Writing Well Hung

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[CENTER][B][SIZE=3][SIZE=1]WARNING: This story contains violence, scenes of torture and death, drug and alcohol abuse, sex, rock and roll, and extremely foul language. But it's all in good fun, so who gives a shit?[/SIZE]
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Well Hung[/SIZE][/U][/B]

[SIZE=1]When people remember me, if they remember me, then I imagine that they'll say [/SIZE][SIZE=1]"Lance Ceruvial Brookes, he was an evil man, don't ever forget that, but he was a [/SIZE][SIZE=1]necessary evil." That's essentially how my employers explain me - my morals, my [/SIZE][SIZE=1]ethics, my life: a necessary evil.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=1]'Course, that's only one opinion.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=1]---[/SIZE]

[B][SIZE=2]Westminster, London[/SIZE][/B]

[SIZE=1][B]"You are unbelievably fucking stupid,"[/B] I said, strolling idly down the long white [/SIZE][SIZE=1]corridor with my assistant, a short, slightly overweight man with a mess of curly [/SIZE][SIZE=1]hair flopping down into his eyes, [B]"How do you come up with these theories?"[/B][/SIZE]

[B][SIZE=1]"All I'm saying is that a great human tragedy could have been totally avoided had [/SIZE][/B][SIZE=1][B]the Titanic been equipped with flamethrowers,"[/B] he replied, pushing his [/SIZE][SIZE=1]thick-rimmed spectacles back up his nose as he struggled to keep pace with me.[/SIZE]

[B][SIZE=1]"But the Titanic was a passenger ship - why would they put flamethrowers on a [/SIZE][SIZE=1]passenger ship?"[/SIZE][/B]

[SIZE=1][B]"Because they need it to melt the iceberg - it makes perfect sense."[/B] I paused at [/SIZE][SIZE=1]this moment, turned to look at him very slowly, and said:[/SIZE]

[B][SIZE=1]"They didn't know it was going to crash into the fucking iceberg, you cretinous [/SIZE][SIZE=1]dickpole. If the builders of the Titanic had some sort of precognitive ability then [/SIZE][SIZE=1]perhaps they would have fitted acetylene torches to the front of the biggest [/SIZE][SIZE=1]passenger cruiser ever built, but somehow I don't think they did. I think they [/SIZE][SIZE=1]were ordinary, pot-bellied, potato-digging Irishmen, without any hint of [/SIZE][SIZE=1]superhuman ability, precognitive or otherwise, and as such they couldn't possibly [/SIZE][SIZE=1]have foreseen that the Titanic was going to happen to crash into a giant iceberg, [/SIZE][SIZE=1]sinking and killing hundreds of people. Do you know any Irish ship-builders that [/SIZE][SIZE=1]can see into the future?"[/SIZE][/B]

[SIZE=1]My assistant shook his head meekly, lowering his eyes to the floor, and scuffing [/SIZE][SIZE=1]the carpet sheepishly with his foot.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=1][B]"No, I thought not,"[/B] I said sharply, turning into a darkened, windowless room off [/SIZE][SIZE=1]the white corridor. The interior of the room was almost totally bare, [/SIZE][SIZE=1]wood-panelled, with an odd musty smell wafting throughout. The only light [/SIZE][SIZE=1]came from a single gaslamp that hung above the centre of the room, glowing with [/SIZE][SIZE=1]an odd, dingy sort of light, and the only change to the decor of the room was a [/SIZE][SIZE=1]bizarre monument standing silently under the lamp. It seemed to be an [/SIZE][SIZE=1]average-sized man in a set of loose, dark, pyjama-like clothes, with a beige sack [/SIZE][SIZE=1]draped over his head, and a rope slung around his neck, which had been [/SIZE][SIZE=1]suspended from the ceiling. There was also a plain wooden handle right next to [/SIZE][SIZE=1]him, rising from the floor at a slight angle. To anyone unfamiliar with this sort of [/SIZE][SIZE=1]scene, it would be an abstract and unsettling one, but to me and my assistant, [/SIZE][SIZE=1]it was normal fayre.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=1][B]"Morning, Alfie,"[/B] I said cheerfully as I stepped into the room, [B]"How was dinner last [/B][/SIZE][B][SIZE=1]night?"[/SIZE][/B]
[SIZE=1][B]"Best meal I've ever eaten, thanks, Lance,"[/B] came the muffled reply from under the [/SIZE][SIZE=1]sack.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=1][B]"Glad to hear it,"[/B] I responded, the tiniest of smiles gradually creeping across my [/SIZE][SIZE=1]face.[/SIZE]

[B][SIZE=1]"Alfie, do you think that the Titanic should have been equipped with [/SIZE][/B][SIZE=1][B]flamethrowers?"[/B] asked my assistant. There was a brief pause, and then Alfie [/SIZE][SIZE=1]replied, saying:[/SIZE]

[B][SIZE=1]"Actually, now I come to think of it, that's not a bad idea, Harold. Would have [/SIZE][SIZE=1]saved a lot of human lives, and..."[/SIZE][/B]

[SIZE=1][B]"Oh, for fuck's sake,"[/B] I exclaimed, grabbing the wooden handle and yanking it [/SIZE][SIZE=1]towards me. There was a sudden snap as the wood panelling underneath Alfie's [/SIZE][SIZE=1]feet dropped away, and Alfie fell into the deep black pit of oblivion, but his [/SIZE][SIZE=1]descent was cut short by a sudden stop, facilitated entirely by the rope around his [/SIZE][SIZE=1]neck becoming taught. His neck snapped, and the sudden rush of noise and [/SIZE][SIZE=1]excitement was replaced by an eery, hanging silence, where the hanging body of [/SIZE][SIZE=1]Alfie swayed back and forth.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=1]After a few seconds, I brushed my fringe back out of my eyes, straightened my [/SIZE][SIZE=1]black silk tie, then clapped my hands together, and said:[/SIZE]

[B][SIZE=1]"Drink?"[/SIZE][/B]

[SIZE=1]---[/SIZE]

[B][SIZE=2]The Hanging Man Gentleman's Club, Westminster[/SIZE][/B]

[SIZE=1]The soft velour of the armchair I sank into was heaven compared to the plastic [/SIZE][SIZE=1]slabs one was required to sit on in Her Majesty's Prisons. I felt the pain in my [/SIZE][SIZE=1]back muscles begin to recede as I settled in, a glass of fine single malt whisky in [/SIZE][SIZE=1]one hand and a large Cuban cigar, the tip smoking away merrily in the other.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=1][B]"Not drinking, Harold?"[/B] I asked, seeing the diet soft drink fizzing away in my [/SIZE][SIZE=1]assistant's hand as he sat down.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=1][B]"I can't, I'm afraid,"[/B] he replied, straightening his tweed jacket and pushing his [/SIZE][SIZE=1]glasses back up his nose, [B]"I'm driving up to Doncaster to see my mother tonight."[/B][/SIZE]

[SIZE=1][B]"Nonsense,"[/B] I replied, pouring him a glass of whisky from the large glass decanter [/SIZE][SIZE=1]which sat on the table next to me,[B] "You can have a glass or two - by the time you [/B][/SIZE][B][SIZE=1]start driving, you'll have worked all the alcohol out of your bloodstream."[/SIZE][/B]

[SIZE=1][B]"I...I really shouldn't,"[/B] he said, waving away the proffered glass.[/SIZE]

[B][SIZE=1]"Look, Harold, you know I hate to pull rank, and that I like to leave that whole [/SIZE][SIZE=1]assistant-boss relationship shit in the office, but if you don't take the whisky, [/SIZE][SIZE=1]drink it and fucking enjoy it, I will fire your fat half-Belgian arse before you can [/SIZE][SIZE=1]say "Grease me up, Margaret, I'm about to burst.""[/SIZE][/B]

[SIZE=1]With a slight hesitation, Harold reached out and accepted the glass.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=1]---[/SIZE]

[SIZE=1]2 hours later...[/SIZE]

[SIZE=1][B]"I've always...always said you were my best...my best friend,"[/B] Harold slurred as he [/SIZE][SIZE=1]slumped further down into the armchair. Half the decanter of whisky had been [/SIZE][SIZE=1]poured down his neck since I offered him that first glass two hours ago, and now [/SIZE][SIZE=1]it was becoming rather tiresome. I ordered that whisky, and I'd hardly had a [/SIZE][SIZE=1]chance to taste it before Harold had necked half the well-matured goodness.[/SIZE]

[B][SIZE=1]"Listen, Harold, I think it's about time you started on your way up to Doncaster. [/SIZE][SIZE=1]Your mother will be wondering where on earth you've got to. Look, here are your [/SIZE][/B][SIZE=1][B]keys,"[/B] I said, glazing over the malicious intent as I handed Harold his car keys.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]"Thanksss Lance,"[/B] he said, stumbling out of his chair and towards the exit, [/SIZE][B][SIZE=1]"You're a good friend!"[/SIZE][/B]

[SIZE=1][B]"The best you'll ever have, arseface,"[/B] I said to myself as he left.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=1]Yes, I'm a necessary evil.

---

Welcome to the shadowy and morbid world of Lance Ceruvial Brookes, Head Executioner of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II's Empire. You may not like it, you may find elements of it disturbing and unsettling, but please take it all with a big pinch of salt.

This is not in any way supposed to be a ground-breaking piece of fiction, just a fun little tale that I hope will entertain at least one person on the 'Boards. I also realise that the humour contained within may not be to everyone's tastes, but hopefully there's someone out there who shares a similar sense of humour.

Anyway, enjoy, comment and I will post some more as soon as it is written.
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[chibi-master]

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You may not like it, you may find elements of it disturbing and unsettling, but please take it all with a big pinch of salt.
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I like salt.:animesmil

Anyway, please write more! I just love these kinds of stories! Works of literary art, they are! Now then, BRING ON THE GORE!:smirk:

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[center][SIZE=1]Twiddling my thumbs, I sat waiting for Harold in the same darkened room that I had previously put Alfie to death in. Normally I didn't like to spend too much time in here, but I needed Harold to assist me on this one, and he was already incredibly late.

[B]"Finally!" [/B]I shouted as he pushed through the door, looking rather pale and haggard, [B]"Where the fuck have you been?" [/B]He looked up at me with enormously wide eyes and muttered:

[B]"Dealing with a little problem."

"What problem? Pyjamas turn into nitrogen and trap you on the ceiling again?"

"No, Lance," [/B]he stammered, [B]"I fell asleep at an inopportune moment last night."

"When?"

"Halfway to Doncaster on the motorway."

"How much damage?"

"A lot."

"You prick!" [/B]I said, bursting into laughter that lasted for approximately fourteen minutes, while Harold stood next to me looking sheepish and disappointed.

[B]"Anyway," [/B]I said, walking over to the hooded man chained to the wall, still struggling a little, [B]"Harold, this is Jefferson. Jefferson, Harold."

"Nice to meet you," [/B]replied Harold.

[B]"I hope you suffocate you fucking pig!" [/B]came the reply.

[B]"Don't worry about him, he's a wannabe revolutionary. Loves calling us pigs, royal-fuckers, arseholes who've been sodomised by the evil British Empire. Pay no attention."

"Right you are, Lance," [/B]replied Harold, setting up the camera on the tripod in the corner, switching the timer on.

[B]"We ready?" [/B]I asked.

[B]"I think so, Lance," [/B]said Harold, walking back over to stand by the condemned man. I stood on his other side, smiled and flipped a peace sign with my fingers. The camera flashed, and I walked back over to it.

[B]"That one's definitely going on my MySpace page," [/B]I said, picking up the digital camera and slipping it into my pocket. I then picked up a pistol from next to the tripod, loaded the single bullet into it, and stood directly opposite Jefferson.

[B]"Any last words, Jefferson?" [/B]I asked, fulfilling my role as Executioner.

[B]"Get fucked, pig! You can kiss my big fat revolutionary arse you motherf..."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," [/B]I spat, levelling the pistol and firing it in one smooth movement. The bullet flew straight and true, crashing into Jefferson's head and out the other side, splattering blood all over the hood, the wall behind him and the floor.

[B]"Oh, Jesus, this is a pain," [/B]I said, throwing the gun down and standing over the body as it twitched in it's post-mortal muscle spasms.

[B]"What's that?" [/B]asked Harold, pushing his glasses up his nose.

[B]"We have to get a new fucking hood," [/B]I said, peeling the hood off the bloody corpse.

---

[B][SIZE=2]King's Cross, London

[SIZE=1]"You see that woman by the estate agents?" [/SIZE][/SIZE][/B][SIZE=2][SIZE=1]I asked Harold, pointing over to a glamorous-looking woman standing looking at the pictures of houses, a pot plant in one hand. Harold looked the other way, and I slapped him for his incompetence. He looked over to the estate agent, rubbing his face.

[B]"What, the woman?"

"Yes, the woman. She's a prime piece of real estate and no mistake," [/B]I said, spraying breath freshener into my mouth from a small capsule and heading over to the woman.

[B]"Hi, you looking for a new house?" [/B]I said, turning on the patented Brookes charm.

[B]"Yeah, I am actually," [/B]she replied, her voice as smooth as her flowing golden locks.

[B]"Well, you wouldn't want to live in that one," [/B]I said, pointing to the one she had been looking at.

[B]"Why not?"

"I've always maintained the principle: why put bay windows on a shithouse?" [/B]I laughed, and she laughed, a genuine connection.

[B]"They say charm is dead, but you're clearly an argument to the contrary," [/B]she said.

[B]"Well, I've always said I'm a gentleman, but never a gentle man," [/B]more laughter, [B]"Can I help you with that?" [/B]I gestured to the pot plant, which she handed over to me.

[B]"Thanks very much."

"No problem. So where am I taking it?"

"Oh, well my boyfriend's house is just over the..."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," [/B]I said, hurling the pot plant through the window of a nearby Porsche sports car, then I jogged back across the street to where Harold was standing, looking shocked.

[B]"Prudish bitch," [/B]I said to him, straightening my tie and strolling off in the other direction.

---

Oh, I forgot to mention two things. Firstly, Lance is a horrible person - please don't think that he's a reflection of me, because he's definitely not. You're also not supposed to relate to him, because he's a complete twat, basically.

Secondly, this story may well get fairly surreal. Don't try to make too much sense of things like the "pyjama-nitrogen" line, otherwise you'll go mad.
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[chibi-master]

*insane cackling* That was hilarious! You've gotta write more! Oh, my stomach hurts from the laughing...XD