Thursday, November 16, 2006

extract from Jason Phereus:

A Universal History (of Troutmask): the one where Mel Gibson fucks a tramp



Troutmask pulls out of the underground car park and onto a crowded Charring Cross Road, 11.43 Friday night, and sets off for the Savoy.
He is using the black BMW for the job.
All the necessary arrangements for his client's easy removal through the back of the hotel have been made.
The journey is short and uneventful. He pulls up and checks his watch. Two minutes early. He knows that this evening's client will be as punctual as he has always been in the past. Indeed, Mr Gibson is a stickler for punctuality.

Troutmask smiles through the tinted windscreen at the deserted street, its series of empty bays and quiet squares of lawn, the high railings behind which the cars cut along the Embankment and the Thames flows.

Sweet Thames flow softly on, flow softly now, softly, for our song is almost done.

What is he thinking? Impossible to say. Who can possibly divine the vast motions of his mythy mind? Perhaps he is simply reflecting on the success of this particular venture, a world-wide network of discrete services designed to fulfill the special needs of the very A-est of A-list celebrities.
His client list is extensive, the range of services unparalleled.

This is the third time, for example, that he has taken Mr Gibson on what Gibson himself likes to refer to as one of his "hunts", but he has also done much more than this. He supplied Richard Gere with a quality selection of mixed small rodents, a speculum and a tub of Ox-fat during his last stay in London, found live eels and Femidoms for Lisa Kudrow, regularly arranges for the same three black hermaphrodite midgets to be wheeled into Brad Pitt's hotel room hidden beneath the room service trolley.

His services are expensive, of course. -Missa Tloutmas he cha Top Dollah- as Lalida is wont to say, but Missa Tloutmas also pays top dollar. Keeping the doormen and porters at the Savoy in his pocket, is obligatory. Plus he has to pay enough to make selling information to the gutter-press for a one off payment financially unrewarding. The back dwarves are virtually full-time employees of www.discretecelebservices.com, receiving a generous monthly salary, pension plan and a performance bonus if Mr Pitt is particularly happy, if the golden showers have been of the temperature, colour and taste that is most to Mr Pitt's pleasure, if the fisting has had the bite and reach that sets Mr Pitt's soul to singing.

As long as the money's there, and they stay within the confines of the service, they're safe. Troutmask still remembers the dressing downs he had to give Hugh Grant and Eddie Murphy for going AWOL and not using his L.A branch of DisCelebSer. Still, it proved a salutary lesson to almost everyone else on his books.

But Gibson is a little different, his peccadilloes are more hi-risk and less certain. He likes to be outside, he's an outdoorsy type, always has been ever since he was a kid hitching his way across the dead heart and experiencing his first bouts of alfresco hobo-love in the empty wagons of goods trains. He likes something more unpredictable, more authentic, riskier. Gibson's personal client manager and the organizations main Trampscout has been out searching the streets for a suitable quarry for a fortnight or so now and twenty-seven minutes ago, just as Troutmask was untangling himself from Dana Polatin and Lalida, he sent a message notifying Troutmask that everything had gone to plan, that he had prepared and isolated an appropriate "quarry" in the small back alley just a little further along the Embankment.

Troutmask looks round as the fire exit opens and an oblong of stale light falls over the black tarmac between the hotel's imposing back wall and his waiting car.

Mr Gibson jogs across the space between them clad in a loose, grey toweling leisure suit and sneakers. He has his hood up. His face is in shadow but as he approaches the car Troutmask can see that his lips are moving slightly, that his famous blue eye are narrowed into slits and shining with a dry, fevered heat, the first effects of the Stellarc Four capsule he swallowed just moments before .

A second later Gibson is in the back of the car, his hood still up, shading his face. Troutmask knows better than to speak and simply, as always, presses play on the in-car CD player and lets "Cheap Sunglasses" by ZZ Top, Gibson's absolutely favourite song of all time, from the album "DeGuello", flood the backseat.

Gibson is extraordinarily, violently paranoid, certain that he is being stalked by the agents of a nebulous and shadowy organization known only as RedZion. A Jewish-Communist network of global remit and unlimited resources, an organization about which he babbles in indiscreet moments at Hollywood parties and which his agents beg him not to mention on promotional junkets or at premiers.

A ludicrous fiction of course, the product of an almost moronically simple mind overloaded with religious zealotry, a pathological hatred of intellectualism and the kind of sado-masochistic, homosexual yearnings that would turn Yukio Mishima pale.

A ludicrous fiction, of course, were it not for the fact that Troutmask himself set up and founded RedZion in 1984 when he was still a tender but enormously rich neophyte of sixteen, and that many of its activities, including their surveillance and general hounding of Gibson are secretly funded directly from the revenues generated by www.discretecelebservices.com.
In such a way, Troutmask has explained, he feels that he maintains equilibrium in a universe which it seems, increasingly, it has fallen to him to control. Everything, he has tended to say, depending on which of his guises you are encountering him in, should aim toward this, "the uroborous principle", such closed-karma systems, he argues, are the very essence of justice.

This incarnation of Troutmask does not speak, instead, he simply sets off on the short journey of a minute or so to where Gibson's prey for the evening is waiting.

The wheels roll smoothly to a halt, the engine's throb diminishes, there is the thunk and whirr of door lock. Troutmask emerges from the car and checks the area, does a quick spot of recon and almost immediately locates the Tramp exactly where the TrampScout said he would be, heavily drugged with precisely measured doses of Rohypnol and liquid Viagra.
Troutmask has been making a fortune through the www.fempowerment.com ("For when "NO" is a No-no.") website, knocking it out in capsule form, colloquially known as "Sammies" after Sex and the City's rapacious main predatrix, to female date-rapists across Europe and the States. It really took off once his marketing team hooked up with Jordan for an ultra-secret promotional campaign, in which Gareth Gates became the first, unwitting, high-profile measures of its efficacy.

The Tramp is face down in a small alleyway between the buildings, his legs sticking out from behind a blue plastic recycling bin. Troutmask double-checks a schematic of the area on his palmtop for CCTVs. None. But still, they'll have to be fast.

"Five minutes Mr Brown,"Troutmask says, using Gibson's preferred nom de amour as he eases open the back door and his client bounds out, a long strand of drool, like spun silver in the moonlight, swinging from his lips, his eyes cleanly ablaze with Stellarc Four. In a matter of seconds he's sprinted across the twenty feet or so that separate him from his "quarry" and fallen upon him.


Gibson hunkers down, breath raw in his throat, the Stellarc Four coating every nerve like Napalm and rolls The Tramp over onto his back. Though Gibson has been suffering from chronic erectile dysfunction since his early twenties, under the influence of the Stellarc Four his cock, a modest five inches and, naturally, uncut, is hard enough now to strike sparks off the brickwork.
He is saying to himself over and over, "And was not out lord Jesus Christ who gave of his life on the cross at Calvary just such a one as these?"

The Tramp is fully bearded as per his requirements and so Gibson roles him back over, starts tugging The Tramp's trousers down, a pair of damp, shit-caked suit pants held up with loosely knotted string that soon unravels under the pressure, falls into the pulped cardboard on which The Tramp lies and coils itself around an empty dog food tin.

He draws a deep breath, ready to submerge himself, to plunge face-first into the stygian gloom of The Tramp's arsehole, inhales the heady, blood-quickening, primal stench of deeply impacted rot, of unwashed folds agleam with spores and webbed with fungal blooming.

Gibson's snout goes truffling hungrily into the richly variegated hollow of the Tramp's arsehole. The stench is overwhelming, almost overpowering. Tears spring up in his eyes.

He opens his mouth and receives upon his very tongue the thickly matted central sprig of hair, almost a horn, that spears his soft palate and then slowly softens and separates as he sucks on it, swallowing the bitty run off in luxuriantly oily gulps. Tramp gravy.

He works his tongue through the softening mesh and burrows further in, gets his first lick at the Tramp's arsehole.

Strewth! For a moment his tongue recoils from the mound, the heap, the tented rubble clogging the cave mouth, more bitter than Rue. Then, gingerly, flicking with the tip he begins to break it up a little, chipping loose a shard here, a boulder there, the muscles at the back of his tongue straining.

Too slow. Gibson knows he will have to use his teeth. He grasps the Tramp's buttocks, yanks them wide apart with his strong hands. Something sprays his forehead and he raises his eyes to see the wet, red weal of a freshly burst blister, a blister whose salty, amber effluent comes trickling down, sluices around the base of the impacted shit mound, partly loosens its foundations. A stroke of luck. After a few seconds Gibson has chewed and sucked the last of the obstruction away and spat it to one side.

A bright, white grub writhes from the very center of the Tramp's arsehole and then quickly burrows back in. Gibson plunges after it, kisses those bruised and sourly puckered lips, thrusts his tongue a little way between them, the arsehole loosening under the pressure with a sigh and a sulfurous waft. Who knows what rare, blind life forms live within, what softly pale, tubular treats?

He begins to suck.

1 comment:

WOW Addict said...

Absolutely class! Somewhat reminiscent of Martin Amis - I mean that in the best possible way...

wowaddict