It has been a number of weeks now since I reunited with an old friend, a canny fellow who operates under a guise: The Lecherous Bandit. All was going swimmingly and Keeper was beginning to find his feet once more in a life which had felt borrowed for the previous two months. I had been mirthfully on auto-pilot, lurching from one day to the next with no real inkling as to where it would ultimately lead. And then there was he.
An unassuming fellow, around my height and mass index, Bandit also shares another common bond with Keeper. He’s utterly ridiculous, borderline genius but as mad as a tanked-up Hatter. I made the terminal error of attempting ingestion and soon wished I hadn’t. Everything had just begun to make a little sense, I woke up each morning feeling as though a little more of me had been returned and the loitering vultures around me had been replaced by tuneful jaybirds.
Within ten minutes of conversation I was seeing only emus…in pink pokadot leg warmers no less. The sturdy walls I had constructed around me started to crumble, bleak Autumn vistas were replaced with lurid polystyrene palaces and I began to pander for jelly and peanut butter bagels on a bed of otter-wing salad. It then dawned on me that he had once again breached my defenses and was nestled in around my cerebral cortex, vomiting madness like an unhinged fly, and proceeding to trample it in with his cloven hooves.
It all came flooding back; tea parties with fruit bats using Mama Scuzz’s finest crockery, forgotten afternoons down by the hay-bails playing round robin mirrored battleships with the old man who lived down the lane. The chap in question was over 100 years old and still in his teens, Cyril his name was…Cyril Florence Burksworth to use his maiden name. He was the subject of mass speculation around these parts and had apparently been seen down at the docks biting the heads off insecure giraffes and giving Chinese Burns to badgers with blatant disregard for their families and money-lenders.
Bastard sank every last one of my Battleships and then had the audacity to challenge me to a round of Whack-a-Mole, double or nothing. I recall feeling smug as I had twice been county champion at The Mole Games back in ’62 and my record of 47 moles was still unchallenged to the day. I excepted his invitation and briskly stripped down to one sock as I prepared to grab that rubber mallet one last time.
I thrashed him 37-12 and performed an Irish jig around him to denote my superiority. “Calm down petal” was his rejoinder…”take a look around you”. I humored him and glanced at the cheering crowd…all moles, every last one. I had been stitched up, the cheers were actually war cries as they cried out “He’s a vole…GET HIM!” I wasn’t aware until that point that voles were sworn enemies and prohibited from any kind of illicit gambling.
I grabbed my mackerel and scarpered as fast as my stumpy legs could carry me…straight into an abandoned bunker back in vole jurisdiction. For weeks I didn’t emerge from my chamber and for months after I ordered my groceries online for fear of retribution. Damn moles and their impeccable memories, they’ll never let me forget. My tally of 37 concussed critters had earned a grand price for my head.
I stopped trusting anybody, apart from my Ferret Nauls who kept vigil while I slept. Months turned into years…years transformed into days and eventually my mind learned how to block the whole sorry affair out. I found love the following Spring with the most delightful Vole in the hole Verna McIlroy-MacGinty. We settled down and had two children named Norris. I’d never been happier.
All the while I was tortured by my burning secret; my relationship with Verna was very open and loving and I hated holding anything back. I was resistant as, the night of my ordeal, I had been cornered by Rae Dawn Chong and forced to enter into a tryst of sorts. In exchange for me never breathing word of this to another soul she granted me my freedom. I made a pact that night and swore to take it with me to the grave.
Love can make us all do the silliest things and one afternoon, after a round of Croquet down at the local Tea Rooms we came home, put the Norrises to bed and snuggled up for some quiet time. It can be increasingly arduous finding time for one another when your schedules are so tightly packed but this was an opportunity neither of us were going to let pass.
I showered in Goose fat especially for the big seduction and fashioned my hair into a skinhead to really knock her off-balance. My plan was to sweep her off her feet and sing her ‘our song’…Jingo by Jellybean. As I padded downstairs, licking every one of my lips in lustful expectation, I glanced over to see my bride.
She had never looked more resplendent than she did that night. Her long alban mane did the American Smooth around her delicate neck line, each strand sending kisses to my retinas. She had picked out ‘our song’ the theme tune from Cagney & Lacey and was clad only in a crimson bodice and scratch and sniff tartan Wellington boots . Verna knew only too well that this drove me gaga.
I peeled off my last remaining sock and slid underneath our crimson throw-over, snuggling against her tepid pelt. After around seven minutes of light necking we got down to beeswax. The sex was wild, like a teacup caught in the rapids we swirled around, light-headed and making all manner of preposterous faces.
Truth Hurts: Be Wary of Cum Faces
There were grunts there were groans
There were quivers and moans
There were fluid transactions
and much jumping of bones
Slid it in then back out
Made her grimace and pout
Would have bended her backwards
But she suffers from gout
Upon painting each panel
of this glorious mammal
We played Chinese Patience
and compared tooth enamel
Those moments we shared
All those secrets we bared
I told her the one truth
my lips had ensnared
She looked disappointed
Just a little disjointed
Her eyes turned deep red
and her toes became pointed
“Your actions were wrong
You sang your sweet song
No longer your Verna
I’m now Rae Dawn Chong”
I’d broken my vow
taken my last bow
My wonderful family
Were moles to me now
I knew I had sinned
So I ran like the wind
my rage for The Bandit
was now underpinned
So, you see, he may come across a cordial fellow and may even bake you a flan… but he’s not to be trifled with. If he invited himself over for Thursday Croissants by the bird-table, then make your excuses and thank him for his time. You may have just evaded a fate worse than breath. Ignore my advice, fail to heed my warnings…and he will find a way inside, sapping you of any of your aptitude for Darts and leaving you sobbing into a rolled-up new testament bible like a lovelorn elf.
If you’re reading this Bandit, then have at you! I present a challenge to you now, with all these fine Grueheads baring witness. A game of Lawn Tennis is my proposal, only with an exclusive twist. As opposed to rackets, balls and all that is superfluous, we shall use sticks of celery and kola kubes. Let’s settle this El Lecheroso Bandito, mole to mole.