Tuesday, 7 December 2010
A Dual-Core Processed Banana (A Voice from the Pillow story)
It all started late one night when I was sitting in the Korova with Benny and Roman, drinking a tall glass of one percent milk and getting myself in the mood for a bit of the old ultra-blunt smoking.
“You know, they’re not gonna ID you at the bar” said Benny over his pint of Bitter “if you wanted, I’m sure you could order something a bit more, you know, manly...”
“I’m fine” I replied, taking a refreshing sip of the ice cold milk seated in my rooka “but I am up for a bit of the old ultra-blunt smoking, if you two gentlemen are similarly inclined?”
My Droogs nodded their approval, and began to see their drinks off. I raised my glass and skulled every last drop of the delicious milk into my golova, and down to my stomach.
“Well then, gentlemen” I said, reveling in the refreshing taste of my beverage “shall we?”
And with that, we headed off to meet Roman’s prestoopnick friends, in the hopes that we could exchange some of our government-sponged cutter for some of the finest ultra-blunt the night had to offer.
When we arrived at the house of the fabled prestoopnicks to find Roman’s droog Billyboy attempting a bit of the old up- down in front of a DVD of ‘Lazy Town’, a look of delight spread across the bizarre chelloveck’s chiseled litso as he imagined his rooker belonging to the pink haired teenager on the screen.
This is a Childrens show?
“My, my” I smiled, looking at the veck in amusement “that’s a bit of a malenki chelloveck you’ve got there, isn’t it?”
Billyboy jumped to his feet, clearly outraged that we would dare walk in on him whilst he was watching the pink-haired girl show off her tight, underage arse to her viewers.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” He bellowed, pulling up his trousers to conceal his smooka and it’s malenki friend.
“Billyboy!” shouted Roman as he entered the room “We wanna buy some weed!”
“I’m not selling any you Spic fuck!” Billyboy roared back at him, the anger showing in his eyes “not get the fuck out of here!”
“Not so fast” I responded, offended that we were being spurned because of his own foolishness “We’ve got some perfectly good cutter here to offer you, and I expect you to honour the code of the ultra-blunt sellers, and exchange this cutter for a quart of your very finest, lest we become displeased by your services”.
I saw his eyes dart to the cricket bat beside his sofa, as he gauged whether or not he could reach it before your humble narrator had the chance to engage him in a spot of Ultra-violence.
“A quarter?” He asked, clearly residing himself to the fact that he would not be able to reach his bat in time “that’s it?”
“That’s it.” I replied, and matched his gaze. He broke eye contact quickly, and moved over to a nearby drawer.
“Well, if it’ll get you arseholes out of here” he said, as he tossed me a bag of his finest ultra-skunk. I opened the soomka and took a whiff of the fine cheese smell the potent ultra-skunk was emitting, before giving Benny the nod to hand over our collective cutter. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you Gentlemen.”
“Likewise” I responded “Enjoy Lazy Town”.
My Droogs and I left the building, and let Billyboy carry on with his Khorosho up-down antics.
Back in the Korova, my Droogs and I lit up a spliff each, and toasted over the finest milk the east-end has to offer.
“To my Droogs” I said “may we never run out of ultra-skunk!” and we knocked back our drinks, and chased them with a long drag each. As I did so, I noticed an attractive woman walk into the Korova, and sit on the table across from us. I flashed her a smile.
“What’s caught your attention?” asked Benny, who was busy blowing his second hand weed smoke up his Poodle’s nose.
I'm only gonna die from eating this chocolate... if I... accept it as inevitable... You know what I mean?
“Why, the Brunette with the perfect litso across the room, my Droog” I stated calmly, taking another drag off my ultra-blunt. My Droogs turned their attention to the girl.
“You don’t stand a chance with her, man” said Benny, inhaling yet another lungful of skunk, and preparing himself to exhale it into his Dog’s face once more.
“Sure I do” I said, standing “I’ll speak to you later, my Droogs, once I’m through with giving this khorosho specimen a taste of the old in-out.”
I could hear the two of them laughing behind my back as I approached her table, smoothing the creases out of my risp as I did so.
“Is this seat taken?” I asked, indicating the seat at her table directly opposite her.
“It is if you’ve only come over her to hit on me” she said, looking somehow unimpressed, despite the masculine figure standing before her. I sat down.
“My name’s Voice” I said, trying to sound as friendly as possible, and extending my hand to her “Voice DeLarge”.
“Emma.” She said, refusing to shake my hand.
“Well, Emma” I said, not deterred by her apparent frigidity “Would you like me to buy you a drink? The Korova’s milk here is quite excellent.”
“You want to buy me a drink of milk?” she enquired, apparently curious by my exquisite sense of taste.
“certainly” I said “nothing prepares ones body better for a bit of the old in-out than the vitamins one gets from a glass of milk”
I saw her smile fade before she even opened her mouth “I knew it” she said “that’s all you men are ever interested in. Sex. You know what, call me when you decide you’re gay. Until that day, leave me alone.” And she got up, and left the Korova. I took a deep breath to catch the last of her perfume still hanging in the air, then went to rejoin my droogs over at the other table.
“Told you she wouldn’t be interested” laughed Benny, smashed off his face on ultra-skunk and whiskey.
“How could you have let her get away, man? What are you, some kind of maracon?” asked Roman. Benny looked at him.
“What did you just call him?” he enquired.
“Maracon.” Replied Roman, still smoking on his ultra-blunt “It means Faggot.”
The two of them burst out laughing, and I felt something inside of me rise. A thirst; for ultra-violence.
“Well, my Droogs, you certainly have my number” I laughed with them, placing my hand on Roman’s shoulder “perhaps we should vacate the Korova for the time being, and see if we can find ourselves a little more ultra-skunk elsewhere?”
The two of them voiced their agreements, and fairly soon we were outside, walking along Southsea pier. As we walked along the rustic pier, I was calm on the outside, but thinking all the time. So now it was to be “voice the faggot”, not listening when told what to do; and my Droogs laughing at me like mindless grinning bulldogs. And suddenly I bidded, that thinking was for the Gloopy ones, and that the omni ones used like, inspiration and what bogs ends. For now it was lovely music that came to my aid; there was a window open with the stereo on, and the uber-cool rap stylings of Will Smith’s ‘The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air’ filled the area; and I viddied right at once what to do.
“Roman?” I enquired “I was wondering if you could tell me what the capital of Thailand is?”
“That’s easy” he laughed, still thinking me Gloopy. “Bangkok.”
And with that, I smashed the fist of my rooka into his soomka, and watched him reel in pain as the shock went all the way up his body to his golova. He leaped backward from me, screaming in agony, and as he did so went over the railings of the pier, and into the water. I rounded on Benny, who was staring slack-jawed at the scene, and pump-kicked him to the chest, sending him over the barriers as well. I watched as my droogs thrashed, and writhed in the water, and vowed that were they to ever get out of line again, there could be no greater form of punishment than this.
I stand corrected.
About an hour later, we were sitting in the Korova again. I handed Roman my ultra-blunt after just two puffs, and told him he could finish it. An omni leader knows not only when to punish a dog, but also when to compromise, so it will not bite him out of spite in years to come. I poured Benny a shot of Gold-top milk from the two gallon container I had bought for the table.
“So, all is squared away now, and we need never speak of this again, right?” I asked. The two of them simply nodded. “excellent” I said, and rolled my remaining ultra-skunk into a spliff, and began to smoke it. Suddenly, the manager of the Korova appeared behind me.
“Are you smoking weed in my establishment?” he bellowed, snatching the dope out of my hand. “Where did you get this from?” he screamed.
“He grows it himself” said Roman from across the table “perhaps you should call the police?”
“You bastard!” I shouted as I dodged the manager’s grabbing hands and made for the door “betrayed by my own Droogs! How could you?”
And with that, I ran out into the street, and off into the night.
By the time I got home, I was tired, and decided that a bit of good old fashioned up-down was in order, so I switched on my computer, and began watching a video of two chellovecks doing the old in-out to a rather attractive woman from each end. I began to tug on my malenky droog as I watched, and felt the excitement surge throughout my body. As I was about to spit some korova juice onto my rooka, however, one of the vecks on the video let his juice spray over the face of the girl, as the man behind was still going at it. I watched this happen, and noticed that some of his veck-juice had missed her face, and flown over her shoulder onto the other chelloveck’s leg. As I saw this, I couldn’t help but think of the Russell Brand live skit in which he describes doing the exact same thing to a friend in a 3some, and having his friend chase him around the room trying to spunk on his leg out of revenge. And that’s when it happened, I let my Veck-juice spray; whilst thinking of Russell Brand being jazzed on by another man.
At first this did not bother me too much. Yes, it was weird, but no-one needed to know. However, over the next few nights, every time I tried to do the old up-down, I would find myself thinking of Russell Brand just at the moment I let my veck-juice spray, and this began to concern me. After 2 weeks of this, I started to become ill when thinking of doing the old in-out to a woman, and could only get my malenki droog excited when thinking of Russell Brand. I decided to see a counselor.
“Oh dear” he said, as I explained the situation. “My dear boy, it seems you have performed a sort of masturbatory reconditioning on yourself, a branch of aversion therapy which revolves around the individual masturbating for prolonged periods whilst thinking about an inappropriate stimulus without coming, to associate the pain and boredom of masturbation without climax with the subject they are imagining, whilst picturing appropriate stimulus as they come, to associate pleasure with that stimulus. Unfortunately, you seem to have gotten them mixed up, and now associate heterosexual sex with pain and boredom, and Russell Brand with the feeling of climax”.
“Is there any way you can fix it?” I enquired, and he shook his head.
“No, I’m afraid not. Recidivism of sex offenders is so greatly reduced post-masturbatory reconditioning because it is such an effective treatment. I’m afraid your only option is to live out the rest of your life as a homosexual with a strong preference to guys who look like Russell Brand.”
“Could I not get aversion therapy to put me off homosexual sex?” I asked, hopefully.
“Of course” he responded “but it would not prevent you from being sick at the thought of heterosexual sex, but would merely make your body react violently to both, and to be honest, it's probably better to enjoy gay sex than none at all. At least, that's what your dad tells me.”
I stared at him in a state of shock. My world had just come crashing down around me. My Droogs were right all along.
I left the hospital soon after, and walked along Southsea common to the pier. My days of doing the in-out on women were over. From here on out, it looked like the only way I could ever stand to do in-out without making myself hurt so badly I screamed for the sweet release of death would be if I had sex with Russell Brand. I stared into the sea, wondering whether or not to jump, when a hand grabbed me from behind.
“Voice!” said a voice, and I turned to see my old Droogs standing behind me, holding porn magazines.
“We just stole these from that Atar newsagent” said benny, holding one up to me “What do you think?”
As I stared at 19 year-old Kelly from Essex, standing on the cover with her perfect 36C breasts on display, my first instinct was to grab a hold of her titties and motorboat them, but just as I thought this, I felt the sickness begin to rise in my stomach to my throat, and the pain began to burn. I screamed out in agony, and collapsed, writhing on the floor as Roman had done when I kicked him into the ocean those 2 weeks ago. Roman and Benny looked down at me.
“Should we take him to a hospital?” asked Benny, sounding genuinely concerned.
“HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN HE PUNCHED ME IN THE FUCKING COCK?” Replied Roman, scathingly. Come on, let’s just dump his head in that water trough over there and go bowling, or something.
And they did.
Fucking Spanish people and their bowling...
I awoke hours later as a feminine hand touched my golova, and I rose out of unconsciousness to see the girl Emma from the bar standing over me, in what appeared to be a bedroom in a country house.
“Where am I?” I asked.
“You’re safe” she said. I found you passed out in a water trough, and brought you home. I heard all about you in the news.”
“I was in the news?” I enquired.
“Oh yes” she responded sweetly “you’re the boy who gave himself aversion therapy by thinking about Russell Brand whilst masturbating. It’s a massive story, I’ve been following it quite intently.” I made a mental note to scratch that therapist off my Christmas card list, and look into the exact rules regarding patient-doctor confidentiality.
“What makes me so interesting now?” I asked her, and she smiled again.
“You’re living proof that Russell Brand is an evil man, who needs to be stopped. He has taken the pleasure out of sex for you with anyone but himself, just like George Clooney did to his ex-girlfriend, and we can use this as evidence that he should be scrubbed from the face of our world once and for all!”
I lay back, thinking about this for a while. She could clearly see I was tired.
“Is there anything I can get you?” she asked, her perfect lips looking so enticing. I felt the sickness begin to rise again as I thought this. “Yes, a glass of milk, please” I thought, wanting to wash the bile down. I didn’t, however, realize what effect this would have on her.
“Milk?” she asked, shocked.
“Yes” I answered “Milk. Korova Moloko. Do you have any?”
“My God!” she whispered “You’re the creepy guy from the bar who was hitting on me!”
“Yes” I said “I wanted to know if you were up for a bit of the old in-out. Why?”
“Oh, no reason.” She said, standing upright and averting her gaze slightly. “May I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead” I answered, figuring she was making such an effort to keep me well, it couldn’t hurt to answer any questions she may have.
“Well, I was wondering, what does it feel like when you think about heterosexual sex?”
“Oh, it’s horrible” I replied “I get this terrible sickness in my stomach, that boils up into my throat, and chokes the air out of me. And my head feels like it’s splitting with the pain. If I’m honest with you, it makes me feel… like I want to die.”
“I see” she said, clearly pondering something “here, let me get your milk”.
She left the room, and I heard the door lock behind her. Moments later, I heard a sound being pumped into the room through a speaker-system. It was the sounds of two women having sex.
“STOP IT!” I screamed as I felt the sickness rise once more. “PLEASE STOP” I shouted out to her “I’M BEGGING YOU! STOP IT, PLEASE!” the sounds continued to play, and I felt as though my intestines were about to burst through the wall of my abdomen, and spill all over the floor. My head felt like it was burning at a thousand degrees and my limbs felt like they had been crushed with sledgehammers. The sounds didn’t stop. I knew what had to be done. I climbed over to the window, and rolled out. I fell 30 feet, and everything went black.
NOT like that...
I awoke in hospital to see David Cameron sitting at my bedside.
“My Cameron I said, surprised “what are you doing here?”
“Well, Voice” he answered “I heard about your case in the new, and decided we couldn’t just sit by and let something like this happen to a member of the public who is registered to vote, so I pulled some strings at the NHS and, well, you’re cured.”
I looked up at him in awe. “I’m cured?” I asked “I’m really cured?”
“Certainly” he replied “good as new. In fact, thanks to you we’ve managed to ban Russell Brand from ever entering our country again. The nation owes you a terrific amunt, Voice. Especially Andrew Sachs.”
“Well, thank you sir” I said “Thank you very much.”
“No problem kid” he responded. “By the way, do you mind if I take this opportunity for a photo-op?”
“Not at all” I said “carry on.”
He smiled. “Great” he said, turning to face the cameramen in the corner “Come on over and get a picture of us, then.”
A hundred camera flashes went off as the Prime minister shook my hand in an attempt to get publicity for his next election. But I didn’t mind that he was whoring me out. In fact, I smiled, a broad cheesy grin. The kind of grin you get when you imagine yourself riding Ellen Page as the entire cast of The Trailer Park Boys looks on; because that’s what I was doing. I was back. I was cured…
Oh yes, I was very definitely cured ;)
This post is dedicated to Stanley Kubrick, one of the greatest film-makers of our time. R.I.P
The other 2 stories involving Benny and Roman can be found here and here.