idiot as his orgasm whooshed through him. This was good fun! What a shame it was over so fast but not before she had another two orgasms, a good result. Her staying power was excellent. No other woman was like Stacy; maybe it was what happened to her all those years ago when the chemistry of her brain had changed forever. One benefit was that she was a nymphomaniac! 

***  

   Later in the evening the couple went out for a bottle of wine and a takeaway to chill in their evening. Stacy wore a nice blue dress and a light jacket; Nigel had his trusted leather bike jacket and black jeans on for the ten-minute walk to the local shops. Neither knew they were being followed by three young teenagers’ intent on trouble. The dark evening hid the equally darkly dressed kids. It also hid the gothic couple.  The lads spotted them leave their house and planned their assault. Not in the darkness but under the street lamps near the shops, not caring who saw them. Each punch and kick would be on target in the light. They watched the couple like a hawk watching a mouse and increased their speed, bearing down on the duo. The tall leader of the lads called the girl a name, a sentence of insults and swears words. Her boyfriend heard these and ignored the lads, putting his arm around his wife. When the first punch came he wasn’t expecting it and Nigel shouted in surprise, turning round to meet his attacker. He was just in time for a single left in the face, knocking the daylights out of him and sending Nigel to the floor. Stacy screamed and started to run but the two smaller lads were on her before she got two yards. They kicked out and tripped her up. She fell to the ground ripping her dress and cutting her knees. Nigel tried to get up but a well aimed series of kicks pinned him down. The leader used his dirty skilled street fighting skills, mercilessly kicking the bigger man in the chest to wind him and cracking his ribs, wearing him down so he wouldn’t resist. Nigel attempted to kick back and bring the youth down but his kick missed and only made things worse. The leader booted the gothic guy in the head like you would a football. A horrible sound of sports trainer on bone echoed down the street. Stacy saw this and screamed, “Nigel! Nigel! Oh you bastards! Leave him alone, leave him alone! Somebody please help! Help us!”

   Her screams for help went unanswered. The two sixteen year olds dragged the tall lady down an alleyway next to the shops so they could rape her. They weren’t bothered that their mothers were the same age or that it was wrong, the lads behaved like feral animals ruling the streets in broken Britain. One of the guys shoved the woman onto the dirty paving stones while his accomplice lifted her dress up past her knees, revealing nice bare legs and cuts that bled slightly. He took up position between her legs and got his small cock out, already hard for the rape that was coming. The girl screamed and tried to get up. The other black clothed chav teenager slapped her twice to make her quiet, he was ready to punch her and break her face if she struggled anymore. She tried to move but the wall stopped her and the other boy pinned her down, his mate ripped Stacy’s panties off and felt her shaved cunt. Even now it was wet with the violence of the sex attack, having an affect on her body at its most animalistic level. She stopped struggling and waited what was to come, her mind collapsed as it did eighteen years before when the first rape had occurred by her so called best friend. In her mind she was back in his flat again and losing her innocence forever.

   On the street the tall lad was kicking Nigel to death, a man over twice the thug’s age and size, beaten senseless and now dying, hovering in unconsciousness. One final kick and Nigel was out cold, stopping breathing. He started to die. If medical aid wasn’t given immediately a murder would occur. The youth rifled through Nigel’s pockets, finding the ten pounds for the wine and some spare change and a cheap mobile phone. He pocketed these and dragged Nigel into the alleyway where his two pals was raping the man’s wife.

   Muffled sounds of sex came from the dark alley. The first youth was fucking the Goth girl and loving raping her. He slapped her and scratched her face, defacing her lovely pale looks. He didn’t last long such was his arousal, he spunked up his victim and wiped his cock on her dress then moved aside so his friend could take his turn. Undoing his tracksuit the boy was ready, his mate changed places so the girl couldn’t escape and to keep an eye out. Slipping his cock up Stacy, the teen grunted as he thrust raggedly away on her wet sperm filled pussy.

   The leader was homosexual so he fucked the corpse he had just produced. What had once been a fit man in his 30s was now a body. He wasn’t bothered the pretty lady being raped; no, he took the dead man’s trousers down and buggered the body. The murderous teens weren’t alone. While this was going on a crowd gathered at the alleyway to watch the macabre scene, someone muttered that the Devil was at work and walking the streets. Another person called the cops and ambulance before the single youth on guard chased the snoopers off so his friends could finish their crime in peace.

   Distant sirens echoed over the rooftops. Finished the three youths ran off and left two bodies on the floor. Nigel and his disabled soon to be pagan bride were dead, murdered by three feral teenagers who showed no mercy. The cops arrived too late as did the ambulance; all they found was two brutally beaten warm bodies. The crime scene was cordoned off and the search went on for any witnesses. Those found were very hesitant on doing statements, in case they were targeted next. All knew who the youths were but this went both ways. Criminals ruled the streets. And so died a gothic couple called Nigel and Stacy, shocking the community. Why did two harmless alternative people have to die for no reason?

*** 

   Weeks after the joint funeral, three youths had been brought in for questioning. Four witnesses declined to testify against the youths for fear of reprisals. It was only due to blurry CCTV film footage of the assault that charges were brought, not for murder but manslaughter and rape. Sentences were duly handed out and people, especially the couple’s relatives, thought it was a travesty of justice and that the culprits would be free in a few years, unrepentant to kill and mug again.

***

   Strange lights were seen in the incident area, what was it? Was it ghostly spirits, trapped and earthbound, unable to leave the horrific area where they had been brutally murdered? No one knew something odd was happening when people reported a feeling of coldness on the street near the shops and alleyway. Nobody believed in ghosts but a rumour was slowly going around. These ghosts would have their revenge, no matter how long it took… 

YES YOU

 

Come and get me, show me the insides of my body.

What makes me tick? Cut my heart out

and show it beat to me, remove my brain

and cut my belly, put it inside—funny weight problem!

Cut my hands off and toast my fingers,

eat them as snitzels in gravy made from the skin

of my back. Put my tattoos on a lampshade to preserve my art.

Give them to my children to gaze upon in awe.

What will you do to me when I am in pieces, my soul in hell,

you in heaven with my blood on your hands?

Fry my muscles as a fire cooked steak…

 

my no4 book link here...

http://books.google.co.uk/books?id=zd8YnyTN6NsC&pg=PA77&lpg=PA77&dq=nick+armbrister&source=bl&ots=DCeUYhYmBQ&sig=WdcYMPOTa1uQxSu8Q0MoqzvjnZU&hl=en&sa=X&ei=BznlUcS1IcnK0AWliYHYCQ&ved=0CEEQ6AEwAzgU

Censured Leisure

Censured Leisure
She's very pretty. I know name isn't Betty. I say let's make love! Aggressively like a dove.
I imagine her on my knee. Filling me full of glee. Her rampant sexy body alive. Suddenly she takes a nosedive!
I'm waiting for her to cum. But she mustn't touch my bum! Everywhere else is game. Erotica with more than one name.
Thank God we just met. It wasn't for a bet. Weird actions governed by fate. Now we make love on a dinner plate

Charmaine

I’ve hope that the miracle I’ve asked my pagan Goddess for happens.

That my dear friend and fellow writer,

Charmaine Maeer, makes a full recovery

from the cancer that is murdering her.

Blond beautiful intelligent age 34.

Soon to be dead.

A spear in my heart,

me not knowing why her.

Except my dear friend fights with spirit and total love endures.

I hope a miracle occurs and I can take Charmaine out romancing and dancing.

Defeating death dealing cancer dead!

Black Squirrel

God damn F-35s¹ caught me napping! Rolling upside down from fifty three thousand feet and diving straight down, I must lose them. Or die. High altitude wasn’t enough. Their AESA² radar defeated my stealth and they found me. I dodged their Mach 4³ AMRAAM⁴ missiles by doing steep S-turns; big yellow flowers of High Explosive reached out for me and missed. I swear I saw red hot chunks of titanium shrapnel zip past! Jamming the hell out their radar, only partly worked. I wondered, could they track the slipstream from my warplane? No, how was that possible? But flight was once impossible, two centuries ago.

Wish I was able to climb to ninety thousand feet and avoid the damn F-35s but my bird won’t go that high. Not without a bigger wing and a spacesuit for me. Diving down we go earthwards. I admit my big thrill isn’t battling the enemy jets hunting me, nor the destruction my single nuclear bomb will cause. It’s simply rolling upside down and feeling pure fucking joy, as my pink (yes, you heard right. Is that a problem? Pastel colours match the sky, not matt black) warplane follows my moves and goes inverted, straight down. Away to freedom, I dream. My Radar Warning Receiver⁵ picks up enemy radars. My jammer jams their arses. For awhile.

Speeding down to earth, vertically, I shove the single throttle to maximum. My bird accelerates like the Devil is after her. He may as well be; F-35s are his chariot and guided missiles his reach.  G-force grips me like my ex wife’s sister. A forbidden touch of need and longing. I know I could close my eyes and dive straight down, going supersonic now. Slight buffet as we pass the sound barrier. Straight down from 53k, right into the ground. And for a few seconds, I do close my eyes. Would my single nuclear weapon detonate when I flew into the earth? Would it? Maybe I should do it, commit suicide. No more pain... a dark seductive temptation.

I open my eyes. Numbers appear on my Helmet Mounted Sight⁶, always changing. And on my computer screen and Head Up Display⁷. Seven hundred and seventy knots, soon passing eight hundred, in the thin upper air. Which thickens as I dive lower and slows me, a little. I look out of my gold plated cockpit canopy. A distant sun sparkle, no two, on far off airplanes, shows my enemy is there, visible. Real, not just a blip on my radar screen, if it was on. My set can pick up F-35s, like they can me. Who are we kidding in this high tech chess duel? Only ourselves in the huge blue vista of the sky. Come and get me, you fuckers!

Suddenly, I wish my ex wife was with me. Why do I think of her at this exact moment? Because I’m in dire peril and actually enjoying it? She always was a mad bitch which was why I made love to her sister. And let her catch us. I have a death wish! Yes, if she was here, in my front cockpit with a disabled ejection seat and tied up, I’d drop my single one megaton nuke and fly us into the blast. What fun! Laser! Laser! Laser! screams the warning voice. Damn! F-35s have come down and zapped me with their ranging lasers. Can’t jam a laser. I reduce power to idle and corkscrew my warbird. It works! 20mm gunfire sparkles past ahead. A hundred metre miss. Too close!

Stick to my balls and pull till my eyes pop out of my Frankenstein skull. To a Satanic God in Heaven we fly some crazy arc in the sky. With a slow engine, on idle, I feel g-force crush me into my seat. Must be eight or nine. G-suit gives me tolerance, an extra two g. I pull back even more, damn I love my bird! Russia makes good planes. Upwards I go, still with a touch of my earlier speed. Radar online, pick up two F-35s a mile apart and coming downwards to get me. Lock them up, click, select missile, click, launch, click, click and two Bright Stars launch. Speed finally slowing, making me an easy gun target. No need. Two missile hits, two kills!

Reverse my turn, on idle throttle. In effect a stall turn. So damn slow! What a beautiful flying machine. Blue sky turning to a dark green richly coloured earth. Throttle to cruise and tree top height. Behind me, two F-35 jets disintegrate and fall earthwards. So fucking what if I killed two men? They had family. So did I. Till they bombed my hometown and stole my second wife. By flying like Waldo Pepper and being as evil as Stalin, I’ll get them. Revenge keeps me warm, like Ffionna’s embrace. Hell, I miss that girl, my girl. Snap out of it Nik or you die. Emotion in battle will kill you. Check my jet over, my route, my weapon, my fuel. For her. My dead wife.

F-35 pilots fought like demons. They had top jets and hit me good and square. Four shrapnel holes in my wings and a slow fuel leak. Time to jettison my drop tanks; they’re empty. Everything else is fine, except one thing. The four holes in my jet increase my radar cross section and they can see me on their scopes. Got to be even more cunning. Fly dog leg courses, nice and slow. Come in from the east, where they won’t expect me. Be a real cunt! As they were, using a B-4 Batwing bomber to kill my wife at St Petersburg. It’s not her fault she was a biological weapon scientist. She was my WIFE! My FUCKING wife. You KILLED her!

Target coming up. Numbers counting down, fuel burn and loss will come before target destination. Only one thing to do; full throttle and zoom climb! Here we go, speed increasing, height climbing, up we go. Now they see us on their radar horizon in my damaged jet. Ah, I see our target, all laid out like on my training flight. I did two of those and was never picked up. I thought I’d get away with this. I was wrong. Bomb armed, engine sputtering now. Nose down to use our speed and height. Here we go. No need to drop the bomb, it detonates on height above ground. Fifteen hundred feet over Manchester. I’m so sorry, really, I am. Zero.

DETONATION...

Notes

1. The Lockheed Martin F-35 Lightning II is a family of single-seat, single-engine, 5^th generation multi role fighters.

2. Active Electronically Scanned Array (AESA), also known as active phased array radar is a type of phased array radar.

3. Mach 4, supersonic. 760 mph at sea level. Multiply by four for Mach 4. Speed varies with height.

4.  AMRAAM The AIM-120 Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missile, or AMRAAM (pronounced "am-ram"), is a modern beyond visual range air to air missile (AAM) capable of all-weather day-and-night operations.

5. Radar Warning Receiver (RWR) systems detect the radio emissions of radar systems.

 6. A Helmet Mounted Sight (HMS) is a device used in some modern aircraft, especially combat aircraft. HMS project information similar to that of head-up displays (HUD) on an aircrew’s visor or reticule, thereby allowing him to obtain situational awareness and/or cue weapons systems to the direction his head is pointing.

7. A Head-Up Display (HUD) is any transparent display that presents data without requiring users to look away from their forward viewpoint. The origin of the name stems from a pilot being able to view information with the head positioned "up" and looking forward, instead of angled down looking at lower instruments.
Author’s note. The attacking warplane is an Aeroprogress T-720 Kahlia Akasha turboprop powered multi-role warplane. Top speed is over 600 mph with a 4,500 shp turboprop engine. She is built in Russia and can carry all weapons including nuclear.

link to karate cancer fightback event on august 3 2013

http://www.justgiving.com/nick-armbrister

pop along. all cash raised is for cancer research. this will be an excellent day.

I BECOME NOTHING

I BECOME NOTHING

 

I ask how soon I will become nothing. When my sentiments tear me apart and bounce around my head like cannon balls from a faded war. I want to know so much more than what I’ve learnt in my forty years on this screwed up world, yes people do matter. If they didn’t, there would be no humanity, would there.

 

I want to go to Auschwitz and see where a million died. I want to know how it feels. Will my sense of humanity fail and will I understand why the Nazi’s murdered so many people, indiscriminately? Will I grow even smaller within myself, one more step towards nothing? What part of me will I leave behind at Auschwitz? Will it be my toes, my fingers, my toes or my soul or none of those?

 

I want to go with a certain girl I know. She can’t see, you see but she is one amazing lady, something very bravely poignant about walking amongst pure evil with a blind girl. Step by step, hand in hand, in Auschwitz.

 

I want to visit Normandy and see where the Allies liberated Europe from Hitler’s tyranny. And see the beaches where the surf turned red under German bullets. How close did the good guys come to losing? What part of me will I leave on Normandy beaches? My brain or my heart? A price paid, by me, for that trip. I’m a step closer to becoming nothing.

 

Then I’ll stop off at Flanders and see where Allied and German youth where bled white, the flowers of a generation lost forever in some stupid War to End All Wars. How wrong they were. Will my tears fall where the blood of Tommie and The Hun fell, cut apart where they lay? Not even their mothers’ knew how or where their sons died. Did they know why? What part of me will I forsake for the dead of World War One? Let their ghosts tell me.

 

I ask a lady who I haven’t met, yet, to take me to West Germany. Let us cross the border and go to Leipzig, to see where pretty Karin Ulbricht was taken on that dark unstable dangerous night when she demonstrated against her country’s leaders’ Cold War madness.

 

Wouldn’t it be memorable for me, if Karin showed me her country where she made Cold War history? She was a gentle warrior of those dark evil poisoned days before The Wall fell. Did she know that one single gunshot would have changed world history forever, when she demonstrated that autumn night? If thousands had been killed by East German soldiers, would the Cold War be over now? Is she still as pretty today, over two decades later? My letter to her remains unanswered. What part of me would die in Cold War Germany? What if I run out of sentiments?

 

Save me from Karin, take me to Afghan where young Tommies are dying by IED and insurgent terrorist fire. Are their deaths justified and saving us from terrorists? My views on this illegal war are not nice; surely there must be a better way? So no more young ladies find out on Facebook that their precious soldier love is dead? The soldiers I have met over the last few years were brave souls, I prey they’re all untouched. I don’t need to go to Afghan to have a part of me die, but I would if I could to see with my own eyes and write about it. More of me fading away to nothing, again I ask, how soon till I become nothing?

 

To all of the soldiers, to the innocent and even the guilty, who have perished in Mankind’s wars, I am sorry for your deaths. Why do I feel like this? Is there another way? I’d ask the Christian God but I know He tells lies. Now I know now what silence sounds like, it’s the sound of a woman’s weeping where her son, brother and husband, perished. Are they proud, do they smile when they think of what could have been? So many lost years? For what exactly? I’d forsake every part of me, to become nothing, to stop the wars. For that thought, I am a fool and ask for the impossible.