Suggested Audio Jukebox ♫

 

[1] Wax “Building a Bridge To Your Heart”

[2] Die Antwoord “Rich Bitch”

[3] Paul Engemann “Push It To The Limit”

[4] Power Glove “Vengeance”

[5] Thomas Dolby “She Blinded Me With Science”

 

Bitchin’. I get to build again. Been looking forward to this. You see, only recently I constructed my very own dickhead (mostly for personal gratification) and have been trying to get him out of my hair ever since. It started so well and, for a handful of minutes, I actually found him somewhat endearing. Then it began to sink in that I found him incredibly annoying, by which time, he’d latched on like a newborn piglet. My nipples happen to be rather erogenous and raised no objection to a little harmless teat suckling, just to help get his strength up. But three weeks later, my areolae smart like a pair of fresh bee stings, and there appears no way of weaning him off. That means I’m stuck with my creation and, while admittedly something of a dickhead myself, two tends to be a crowd in such scenarios. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I consider myself a fair-weather dickhead and don’t wish to pledge lifelong allegiance to a cause so utterly hopeless. The dickhead I built with my own two hands however, well he’s been putting in overtime.

At any rate, here’s where I’m at currently. You see, I’ve had this thought, just crazy enough that it could get me arrested. It takes two right? You know, to make a thing go right. To make it outta sight. Well I’m fairly certain I still have the schematics knocking about here in my laboratory so this shouldn’t prove too much of a grind. Not tooting my own bugle here (toot! toot! … sorry), but I’d say my dickhead turned out reasonably well, all things considered. I mean, let’s not crank the voltage just yet, he was and is an absolutely fucking dickhead. But in that respect, he’s damn near flawless. It’s not required for me to trump perfection, merely replicate it as best I can. Should I play my cards right here and assemble a winner, then I could pair the two up and let them make each other’s lives a misery, as opposed to just mine. I reckon I have myself one of those genius plans that makes me a mild threat to natural security and it would be unthinkable not to hatch it. Now if only I had all the correct parts. Would you believe, I’ve got 99 motherboards and a bitch ain’t one.

Think Keeper, think. What kind of characteristics should your bitch possess? The nuts and bolts. Fixtures and fittings. Time to consult my musky book of words and grab myself a definition. There appear to be multiple meanings but I’m not enamored with the part that entails being required to walk said bitch every morning and pick up her shit in a bag far too thin not to be considered clingfilm. I couldn’t possibly risk a canine running around here; not with the sensitive materials, butter-fingered dickheads, and all. However, as I perused a little further, an alternative interpretation jumped from the page, planted one on my rosy red lips, bit my lower one, poked me in the eyeball, then returned to the page, where it continued to stick its tongue out in a manner most bitchy. I no longer needed to read the words malicious, offensive, spiteful, overbearing; they’d introduced themselves to be personally. Part of me wished only to shut the book at once and consider myself shaved closely. But then I spared a thought for my dickhead friend/cross to bear. What is it they say? Two wrongs don’t make a right? Well I may as well try and prove them wrong, right? Please correct me if I’m wrong.

Rightio, if memory serves, the first item I supplied my dickhead was some token head-gear and I’m all about the equal opportunities so what say we pick our bitch out a bonnet? Naturally it will need to be something fancy looking; a hat with equivalent attitude as the bitch donning it. Thus there appears no finer choice than a Cambric Bowler. While not suggesting this particular style to be any more distinguished than the next hat on the stand, it does appear to say a few words about one’s social status, don’t you think? I want my bitch to feel like she’s superior to absolutely everyone she comes into contact with (dickhead inclusive) and turn her nose up at the downtrodden on default setting. It’s not personal choice you understand; purely me sticking to brief here. Somehow, Behold! The Ultimate Terribly Cordial Young Lady! doesn’t have the same edge and no woman in her right mind is likely to take the dickhead off my hands. It’s the wrong-minded type who may be open to persuasion, if only because they like themselves a plaything. What better to cavort with than a man-sized winkle, I ask?

Since we’re for high-class hussy here, her entire outfit requires the same level of care and attention. Dickheads barely know what week they’re in, let alone what hour to feed the cat, so they naturally gravitate those who appear to have their affairs in order. In order for my bitch to let everybody know she knows she looks good, she must know she looks good and to know she looks good, she must first look good. You know? I know we’re not supposed to judge books by their covers but she doesn’t. Indeed, it is how she judges everyone else. Given that we’re referencing literature here, I’m feeling leather-bound for her chosen sleeve. Something classy of course, both hot and sexy too, but perhaps falling just shy of slutty. I wish for my bitch to give the impression that she could be enticed into acting vaguely slutty on rare occasion and any particularly laborious public functions; but only if it pleases her to do so and not on anyone else’s clock than her own.

Footwear will need to be cut from the same pelt and able to provide a suitable degree of elevation. It’s a bitch of a task giving off that faint air of superiority in a pair of ballet pumps , where a killer pair of ten-inch heels provide a picturesque pedestal from which to dispense one’s caustic contempt. Should a garden worm wander into her personal space willy-nilly, then it is well within her power to sever said wriggler with one well-timed impalement, followed by a tut and a twist. If I know my limbless invertebrate, then that makes two worms. Meanwhile, my bitch gets to feel a little better about herself in the process so everybody wins, apart from the two worms as they don’t actually appear to be moving. Can anyone tie a reef knot?

Now that we’ve established the kind of bitchy attire my bitch will step out in, I say we move swiftly on to skin pigmentation. I read somewhere that beauty is only skin deep, and somewhere else, that it’s in the eye of the beholder. However, to qualify as a fully fledged hell bitch, I reckon it should also be in the eye of the holder. Where else will she find the spunk to make others feel worthless and pitiful if not through utter self-celebration? As for the skin deep part, well that suits her down to the heels as presentation is everything, and anything else, nothing at all. This isn’t to suggest she’ll be shallow as a piss puddle, or worse still, vapid. Just not quite so fetching once you dig a little deeper. Considering I just asked my dickhead to burrow a memorial for our two worm friends and his first response was to prepare me an egg and cress sandwich, I’m guessing that excavation isn’t his strong suit. Thus, I shall leave it down to my bitch to punch in her selection and have more than a suspicion that I know what she’ll opt for.

A perfectly tanned and toned beach body. I knew it. Listen, I feel compelled to level with you. You see, while many go off in search of the “perfect ten” body, it all leaves me a tad chilled, if I’m being honest. What interest me far more are the imperfections, the slights and blights that endorse the fact that we’re actually human and not chiseled down to virtually non-existent. I don’t give a honker’s hoot if you’re 98% muscle mass, you resemble a biology skeleton beneath a velveteen blanket, and that’s just one baby step from freakish in my book. Give me something to jiggle and I’m happy. Some proof of life. Scars to read when I’m watching you slip into your nightgown. All this body beautiful business is fine and dandy if you possess one, just not necessarily for this beholder. Glancing my eye across her chosen fleece, it’s all looking a little too Baywatch for my liking. That said, I’m tickled to the pink that she plumped for voluptuous curves. If it gets a knee tremble out of me, then I’d better advise my dickhead against using the finest crockery before he gets around to bringing the tea in. Hold on, now he’s watching White Chicks. Always does around this time of the afternoon.

One thing no bitch should be without is the ability to contort her features into a look of disgust at the drop of a badger’s bollock. Kindly eyes have no face time here, cute button noses and cheek dimples deemed surplus to requirements, while the ability to turn men into stone with a simple sneering glare will prove incalculable when stopping any sinister stragglers in their tracks. If it’s true what they say about looks that can kill, then my bitch should possess all the tools to tally up a murder rap as long as her 33 inch inside-leg. I’ve been tinkering with the idea of implanting her with deadly eye-lasers but feel this may be like giving Putin a big red shiny button to press excitedly the very moment he eats some barbecued cuttlefish that doesn’t agree with him. It’s just too much of a risk and more than likely to alarm the dickhead, which only ever ends in a pebble-dashed latrine. Fuck that shit. I’m striking deadly eye-lasers straight from the shopping list and she’ll simply have to do with the ability to gradually melt a man down into mental slag over a number of years.

Which brings us rather tantalizingly on to lip service and these are undoubtedly the most potent weapon in any bitch’s armory. The power of pout alone can strike fear into the heart of a puma, while the right pair can also be mightily persuasive, should the wish be to strike fear into it later. According to the bitch blueprint I have here, it’s imperative that one’s bitch be bestowed with the capability to speak her mind at all times. That doesn’t mean she will. Bitches are far too cold and calculated to engage in such frivolity. Besides, there’s also the constant threat of other bitches showing up on the scene with their triangular love designs to consider. You want to see territorial? Then lock two love stung bitches up together and watch them come to blows over who is to rip their cheating boyfriend to shreds first. Actually, they’d probably tag team his wanderlustful ass. But once he’s been ground into mulch, it’s time to fill up the sand pit and grab that pail of water. You’re damn skippy, bitch fights are brutal.

What’s critical here are the words I shall place in her mouth prior to booting my bitch up for the first time. I’m under no illusion that they’ll be cast aside like a dead pensioner’s armchair the very nanosecond we arrive at “IT’S ALIVE!!!” but at least I’d have covered the basics. P and Q are two of 26 letters in the alphabet that sit aside one another with clear and concise reasoning. Politeness need not cost a thing and, bitch or no bitch, she should be able to conduct herself in a ladylike manner should such be called for. Secretly she may be plotting to stab your spleen with a rusted sheesh skewer, but to the average dickhead like mine, she’ll just be bringing it in for a mannerly hug and just so happen to be carrying a rusted sheesh skewer, by dubious fluke. Naturally, she’ll be required to swear like a sailor on occasion, thus I uploaded a Martin Scorsese box set to her cache just to familiarize her with the real bad ones. Try not be alarmed if she suddenly blurts out “now go home and get your fuckin’ shinebox” before compacting my dickhead’s cranium in an industrial vice; I’d prefer not to be held responsible for any crude conditioning on my part. Just tooling my bitch up, as stated on today’s flyer. Shoot the messenger, not the sender.

How about some mad jujitsu skills just to make her a dash more formidable? Was thinking a rear naked choke hold could come in handy; just to ease her oblivious quarry into submission with minimum uproar. Bitches can strike at any given moment and from any conceivable direction; thus a particularly pointy knee shall be anointed for those all-important sack taps and nut cracks. As a safety precaution, I am currently wearing my aluminum jockstrap, as I heard on the grapevine that a wayward patella can feel way less than stellar on receipt to the googly orbs. I may be a closet mad scientist, but so is Thomas Dolby and you don’t see him playing a violin to attract unnecessary attention to the fact that he has testicles to torment, do you?

For fuck’s sake Dolby, I hope DTS puts you out of business you… you admittedly rather delightful fellow. It may be too late for Thomas’s pummeled plums but that doesn’t mean it’s too late for my polished pomegranates. My reinforced cod-piece should be able to withstand any minor damage she can deal but I haven’t been brave enough to test it out yet so I shot 50 ml of Novocaine up my urethra as an extra precaution. Feels like a waste of good penicillin if you ask me. Actually, scrap that, I reckon it just took effect. Anyhoots, I’m taking no chances with my bitch, and why the devil should I, when there’s a perfectly good dickhead standing by to roll the dice on my behalf. Just so we’re clear, I’m expecting this to conclude in spinal cord-threatening total annihilation of the “finish him” variety and have already filled out all appropriate donor cards. But there’s still a tiny chance that it may not come to that.

You see, by far the most indispensable of all organs is the good old ticker and, in the event that I fail to stump up an aortic valve, then I’d be just as heartless as the empty vessel I’m pimping. It mentions nothing in the rule-book about color preference, only that said thumper has a vague appreciation for rhythm. Black as coal it may be, but my bitch’s chosen heart is in perfectly good working order and does possess the capacity to love, albeit only oneself. I know it’s a long shot but I’m hoping she finds space in her heart to forgive my dickhead his infinite discrepancies and a little extra to find them oddly charming. Let’s not go tossing that confetti just yet as, chances are, he’ll be fucked by dusk and dead by dawn. But we should never underestimate the power of such firm favorites as love and pity. Dickheads really have no preference as to which; they’re just thrilled to be included.

I almost forgot, while I supplied my bitch a pair of plump pucker-uppers for articulation, I’m guessing they’ll have little to declare without the appropriate voice box attached. I have to level with you here as I have been considering borrowing Skeletor’s mouthpiece, for no other reason than desperation to hear “curses He-Man” as she plunders my dickhead’s rectal fortress with an oversized femur. However, while some may find Greyskull’s archenemy authoritative, others could argue he’d begin to grate a little after one too many lager shandies. Plus I just envisioned Skeletor with a brace of heaving bosoms and would much prefer never to entertain that snapshot again. It’s like picturing Evil Lyn sporting a long crooked mauve meat musket – just not natural, although admittedly more than a smidgen hot as fuck or is that just me?

I know what I’ll do. I’ll brave the fog bank and head across to San Antonio Bay to tune my bitch into Stevie Wayne’s dreamy dulcet tones. Many an able seaman has been dashed upon the rocks by way of smithereens, while flogging his minnow to Stevie’s hourly weather reports. It’s akin to the alluring call of a harpy and, if it can attract unsuspecting fisherman from wide and far, then my moth to the flame dickhead will be powerless to resist her enchantment. Okay so maybe just a pinch of Skeletor will be added for those moments when she’s feeling decidedly dastardly, but otherwise it’s satin-smooth all the way. I’ve heard the word “sexy” banded about in close proximity to “bitch” and really would hate to separate the two when they’re already so well acquainted. May as well make it a three-way and sprinkle a little “slutty” into her oral cavity for good pleasure. But “skanky” can fuck right off and find another bitch to blight. 

By my estimations, I make my bitch pretty much set to go. Of course, constructing her is the easy part. There is still the small matter of convincing her that her future lies with a bona fide dickhead and I’m not entirely sure how to breach that particular topic as yet. I guess there’s only one way to find out; to arrange a hot date and pray that it doesn’t end in bloodshed as appears the most likely conclusion. I’ll be needing all the matchmaking skills I can muster to pull off this Herculean task. But I simply have to try. If it all goes tits to the sky, then at least I can say I gave it the old college try. I mean, how hard can it actually be for two people of opposing sexes to simply get along without incident? Stick around and we may just find out. Now if you’ll excuse me, Cupid’s bow doesn’t load itself you know. Wherever did I leave that Rohypnol?

 

Click here to read The Ultimate Battle of The Sexes!

 

 

 

Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,

 

Richard Charles Stevens

aka

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

 

Copyright: Grueheads Films 2017