21 Words: The Verbwhore Halloween Story 2010

[Jemble Fred]

^{Yes, it's that time again. Try and stick to the 21 word rule or it may well come out legible. This may seem early for an October 31 broadcast, but seeing as the Summer Story's been kicking around for three months without getting finished or broadcast, we'll need plenty of time to get it ready for CaB Radio.}

Death Of The Son Of The Wife Of Dripping Whoredom
A story by some people.


"Professor Portumenture," began the amiable young wretch of a research student, "Why don't you tell us one of your oh-so terrifying

[Neville Chamberlain]

stories about when you went to the doctors complaining of haunted knees?" The Professor's eyes widened. His knees rattled in anticipation.

[Jemble Fred]

He had not spoken a word since Easter, and cobwebs of dried spittle dangled from his cold, bitten lips. The angry

[sirarthur]

purple bruise on his left cheekbone throbbed where his housekeeper, Mrs. Crinkle, in frustration at his silence had violently

[Consignia]

opened a packet of chocolate hob-nobs. Little Jeffery made a dash for his favourite biccy. In his haste, he accidently

[Jemble Fred]

died. And he was such a little, cute, well-behaved and deity-fearing little bastard. The Professor had never quite got over this

[the midnight watch baboon]

loss of precious hob-nob, as the stupid little git had collapsed on them in his death throes. Still, at least the

[Jemble Fred]

wife had been a bit quieter since Jeffrey's deceasement. Maybe, he reflected, it was her jumping off the roof that finally

[the midnight watch baboon]

got him to realising that God COULD exist. That good COULD happen. That his wife didn't know he'd MOVED her trampoline. Life

[Cerys]

imprisonment was but a small price to pay - or at least it would be had he been imprisoned.  As it was,

[Jemble Fred]

the constabulary wagged a finger, and let the veteran homunculus-defeater stew in his own liquid. Here at Bigjobs College, Portumenture was

[Cerys]

housed in a large jar, gently bobbing in eighty gallons of dubious-looking fluid, tickled by the tails of tremulous tadpoles that

[Jemble Fred]

were kindly provided by his Auntie Martin. But, by gor blimey, he could tell a spooky story.

"Once I..." he began,

[Cerys]

before falling asleep.  Luckily the tadpoles were trained for this very eventuality and roused him with a synchronised swarm right up

[Ginyard]

his nose. Into his brain and veins they swam, he and they becoming one, resulting in the greatest superhero of all:

[Jemble Fred]

Professor Portumenture With Tadpoles In His Blood System!

"Er... Professor, we're still waiting to be scared, sir!" bleated the student, toasting

[the midnight watch baboon]

. Lecture breakfasts - 'letchfasts' - had been de rigueuer all term, and the students unscrewed jars o' jam, marmalade, Nutella as the spawny Prof

[Ginyard]

slithered out of his liquid dwelling, scowled majestically, and proceeded to hose down the haw-haw post-etonians with kangaroo shit.

'Is everybody

[Jemble Fred]

comfortably tumescent?" He began.

=====

When first I truly realised that my true love was dead it must be said that I

[Cerys]

was not entirely surprised.  For a woman so known for her garrulous nature to be so silent was indicative that something

[Cerys]

was amiss.  The presence of fungus and an unpleasant odour lent weight to my belief that Lavinia was a corpse.  She

[Jemble Fred]

mulled over my suggestion, and nodded her assent. Cadaver she clearly was, and, I laughed, I could only hope that she

had no taste for human flesh! Such things were only to be expected when dabbling in the darkest recesses of the

[Cerys]

snuffbox.  Lavinia had never liked it when I called it that, but as her death afforded me a unique opportunity to 

delve into the mysteries of necrophilia I threw caution to the four winds and took a generous pinch of her desiccated

[Jemble Fred]

coconut and jammed it up my rectum. Mother – my female parent – always told me that this was the most effective way

[Cerys]

to achieve what she primly referred to as 'la petite mort'.  Presumably in my case it would be 'le petit mort'

due to my being of the male gender.  Lavinia, of course, was in the throes of la grande mort, and I

[Jemble Fred]

was so caught up in the romance of the whole thing that I had failed to notice that my assistant, Fat

[Cerys]

'Fatty' Fatterson, the emaciated little Machiavellian cunt, had his hands in the till again.  'Till?' I hear you ask.  Well, it's

[Jemble Fred]

not so much a till, as a codpiece. Though it does have bells on it. Fatterson was of course a werecockateel,

[Cerys]

and prone to ravening attacks upon the local cuttlefish population once every twenty-eight days.  Why did I still employ him? I

[Ginyard]

needed companionship. A friend. That's not to say that I didn't fantasize about wringing his neck with fencing mesh or riding