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Paperback Writer

A well accomplished writer, P.S. had so many stories to tell, we had to give him his own space. Enjoy this new style of blog meets fiction!

Monday, March 05, 2007

Killer tits-

The Extraordinary Case of the Killer Tits of Derby.



By P.S.Gifford

Hilda Weatherspoon was the sort of woman men ogled in women’s underwear
adverts. At twenty-four she was most red blooded chap’s idea of the perfect
woman. Well, at least until she opened her mouth…

Harry Smith, in sharp contrast, was a balding, well rounded, fifty three
year old, successful businessman. He had been manufacturing tooth picks
since he was a seventeen, and now was the third largest manufacturer of
toothpicks in Europe.

Those thin wooden sticks, over the years, had amassed Harry a substantial
fortune. Money was no object for Harry, he owned all the material things a
man like Harry would desire. He drove a brand new high end Italian sports
car, painted in the brightest shade of red imaginable. He owned a
ridiculously over sized luxury yacht in which he sailed to the Caribbean
each spring.

He lived in an Edwardian manor house on several acres of the greenest Derby
fields, plus owned a trendy flat in the most fashionable section of London
overlooking the Thames River. Yet despite all this something was horribly
missing from Harry’s seemingly perfect existence…A loving partner.
On a balmy July evening, at a high profile R.S.P.C.A meeting, fate designed
for the two of them to meet. He was instantly drawn to her Goddess like
looks; the stunning almost natural blonde hair, her empty blue eyes and her
ample, well proportioned, luscious and, dare I say, juicy figure. And the
fact that she was softly glistening with sweat did not hurt any either.
Despite Harry’s normally off-putting appearance Hilda was equally attracted
to him. (Either this or she noticed the fabulous car he had arrived in...)
Well, one thing naturally led to another, then another, and still yet
another- which common decently prevents me from elaborating on here. But
suffice to say before they knew where they were, they found themselves
engaged.

Within six months they wed. Apparently the wedding was a lovely affair, all
sorts of fabulous people attended. The finest champagne was served chilled
to just the right, perfect temperature. The pompous English chef (You know
who I mean but for petty legal reasons I cannot mention his name) was there
to prepare tantalizing, delicious, albeit slightly pretentious culinary
delights. Alas I can’t elaborate any more details as I wasn’t actually
invited myself…No I’m not bitter or anything, but I’ll never use another of
his toothpicks.

On the third Monday after they returned from their honeymoon in Barbados,
something peculiar happened to Hilda. She always had, I must explain, a
strong affection for animals, and in particular birds. (This explained why
she was at the R.S.P.C.A function when she met Harry in the first place…
Please reader try and keep up you silly person you.)

She was just finishing her morning kippers and a steaming mug of tea when
she happened to glance out of the window. There in the middle of the well
manicured grounds were the perkiest most beautiful pair of tits that she had
ever seen. She simply sat there, in a trance like state, for almost an hour
watching on in glee. She recognized what types of tits they were at once.
They were none other than the legendary purple chested Finley tit; a most
spectacularly beautiful bird indeed (as those of you upon your ornithology
can attest to.)

After breakfast she raced to the local pet store in her rather jazzy little
red convertible and flashed her gold credit card about (Not the level of
membership, the card is actually made of pure gold.) Three hours later she
arrived home with a variety of feeders, bird baths, and several fifty pound
bags of the finest bird seed that money could by.

Later in the evening Harry arrived back from the toothpick factory, after
an incredibly hard three hours and forty-seven minutes of work, including a
three hour eighteen minute martini lunch. He parked his flashy red Italian
sports car on the driveway and jaunted into the house.

The next morning at a very early ten thirty, Harry was ready to once more
to face the hard daily slog of the life of being a toothpick factory owner.
He affectionately kissed Hilda on her left cheek goodbye and went out to his
flash red motor car. He saw the horror as soon as he had walked out of the
door. Right in the middle of the fabulous red paint adorning the bonnet was
a rather large, and stomach-turning, splotch of bird poop…

With disgust he chanted an incredibly long lost of swear words under his
breath (some of them I have never even heard of before…) as he wiped it off
with his monogrammed hanky. He tossed the handkerchief in his monogrammed,
silver plated trash can, and continued on his way.

Later the same day, when Hilda went out to feed her beloved tits, she
discovered the word had gotten around the neighborhood tits about what a
soft touch she was, as at least thirty additional tits had now decided to
call this rather posh part of Derby their home. Hilda was delighted…She sat
there, dressed in a rather fetching short skirt and tube top, in the middle
of the green grass and the birds sang softly to her, as if thanking her for
her kindness. Some of the tits even ate out of her outstretched hands…
At half past five Hilda suddenly realized, Harry was due home, and she had
to make him a tasty dinner- which was a major part of her matrimonial
duties. Ten minutes later the frozen steak and kidney pies were in the
microwave, a can of mushy peas were in the saucepan, and a nice vintage
bottle of French Cabernet was in the wine cooler.

Early the next morning, the when the situation got, well not to mince
words, bizarre.

As Harry donned his finest Italian linen suit, kissed Hilda on her cheek
and went out to his car…Instead of the exquisite sound of twelve cylinders
sparking alive, Hilda heard a scream. Not just any old scream mind you, the
sort of scream that would have made Alfred Hitchcock himself proud. This was
a deep, resonant and full of emotion scream.

Pulling on her frilly pink dressing gown and matching slippers she finally,
after a quick touch up of her cherry lip gloss, raced quickly outside.
Hilda, I hate to tell you, laughed at the scene those empty blue eyes of
hers took in. The red sports car was covered in dozens of upon dozens of
bird poops. Henry, his cheeks bulging and matching the color the paintwork
used to look, was jumping up and down, shaking a fist in the air.
It was then he noticed, over on the fence, the array of bird feeders, bird
baths and such like tastefully arranged in the back yard. He also noticed
there were near a hundred or so tits happily, feeding, bathing singing their
little hearts out with joy. Racing quickly inside the house he returned
moment’s later brandishing a cricket bat.

Then, as a mad, twisted look distorted his face, he marched to the back
garden.

No-one quite knows what happened next. Hilda, the only witness, is still
recuperating in the rubber room of the local sanitarium…But I will share
this, three hours later when the police arrived they discovered a most
gruesome scene indeed. Those killer tits were pecking away at Harry’s now
dead body.
“It was absolutely ‘orrible.” Inspector Jimmy Herbert was quoted as saying.
“It was like something out of a bloody Stephen King movie.”

So there we have it… The extraordinary case of the Killer Tits of Derby.

The end.
PSGifford
psgifford@earthlink.net

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