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A Tremendous Delirium featuring Scarlett Johansson
A Tremendous Delirium featuring Scarlett Johansson
In our naiveté we imagined that our journey was a linear one, you know, with a beginning a middle and a tidy denouement. That was before we sampled the tasty-looking fungus lining the banks of the White Carte Water. Or did we? Perhaps our encounter with the river naiads was simply a hallucination brought on by overexposure to the peculiarly fetid air of Glescoo? For it seemed that the journey and its destination had become interchangeable… In part this was due to the writers deplorable habit of going off at half cock with one or other risible narrative gambit or other, his constant prevarication was frankly a pain in the tits and The Outcast and I took to casting withering glances at the sky, which is where we supposed he resided the bastard. Anyway either we did, or did not ingest the aforementioned fungus. And the riverine naiads quite possibly did not arise from the middle of the polluted stream, beckoning us to step inside their lavishly appointed boudoir. The one that looked very much like Scarlett Johansson I found particularly fetching, and she obviously felt the same as she divested herself of her barely there Kate Moss for Topshop Livin Cool Lace Angel Sleeve Dress. Her ‘boudoir’ looked suspiciously like a vile hostelry we had perforce visited in one of Glescoo’s less salubrious streets, one Easy & Peasy’s. The usual rutting was taking place but the crowd of revellers miraculously parted before my hostess and there was a leopard-skin lined booth awaiting us. Scarlett demurely avoided sitting on one of the handily placed dildo’s jutting from each be-cushioned resting place. I was not so fortunate however, yet impaled as I was I attempted to converse politely with my famous and naked companion. She, for her part, shook her head and placed an exquisitely manicured scarlet-tipped finger against my lips and indicated that I listen to the surroundsound grunting and squelching of our erstwhile companions. In one corner of the bar I watched The Outcast as he was forced to partake in a vigorous cunnilingual conversation atween the silk-clad thighs of his Jenny Agutter-a-like (circa Logan’s Run) succubus. The drugged and pixie-lated eyes of the DJ met mine as she placed a sapphire-tipped finger onto another waxen cylinder and a strange unearthly howling began to issue forth from the . . .
Actually, lets pause at this point and go back . . . way back.
to be continued . . .
