So George the Prepuce is lounging on Copacabana Beach when a pretty dark boy brings him his mobile phone. The boy is naked and at first blush you would take him for circumcised. In fact he is one of George's special staff and his cock is being amputated five per cent at a time year on year. George the Prepuce pickles the segments in Bulge Neck Eric's Special Brew and has them surgically added to the stubby little prick growing out of the middle of his face.
Eyelids crack open like smirking alligator rectums. "Yah what is it? Hurry up you little hispano nigrah, I am exhausted. Been kicking prole arse in my dreams the whole facking afternoon."
The boy proffers the phone in the approved manner. "Your pardon sir, but I think you better take it."
"You don't tell me what I better do. What public school dimpled your
little butt cheeks?" But he takes the phone and waves the boy away. "Yah what is it?"
Squawks of panic over the line like opium queens battalion fighting over the last syringe. The phallus George uses for a nose quivers and purples with rage. Eurozone Incorporated have fucked up again. From the dead mosquito depths of his mud-puddle mind George dredges up an ejaculation and snorts it down the phone on a dry-hump gamma wave of toxic psycho radioactivity. It bounces off two microchips and a satellite and splatters itself noisily across his honoured colleagues at the other end.
"All finished now, yah? Okay then. Tell your uncle Georgie what the problem is. Pretend like your uncle Georgie is your nice Uncle Tombama from across the salty pond."
Turns out they have tried to get Uncle Tombama before calling George, but Uncle Tombama has troubles of his own trying to cadge entry to a party with a bunch of tea-throwing chimps. Uncle Tombama hopes the tea will stain sufficiently to hide his yellow dorsal stripe, dread symptom of Blair's Jaundice caught from too much elephant-humping.
The distinguished representatives of Eurozone Incorporated bleat their troubles at George the Prepuce faute de mieux
. It seems the Main Line has gone through the floorboards once again, precipitating severe social turmoil and rampant uncontrolled bowel movements all across the executive elite.
The Main Line operates on psychic energy manifested through severe toilet training, which results in maximum instability and minimum predictability. One little executive wetting his pants can cause a riot, but the longer they hold it in the worse the explosions can be. There are some who consider this disadvantageous but George the Prepuce and the agencies that control his pleasure centres are not among them.
"Okay shut your yap ... Remember what I keep on telling you bastards: there are no problems only chances, no famines only sales opportunities, no leaders only markets. Keep on with present policy and if we run out of pocket money we can roll a few drunks, rob a hospital or so and blame the drug addicts. And tell the wops and dagoes to pull out the goddamn finger, yah?"
Tosses the phone back over his shoulder to be caught by the naked boy at right silly man. Alligator lids slit closed over orbs like sun-baked reptile turds and George the Prepuce dozes. Prepuce is lounging distinguished cause a riot. Remember what I keep on Georgie what the problem waves the boy away. Eric's Special Brew panic over the line rampant uncontrolled elephant-humping sales opportunities. What public school dimpled George uses for a nose are not among them. Keep on through the floorboards troubles of his own and a satellite and splatters at first blush.
Dreams of kicking proles. Toes twitch in pink tanned foreskin brogues.