And they all lived
happily ever after ...
'MORE SALT,
CUNTA! You deaf twat.'
'Ain't no need to holler, baass. My
head ain't stuffed with cotton-fluff and buttoned-up-the-back. Stupid, dumb-ass
fuck.'
'I 'eard that. Don't go givin' me
any of your lip, you scurvy cyclops! One should always be rememberin' one's roots.' The captain scratched the place
where his left foot used to be and gazed at the now cauterised stump.
Cunta blinked his only eye and
sucked on his bottom lip. 'Sweet, sweet meat,' he sang softly as he stirred the
bubbling pot of meat stew - the meat being the captain's left foot. They'd
eaten every scrap of food, from crew to Cunta's goat, Petunia. Now, it was
either foot, or Cunta's cock and Captain Tiny had other plans for that
particular member.
''Ere,' said the Captain, scrunching
up his eyes against the incandescence of the sun, 'Magine me using me last shot
on that fuckin' albatross, Cunta. I just dunno what came over me. It shittin'
on me lucky wig were the last straw. Now look at us.' He licked a finger and
held it aloft. 'Not a breath. 'ow am I ever gonna get to the Virgin Islands and
lose me cherry?'
Cunta rolled his eyes pondering on
the many possible reactions his Captain may experience at the news that the
Virgin Islands were not swarming with eager virgin girls desperate to
wrap their plump, glossy lips around his tiny little todger. But, were instead,
inhabited by sabre-toothed cannibals with an insatiable penchant for fatty
white meat, which is why Cunta, having drugged the captain with a potent
cocktail of goji-berry juice, rum and piss in equal measure (as retribution for
downing his good eye like an oyster), switched course to a rather exotic
sounding country called France, where he intended to sell his Baass to the circus and head off to make his fortune as a
gigolo to the rich and famous pigmy goats of gay Parie.
'Don't worry, Baass. Dem virgins is
gonna luuuuuve you.'
The Captain flicked a glance at the
foot-long penis whipped to Cunta's thigh. He smiled, crooked and devious.
*
With a belly
full of meat - the captain's horny toenails adding an extra croutony-crunch to
the victuals - and head hazy with rum, Cunta drifted into an abyss-like sleep.
Captain Tiny hoppy-cum-pranced along the galley. Just to make doubly sure that
his Man Friday slept soundly, he walloped him several times about the head with
the heaviest object aboard ship - the brass latrine pot his mama and papa had
given him on achieving his captaincy .
'Now to put my life's research to the test! Mwaha! Mwahahahahahaha!'
Late into the night, the captain snipped and clipped, trimmed and stripped.
With the finest of gossamer threads and the most delicate of stitches, he sewed
sinew to sinew, vein to vein, nerve to nerve without disruption. 'If I can make
Rodney the rat's todger bigger than mine, there's 'ope for me yet.' By dawn, his work was done and his transformation
from paltry in the britches department to being hung like a donkey, was
complete. The stew had an extra mouthful or two of gristle in it and Cunta was
now eunoched.
Numbed by brandy and blood loss, the
captain clobbered Cunta another couple of times over the head before passing
out on deck, too weary even to play with his new best friend.
*
Three
days later, the pungent whiff of garlic farts blasted the captain from strange
dreams of goats and squishy, over-ripe watermelons into the land of
consciousness. 'Cunta, get your stinkin' arse outta me face.' But the captain's
Man Friday was no-where to be seen. Above him stood a fat man wearing an
oversized red-onion necklace.
''Ey! Monsieur, bienvenue a Toulon!'
The captain struggled to his foot.
'Stand aside, my good man,' he said in his rehearsed Queen's English, 'and
point me in the direction of them lovely virgins gaggin' for me loins. 'ic.'
'Alors. Anglais?' The fat man
hawked. Bubbling green gunk merged with Cunta's blood on the deck. 'Hahaha!
Virgins? You Anglais make zee best jokes. Zee whorehouse is at zee end of zee
jetty.'
The captain minced lopsidedly down
the gangplank with only two thoughts. Firstly, the unfurling bulge in his
britches, swiftly followed by the looks on the virgins' faces when they clapped
eyes on his magnificence.
The smell of the Toulon whorehouse, when it
hit the captain's senses, compared only to the sweaty stench of a mollusc's
ball-sack, but nothing could stop him.
'Yoohoo, ladies! Come to Papa!' he
called through the doorway of what he assumed was the brothel, the only hint
being the words 'Get your end away here - NO FREEBIES' scrawled on the wall.
A semi-naked pensioner wearing a bad
wig popped up from beneath a counter inside. 'Twenty Francs, Mister. No kissin'
on zee lips, you hear?'
PPffffft. The straining in the
Captain's groin deflated. 'I'm not shagging you, you wizened old 'ag! Look at
your tits! I've seen perkier fucking ciabattas!'
'Not me, you stupid merde tete! Zee
new girl. She's young and firm. You'll like her, I feel it in my water.'
'That's more like it, 'ag. Lead the
way!'
'Up zee stairs. Allez. First door on
zee left.'
Captain Tiny leapt up the stairs,
crashing through the door, britches round his ankles. 'Ooh, girlie, are you in
for a special treat! Agggggggghhhhhhh!'
Cunta lay on the bed, legs akimbo,
with a squirrel skin draped over the place where his manhood once was.
'Baass! You've made me the happiest slave in the whole world! I
always dreamed of having a pussy!'
The captain stood agog. 'Where's me fuckin'
virgin, Cunta?'
A winning smile spread over Cunta's
lips. He flapped a hand at the captain's flaccid member. 'That thing don't work
for virgins, baass. Only goats.'
*
The captain
promptly swapped the sea for land, his wig for a flat cap and his ship for a
cute little goat farm in the Pyrenees. Cunta on the other hand, fled to Mon
M'artre where he became the muse of Van Gough. And we all know what happened to
him.
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