22 December 2011

Yet Even More Scroogella

I'm having some trouble getting this part finished to be honest, so here's a shortish part 4, with a concluding part 5 to come in the next day or two, if I get chance, which I shall try to. Double helping of Scroogella today then. You lucky, lucky idiots.
Part Two    

An XXXmas Carol

By Putya Dicksin.


  "Oh my god!" Exclaimed Scroogella loudly. For she had just walked into an utterly nude David Beckham, football player extraordinaire.
  "I'm so sorry." She apologised quickly.
  "Chill-ax, baby," replied Mr Beckham in an easy tone.
  "But you're... you're..." Scroogella babbled, her gaze dropping to his crotch "and you're most definitely . . ."
  Scroogella lifted her eyes away firmly from Mr Beckham's prize. Although this was at least the eighth human penis she's seen that day, and indeed, in her entire life, she still wasn't quite used to them. The way they dangled unnerved her most terribly. They were like a marionette whose puppeteer had nipped off somewhere for a quick smoke.
  Scroogella flustered. Everything was too confusing. Just when she thought she'd gotten a grip on what had been happening to her, something new came along to entirely throw her off balance once more.
  "I just didn't see you there," Scroogella explained by way of an apology. "I didn't think you could move so quickly. People say you've lost a yard of pace these days. Why are you here anyway? Are you my guide? What's going on?"
  "Chill-ax, baby," Mr Beckham repeated with his trade mark, knicker-wetting smile.

  "You, Sir, have been in Los Angeles for far too long." Scroogella scolded at this repetition of such a awful word.
  "Aye might be I 'as lassie," Mr Beckham admitted in an entirely different accent. "Tis far cry from t'mill lands where I grew up."
  "And that is a Yorkshire accent, you played for Manchester United. That's in Lancashire. Anyway I thought you were a Londoner originally."
  "Cor blimey, was I Guv?" Asked Mr Beckham doing an accidental best Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins impression.
  Then he gave up his charade, throwing his arms high into the air in supplication. When he next spoke his voice had the high class modulations of one who was raised in the Home Counties and had gone on to study at Oxford, before a short stint working at the Royal Shakespeare Company.
  "This is what happens when you give you cousin's retarded son an internship because you feel you ought to." Mr Beckham, or whoever he really was, shook his head despairingly. "The research suffers and if the research isn't there, the whole thing can go to pot in an instant."

  "Have you thought of getting an iPhone?" Scroogella enquired, trying to be helpful, despite her bafflement of this latest turn of events. "You could google things then. You know, online."
  "I can't be doing with all that modern muck." The mysterious man sniffed disdainfully. "Most things on the internet are made up. I read that on fallacies.com, you know. I didn't even intend to visit that site, it is full of fascinating information though. I was there for over an hour. I had meant to visit phallic ices.com I wanted to order some particular risqué centrepieces for a party I was having." He shook his head.
  Scroogella had had enough of this. "Excuse me, but who are you?"

  The man ignored her, lost in his own travails.
  "Can I help matters if I happen to be dyslexic? It's not like I haven't attempted to seek help. I wrote to their advice centre half a dozen times at the very least. I fear I wrote the address incorrectly however, as I never got a single letter in reply from them. Postcodes are a devilish conundrum when you are dyslexic. Don't even start me on URL's. I even manage to get the www in the wrong order at times. It's a hard life when you're a god who isn't good at spelling.
  "You're a god?!"
  "Well, I was." The Beckham-esque figure admitted ruefully.
  "You don't look like a god. You look more like an internationally famous sportsman who is way past his prime, but can still command excessive wages due to his brand recognition factor."
  "Oh course I don't look like a god, my dear," he explained. "I look like your ideal man. It's all part of the package."
  "Say what?" Scroogella looked this apparently former god up and down circumspectly. He however wasn't circumspected so she was able to look at his foreskin too.
  He really was the very spitting image of Mr Beckham. It was uncanny. From the myriad of tattoos to shaven head. The only thing she didn't recognise was the spall ivy leaf bracelet on his forearm bearing the name Rose. Most likely that was yet another new addition to the clan Beckham she decided. How that woman managed to keep so slim she'd never know.

  Scroogella finished appraising the god. She didn't look entirely convinced as to his alleged divinity.
  "Do something godly then," she challenged him.
  The figure grinned and suddenly Scroogella felt freshly bathed. Her hair had slipped back into place. Her skin felt fresh and smelt lightly perfumed.
  It wasn't an exaggeration to say that the last few hours of inter-dimensional travel combined with spectacles of an entirely perverted nature had left Scroogella with somewhat of a perspiration related odour. Especially between her thighs. Now she felt fresh as the dew on Christmas morning. Even the relish stain on her pjs had vanished, leaving not even the slightest mark to show where once it was.
  Scroogella gazed at the man by her side critically before finally conceding, "Oh very well done. Very clever. Well they do say cleanliness is next to godliness, don't they."
  The Beckham clone smiled broadly. His eyes twinkled. Scroogella suddenly felt re-dampened in one small area.
  "You didn't even waggle your fingers, or sneeze, or break wind or anything."
  "Don't have to. God here, remember," he replied smugly, before adding "well I was a god."
  "So why aren't you a god anymore?" Scroogella asked as delicately as she was able.
  "Would you like the complicated Nietzschean explanation or the short and sweet one?"
  Scroogella pondered a moment, then decided.
  "I'll take the short answer please."
  "Shit happens."
  "Oh. That was a short answer."

  "Do you need me to condense it any further for you? After all it's only the loss of my godhood we're talking about here." The god seemed riled. Scroogella however felt she was losing whatever tenuous grip she'd had on her sanity.
  "Your godhood? Is that what you have on your god-jacket?" Scroogella emitted a high pitched giggle.
  "Oh, ha ha. Thank you for caring so much," the god retorted angrily with a most unhappy look on his face.
  This sobered Scroogella somewhat. Here she was on Christmas with a bitter and angry dyslexic former god. How wonderful life was.
  "Well at least I still have a modicum of power, even if it is only here between the dimensions. It's just in the realities that I'm such a damp squib," he explained. "It's such a crying shame. Stuck here forever without the power to return to your world! Oh how I miss the touch of mortal flesh! Goddesses are far too stuck up to do such things as you mortal women will. Have you ever tried to talk a goddess into doing ass to mouth?"
  Scroogella shook her head silently. She could safely say she had never, ever tried to do that.
  "They just won't do it. It's not as if gods even defecate. In the whole realm of gods, from Norse to Roman, from Greek to Scientologist, there is only one goddess who will do such deviant things."
  "Well isn't one enough? Who is it?" Scroogella asked.
  The Beckham-god looked like he was about to burst into tears. Which he did seconds later as he wailed
  "She's my mother!"

  The god dissolved into a mass of tears and mucus, overwrought by admitting this. How cruel existence could be sometimes, Scroogella thought.
   Once his sobbing had eased somewhat, she pulled a tissue from her pj sleeve and used it to wipe his face.
  "Now blow." Scroogella instructed matronly.
 He blew loud and long. She held the tissue with the barest tips of her fingers before casting it off into the void. Which, all in all, was rather a large mistake. By throwing away the tissue, Scroogella had unknowingly ruined mankind's final chance to cure the common cold, ringworm and udder-rot. God snot is indeed a terribly powerful substance. At this moment Scroogella had concerns other than disease control to deal with.
  "Are you feeling better now?" She asked the god kindly.
  "Yes'm," he replied meekly.
  "You want to show me my Christmas future?" Scroogella asked in that voice one uses to encourage children out of sulk.
  "Shall we go see old Scwoogella all Scwhivelled up and looking like an old cwone? Would that cheer up my ickle goddy-woddy? Shall we go and see me dying a poor sad virgin?"

  Sometimes, Scroogella decided dispassionately, you just have to roll with what life throws at you and try not to think about the absurdity of it all.
  She patted the shaven headed god tenderly on the arm as he muttered something to her.
  "Scroogella can't hear you, say it again."
  "Said it's boring."
  "What's boring."
  "You being old. 's boring. Just sitting there knitting. Very dull indeed."
  "Oh. Then what else can we do? I know what, why don't you tell me your real name. I bet you're dead famous. I'm sure I've heard of you. Which god are you?"

  This seemed to brighten the god up dramatically. He ceased his infernal sniffing and even smiled again.
  "Oh, I'm one of the big ones. Most people have heard of me. But I can't tell you who I am. It's against the rules. I thought everyone knew that."
  "Is that because it's an old magic, that if I know your name I have power over you and you have to do everything I command?" Scroogella asked hopefully.
  "Don't be so silly. That only works for dragons and hamsters." The god replied, rolling his eyes.
  "It's been ages since anyone got my name right. There's a prize for it. Our PR company suggested the idea. It was very popular for a while, really caught the public imagination."
  "Hmm." Scroogella thought hard for a moment or two before crying out "Ah-ha!" in a loud voice.
  "You don't have to shout," reprimanded the god.

  "I know your name." Scroogella declared triumphantly. "It's easy. The bracelet gives it away, if you combine it with the knowledge of your dyslexia. Soooo easy."
  "What is it then"," he challenged her, "name me, if you're clever."
  "I name you Eros, god of love, desire and all things sticky."
  Eros, for it was he, smiled brightly at her and took a long, low bow.
  "Very well done my dear. You're the first person in a long time to guess who I am. You're entitled to the prize I suppose then."

  Still smiling, Eros reached out between the very atoms in the void, his hand disappearing into somewhere else. When he pulled it back, he held a big wheel of cheese in his grasp. The green was green and possibly sentient.
  "I did say no-one had guessed my name for a long time." He admitted bashfully. "You should be glad I'm not Neptune. That's all I'm saying."
  "I'll pass on the cheese, if it's all the same to you." Scroogella said, wondering if Eros would just leave her alone for a few moments to gather her thoughts. Between his crying and his lactose prizes, he had barely left her a moment to think things through. Perhaps if she flashed her chest at him he'd be quiet for a while.
  "Yes, I would," Eros replied to her thought.
  "You can read minds?" Scroogella asked in an astonished tone.
  "Well, partially," he admitted, "only if you're thinking about something sexual. Or about root vegetables, for some strange reason."
  "I've gathered some tremendous recipes for carrots and leeks over the years." Eros confided to her.
  "Yes, I'm sure you have."
  "And you should see the things I can do with a turnip."
  "I'd rather not." Scroogella declined wondering why the hell she was here with this insane god and whether anything sexual was going to happen at all in this short section of her evening.

  As it turns out, it wouldn't.

 To be continued...

1 comment:

Oldgate said...

Ever so clever :D You're one good author :P :D