Post Number Ten

“The Fight for Legal Vengeance”

I wasn’t blowing hot air out my cyber-butt when I said (last Posting) that all the pain and sufferance I’ve endured by getting un-evolved (or DIS-evolved) was (and is) causing me to seek legal vengeance (i.e. compensation) (or at the very least a refund). Because even though I paid that man of neanderthal-type who did the dirty-needle deed (or two needle deeds. One per tattooed nipple), I did so under the influence of pills. Ergo, my bewdy-ful mind was (at the time) not so bewdy-ful. And so, bearing All the Above in my (now-bewdy-ful-again) mind, I thought it best if I consulted someone who knew how to consult a lawyer. I needed that someone to be someone who knew a thing or three about The Law– and who knows at least three things (minimum) about The Law better than someone who keeps getting on the wrong side of it?

Answer: A lawyer, pro’bly.

Well, yes– BUT. Who knows at least three things about The Law better than a lawyer who knows three things about The Law better than… a guy… who… um… Anyway, the point is I needed legal advice, and so naturally enough I went and got it off a criminal. Namely, the only criminal I know (thus far): UNCLE MIKE SPILLIGAN. (Oh, and it was also a good excuse to complete the number o’ visits I promised him {i.e. two}.)

So I phoned up the dungeon where Michelangelo Spilligan dwells and I made a booking for a visit. The Booking Agent said she could fit me in for Thursday morning, but I firmly insisted that– for me– any morning was out of the question because mornings were the times of day when I was far too busy NOT WAKING UP to do something as demanding as “getting out of bed”. I also pointed out that– on those rare occasions when I did wake up in the morning– I normally did so with such a Raging Throbber that I had to spend a few quiet moments choking the phlegm out of that one eyed mongrel before merrily starting my day. She sympathized with my plight and said, with a bit of nobbling, she could squeeze me in for the upcoming Thursday afternoon. I had a quick check of my wall planner and saw that I had no plans to stare at a wall that afternoon, which meant I was “free”. So the deal was done.

Along came Thursday afternoon. As I walked through the turnstiles of the prison and got my ticket punched, I felt (approximately) one set of eyes gawking at me. Or more exactly, I could feel those eyes drilling holes in my shirt– a PAIR of holes from a PAIR of eyes looking at my PAIR of nipples. Or was I just being… PAIR-annoyed? (Hm? Can ya dig it?)  I mean, it was only Jail, after all. Surely, there was nothing to be afraid of in there.

Little did I know.

Because I hadn’t been expecting the guards– or more correctly, one guard. A female screw to be precise. Namely, that hot one I’d seen once or twice before. Now, she was the type o’ screw that might appear in a porn movie, if the makers of those movies ever paused and thought about such things. She gave me a “come hither (and I’ll beat you senseless)” look which seemed, I dunno, a bit familiar somehow. When I did “go thither”, she put on a pair of latex gloves, had a summing-up squiz at my shirt, grabbed me by the newly-begat nipples, then gave ’em a twist. While she did this, I wasn’t so distracted by my own shrieking that I neglected the chance to have a quick perv at her chest (I may have been in pain, but I’m still a guy, dammit), and what I saw there upon her (magnificent) left mammary was a name-tag screaming (back) the words:

“Hi! I’m your Screw for today,

NATASHA DE NASHA.”

What??? THE Natasha De Nasha? The Designated Bully of my Wonder Years? I was truly surprised at how surprised I was at this! Obviously that girl would grow up to be a screw– and a damn good one, I’m sure. And obviously The Gnasher would give me my (I must admit) long-overdue Nipple Cripple. Yet all this inevitable stuff didn’t help to explain how such a mono-brow girl as she once was ever grew up to be so fuh-riggin’ HOT.

When my caterwauling faded, I asked her how she knew I was her designated victim from Schooling Times. Natasha said she was the one who took my booking on the phone, and consequently (or subsequently. Or whatever) she looked at the name I gave and realized that name was mine. Of course! (I thought.) The two pieces of this jigsaw puzzle are FINALLY falling together! And for all this time (I’m still thinking here) for all this time (I repeat) she seems to have harboured a deep, dark urge for vengeance against me because of the way I defied her nipple-crippling ambitions– by not having any! I further postulated (unto myself) that my bodily avoidance of her twisted urge to twist has clearly left her with such deep scars on her “mind” (so-called) that she has consequently (or subsequently) spent the rest of her life (up until now) searching for other deserving males to twist– hence her job as a screw. I didn’t keep this theory to myself, by the way. I made it known to The Gnasher, who said:

“Naaaah, I jus’ like t’ be suckin’ the cocks of guys with tattoos.”

Reader, you have never seen a man rip open his shirt as quickly as I did right then. Because, being a guy (dammit) I rarely miss a chance at grabbing (with both hands) the nearest blowjob-friendly (female) mouth– even if said mouth is in the face of a lifelong foe. Imagine, then, my anguish when she said:

Those aren’t a pair o’ tattoos. They’re just a couple’a useless guy-nipples, only good for cripplin’.”

Then with a flick of her raven hair, she left.

Oh, POXY PLAGUES UPON YOU, Tattoo Neanderthal, for doing such a life-like job on these nipplings I never actually wanted!! That’s another good reason for me to sue your fuckin’ beard off, you hairless ape!! (NOTE: I’m just repeating here what I thought after she left. It reminded me of my legal thing, though…)

As I stood there thinking at the top of my brain’s voice, I was interrupted by the ding of a bell and my queue number (three point one four one five seven two six five three four nine et cetera) coming up. So I visited Mike, listening (wearily) to his endless blah-blah-blah for twenty five seconds or so, until I finally got an edgewise word in, asking him to put me onto a halfway-decent lawyer. To this request, he gave me the name ALBIE WERDSPERT. I wrote it down.

And as I left the dungeon that day, my ill-begotten tattoos throbbed with a vibe I’d never felt up ’til then– a vibe I planned on feeling a bit more of. Yes, now that I know The Gnasher works there, I feel I should return to prison as… a Serial Visitor.

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