2nd home

A second home in the country

1. Foliage Peeper.

The Hacket’s (pronounced Hack-ay) a family of usual size and BBC sitcom demographic, were bustling, packing for the trip, the long summer in Umbria with their wealthy Italian (I’m sure (but not going to look it up) Umbria is in Italy?) friends the Drieda Tomatoesy. The Tomatoesy, of political class like the Hacket’s, had a fine villa/Mansion/castle/big house, (delete as appropriate, then claim) and as it happens were also friends of Scott Free.
Lloyd knelt in the undergrowth watching the families puffy red faces glide through the house, smeared in its ample windows, mounting and dismounting the stairs exposed by the open front door. They carried things to the huge, needless (if I crash into you, you die) car, loading cases, fabric, i-tech, things to covet, cover and plug into their bodies. Typical bodies, benign, malignant, tanned, thick dumb lipped, they the carious teeth, wine stained tongue and saliva of governing classes gob. A greased and greasy family of comfortable gears, turning with the aged aroma and putrescent guile of decanted bullshit, fettered to their comfortable cancers and toenails, clipped and residing in the vomit of tradition, politely puking their bile upon the brows of hunt spporters, battered but supple estate workers, and others unknown to them but thankfully easily shiftable, pliable, and generally forelockless from all the tugging of gentry cock gone skiing whilst the next season is set up.
Lloyd laid down in foliaceous summer ferns, at the edge, in the shadows of the boundary of trees, that hid the Hacket’s house from the busy road of ready-to-murder proles and their off white vans and filthy packages. Heil Hitler boomed in the beatbox sun and sweat rolled sweetly down Lloyds spine. There was a smell of spunk and he recoiled into dream, into predator wealth, soft and looking through the stalks shaking his scene of soon to be gone white marble edifices shot through with exploded capillaries and corpulent pores. They shifted orf, joining the prole traffic, headed for the airport (simile alert!) like a bunch of cunts in a car.
The cooling late summer sun sparkled in the canopy of gently shifting leaves. They breathed for him, lung-ed it for him, the noise of the Hacket’s car sunk away, a taint of its engine breath lingered in his nostrils. It would soon be his beast of times, but, just a little longer, a lengthy linger in the verdant borders of heightened self, of promise and fresh excitement.
Some time later Lloyd retrieved himself, rose up and headed for the outer surfaces of the house. He hoped there would be no alarm system. But he need not have hoped, for the writer had defused the circuits of paranoia. Had sent moths to cover the motion sensors, so that they would be numb, dumb and blind. Had sent rats to disable the alarm wiring with gnawing nervous tensions.

2. Enter Here, all Who Fear.

Lloyd jogged up to the matured red brick house and pressed himself star shape against it, licking a brick, tonguing the mortar. He flipped himself round and dramatically crept, like a expressionist hitman, arms splayed to the tips of fingers. Reaching a window he caressed the thick white paint of the frame and peered in, hands curved about his eyes to make clearer the contents, the aspirational magazine world within, his breath misting on the pane. He squeaked a finger through the hot frost on the window and licked his lips.

3. Inside.

Once inside Lloyd did a lot of wee wee and poo poo damage to the surfaces and upholstery, he also spunked in a secret shoe in a hidden room dedicated to the blue Medusa.

4. Diminishing.

Upon exit of the fancy brick scumloaf, Lloyd found a fuse and detonated all Angry Brigade style… The End…


Iryna Harpy said...

Ah, mr_rood, you omitted the very end... when I pissed on the debris as a tribute...

Iryna Harpy said...

PS Umbria is in the minds of the painterly-family/arised upper-crustacean. Less than a place than bloodied, stomach-ulcer vomit. It is less a state than a state of class-icism.

Anonymous said...

Sounds like that, what she said.


Iryna Harpy said...

Mr Mad, I never pictured you as being a giggler.

I'm riding the running-board and wondering how to chuck out the dross in the passenger seats. They're all expendable. No giggling or you're targeted.

- She of the less-than-cute hearing

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All creativity is the springboard for discharge. It highjack’s a multitude of genres and disciplines and transposes them onto the internet. discharge is electronically transmitted art, be it via blog, myspace or whatever format possible, it can also be produced and seen in classic formats.

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