Monty versus Real Red Voting thread

[Carradona]

I will put the stories in seperate posts after this openeing post for no real reason.

[Carradona]

Here is Stu Monty's story:



“How many times were they fucking warned about it Markus? It’s good fucking riddance and that’s all there is to say about it”; then a crash of the phone. Most days were a pain in the arse but today had managed to eclipse the worst. Sean Leary had spent the entirety of his day dealing with the fallout from a batch of sackings in his design team, and now he had to somehow put a positive face on for the board meeting tomorrow, where he would present the prototype flange regulator for the new Tsunami fighter jet that he didn’t have anywhere near completed. That shit could wait though. Clutching his laptop and dragging his aching frame to the door and down the corridor he contemplated if this disaster was going to affect the director’s role that was meant to be being lined up for him in Belfast. He’d given Cuntegg Systems the best years of his life and he wasn’t going to miss out on reaping the rewards now.

As the lights came and went on the lift’s display he though about the evening ahead. He’d have to pick up something to eat on the way in and get right on with the presentation for tomorrow’s showdown; he knew he’d be up all night but the thought of the package he received this morning lifted his spirits. He’d take a break later on to enjoy it. He didn’t know what it was but there was something about that particularly violent variety of anal porn that always flicked all his switches; he guessed it was the submissiveness and worried it wasn’t something more sinister, whatever it was the stuff from Feltchbasket.com hit the spot every time. That Chinese place would be open; that would do.

His footsteps collided off the walls as he strode across the cold, neon car park towards his Aston; that was craftsmanship right there, he knew that you get what you pay for when it came to cars. An electric shock of nervousness went down his spine as he worried if the religious protesters would be out by the gates again tonight; they had been plaguing the production of his shiny new killing machine. He thought again how right he was about antidisestablishmentarianism and how the boys at MI5 would soon reign in the lunatics if let off the leash; Stalin had it right when it came to dealing with the cunts. The familiar electronic chirp from the alarm system went off on demand as he neared the car and the lights winked at him. As the shot rang through the air and his body slumped onto the floor beside his briefcase the security cameras watched, emotionless, as the life leaked out of his body. And then a shuffle of footsteps into the shadows. And then nothing.

[Carradona]

Here is Real Red's story:



He'd not been the same since the incident involving beans and a fry-up. That morning started with him filing for divorce just 18 hours into marriage. Some things can't be resolved; no amount of talking or compromising will ever gloss over the hard facts. And she even deliberately mixed her yolk with the bean juice.

Twenty years had passed and he'd not been with anyone since. Well, nobody real. But he'd got a flat above the best shop for blow-up dolls this side of Belfast. And he got discount, so he'd used a lot: every size, shape, colour and depth; but he had his favourite. He thought it had a look of Hattie Jacques, if he squinted.

Feeling rather excited from an old edition of the "Sykes" TV show he was ready for a particularly rough session of what he called "Carry on up the Feltchbasket". He'd been saving himself for weeks, his sack was like a space hopper. "There's gonna be a Tsunami tonight!" he started to shout as he grabbed 'Hattie' from the cupboard. He'd stopped himself wanking by studying the antidisestablishmentarianism movement of a bygone age.

He sat her down at the dining table and lit a candle. It had become a ritual. Two plates, each with four rashers of bacon, two eggs, a couple of mushrooms, black puddings, the works. And in a side-dish, half-a-tin of Heinz's finest baked beans. He placed the two plates on the table – one for him, one for Hattie. He poured her a glass of Pomade. He poured himself a glass of Lemonade (he didn't drink).

To anyone watching this was a sad 47-year-old man talking to an inflatable – and replying. But to Bobby it was reality. She was the love of his life. But he still had to test her.

"Ooh, lovely," he said, in a falsetto voice, taking a sip of the Pomagne. "Can I have some more," he said, again in that falsetto voice, and quaffed the rest.

"Would you like some beans on your fry-up," he asked Hattie, this time in his own voice.

"What?" said Bobby as Hatty. "B-beans? On a fry up?" The falsetto voice was high, but now came the pause – for effect.

"Are you mad?" continued Bobby as Hatty. "Beans do not belong on a fry up," Bobby as Hatty went on, with well-practiced lines. "They are not fried, and when mixed with egg are like something that even the devil himself would avoid."

"I love you," said Bobby, now as himself. She'd passed the test. (Again.)

He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. "I need dessert," he said and threw her onto his four-poster (George Michael, Billy Connolly, Vera Lynn and Bobby Davro). Then he put her on his bed and ripped off her underwear.

"Bastard!" He cried. He couldn't go on. She had a lump in her flange. It's a well-known problem with overused blow-ups. "Hattie, you've only gone and got a fucking cuntegg," he cried, limp again

.

[Slam Daniels]

Originally Posted by Carradona Here is Real Red's story: He'd not been the same since the incident involving beans and a fry-up. That morning started with him filing for divorce just 18 hours into marriage. Some things can't be resolved; no amount of talking or compromising will ever gloss over the hard facts. And she even deliberately mixed her yolk with the bean juice. Twenty years had passed and he'd not been with anyone since. Well, nobody real. But he'd got a flat above the best shop for blow-up dolls this side of Belfast. And he got discount, so he'd used a lot: every size, shape, colour and depth; but he had his favourite. He thought it had a look of Hattie Jacques, if he squinted. Feeling rather excited from an old edition of the "Sykes" TV show he was ready for a particularly rough session of what he called "Carry on up the Feltchbasket". He'd been saving himself for weeks, his sack was like a space hopper. "There's gonna be a Tsunami tonight!" he started to shout as he grabbed 'Hattie' from the cupboard. He'd stopped himself wanking by studying the antidisestablishmentarianism movement of a bygone age. He sat her down at the dining table and lit a candle. It had become a ritual. Two plates, each with four rashers of bacon, two eggs, a couple of mushrooms, black puddings, the works. And in a side-dish, half-a-tin of Heinz's finest baked beans. He placed the two plates on the table – one for him, one for Hattie. He poured her a glass of Pomade. He poured himself a glass of Lemonade (he didn't drink). To anyone watching this was a sad 47-year-old man talking to an inflatable – and replying. But to Bobby it was reality. She was the love of his life. But he still had to test her. "Ooh, lovely," he said, in a falsetto voice, taking a sip of the Pomagne. "Can I have some more," he said, again in that falsetto voice, and quaffed the rest. "Would you like some beans on your fry-up," he asked Hattie, this time in his own voice. "What?" said Bobby as Hatty. "B-beans? On a fry up?" The falsetto voice was high, but now came the pause – for effect. "Are you mad?" continued Bobby as Hatty. "Beans do not belong on a fry up," Bobby as Hatty went on, with well-practiced lines. "They are not fried, and when mixed with egg are like something that even the devil himself would avoid." "I love you," said Bobby, now as himself. She'd passed the test. (Again.) He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. "I need dessert," he said and threw her onto his four-poster (George Michael, Billy Connolly, Vera Lynn and Bobby Davro). Then he put her on his bed and ripped off her underwear. "Bastard!" He cried. He couldn't go on. She had a lump in her flange. It's a well-known problem with overused blow-ups. "Hattie, you've only gone and got a fucking cuntegg," he cried, limp again .

RR, get yourself an agent and get the rest of that book written.

[The Chief]

Two excellent stories, Two very good reads but, Monty shades it for better use of the given words. AND i love egg and, Heinz, beans. But, again, well done to both. Now you can both fuckoff i've sucked up enough.

[Wudzy]

Enjoyed the two but my vote goes to Real Red.
"Hattie, you've only gone and got a fucking cuntegg," ,pissed myself.

[rondeco]

Loved the 4 poster bed bit

[Malarkey]

I shed tears at the end Stu.

Good story.

[The-Sir]

Stu's had tension, emotion, great use of vocabulary (fitting in antidisestablishmentarianism quite cleverly) and had an ace ending. Top marks Monty.

[thisisanfield]

Real red, get yourself an extra vote and vote for your own...Monty did.

[real red]

Originally Posted by thisisanfield Real red, get yourself an extra vote and vote for your own...Monty did.

It was against my principles to do that. But what the hell.

[aws]

Two really good efforts there. Too close to call.

[Brownie]

I haven't read either of them but voted for Monty because he gives me a lift to footie.

Sorry Jimbo!

[real red]

Originally Posted by Brownie I haven't read either of them but voted for Monty because he gives me a lift to footie. Sorry Jimbo!

That's ok, don't worry about it at all.

(Now I know I'll get two birds with one stone when I "play" with Monty's train-driver's van next week.)

[jnp]

Hattie, you've only gone and got a fucking cuntegg

I voted for real red. It was the above that swung it, close call though.