What this blog isn't

It's not a Leeds-based exploration of the joys and challenges of shaping the mortar between house-bricks so that the rain runs off without undue damage.
Nor is it about looking at, achieving, or maintaining erections of the male variety. That's what the rest of the internet is for.
It's also not about drawing peoples' attention to the beauty of the Aurora Borealis by indicating it with an extended forefinger
It probably isn't SFW[Safe For Work] either (especially if you work in a church) thanks to the liberal sprinkling of profanities, heresies and blasphemies.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

Wiping off mascara 'til your face bleeds - the escape (part 4 of 4)

"That's it! That's your fucking plan! Wait until we're alone with them and hit them over the head with a hard hat?"

Hakim wasn't best pleased. He had failed however to think of anything better so that was the plan, in the end, that we went with. We didn't sleep. Partly in a deliberate act to look as unattractive as possible in the forlorn hope than even an Oompa-Loompa woman would be turned off by the sight of the huge bags under our eyes and sallow complexions. Partly because our nightmares were haunted by fleeting semi-nude orange figures.

The cell doors were flung open at 7 in the morning. Two of our attractive captors entered, all smiles. Hakim was unceremoniously ushered out and placed in the next cell. Then my 'companion' was pushed into the cell. She seemed as unwilling to perform as I, and stood in the corner, facing away from me. When the models retreated grinning from the room I tried to strike up a conversation - trying to lull my breeding partner into a false sense of security before braining her and donning her garb. Hakim had squirreled away some particularly orange foundation from a deep vein we had struck days earlier, and once we'd done the deed and stashed the unconscious (or dead) visitors under our sheets then we were going to try and bluff our way out as Oompa-Loompa women.

As I crossed the confined room, hard hat raised to deliver the blow, something struck me as odd about my companion. Unable to resist the urge to ask, the words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them.

"Aren't you a little tall for an Oompa-Loompa?"

Before she could turn to answer me I heard Hakim's voice, shrill with fear and consternation, through the vents - asking his own burning question.

"Miss, do you know you have a monocle in your arsehole?"

I yelled at the top of my voice for Hakim to stop, knowing that my cries - whatever form they took (passion, fear, pain, "my God, it's full of stars") - would be ignored by the models. At the same time Withers threw off his green wig and joined me at the vent.  There was only silence from the next room. Withers and I stood looking at one another, too afraid for the safety of his dwarven hermaphrodite daughter to say anything more. Suddenly keys rattled in the door and we both turned to see who it was. There was no-one there when the door opened however.

"I'm down here." said a surprisingly deep female voice.

"No, further down." it said again.

"A little bit further down." one last time.

There in the lower third of the doorway stood Withers' offspring, Mathilda. Dragging Hakim's limp form. "I didn't hit him, dad, honest. He just fainted." she told Withers with a shrug. I didn't mind, and when Hakim woke up a few minutes later, he was just as happy as I was. The escape was now on.

He and I were soon at loggerheads over the route. I wanted to dig out through an eight metre layer of mascara near the surface, but he wanted to utilise a thicker layer of foundation at the same depth, arguing that it would be easier to dig through. It all boiled down to what time of day it would be when we broke ground. For now we plastered ourselves in orange foundation, dressed in overalls that Withers and Mathilda had brought, and ventured out into the mine again, locking the cells behind us.

We were ignored by all overseers. As we cautiously moved closer to the surface Withers explained how he had found me. He had, of course, been down here before - in the 80's. He'd spent thirteen weeks of his long life (I had no idea how old Withers was as he'd always been there) at the face before hiding in an outgoing lorry that had just delivered a consignment of shoulder pads. He and Mathilda had made up their differences in order to find me. He had purchased that lovely window in the village too. What a star.

We reached our penultimate goal - the two differing substrates that barred our way to freedom. I shook Hakim's hand and we parted, wishing each other luck. I looked into his tear-stained orange face one last time before we went our separate ways. Withers, Mathilda and I dug like mad orange rabbits, heaping the thick black goo behind us to hide our bright forms. Hours and hours of back-breaking effort ensued, tinged with the fear of discovery. I was just beginning to lose hope that we'd ever be free when my spade emerged into resistance-free open air.

It was a matter of only a few minutes work and we were standing, blackened to ebony, behind the bins in the loading area of a pharmacy in Nuneaton. It was night. Hakim would be totally visible. As Mathilda hotwired a nearby car I was sure I heard a yell of "Free Cornwall" and running footsteps, though. I hope he got away.

Back home at the manse and hosed off, we celebrated. There have been few sightings of the Supermodel Overlord Hierarchy and their minions since. Every now and then we hear the sound of high heels in the bushes at the edge of the grounds, but Withers just goes out with a plate of pie and mash and an electric fan. The waft of hearty wholesome fare always drives them away.

Mathilda now lives in the gatehouse and is an admirable, if overzealous, security guard. Our strange little family has settled back down to the daily life of just being us again.

[Phew! That's the tale of why I hadn't been posting for months over with, and it had nothing at all to do with Withers forgetting to pay the internet bill - leading to us being cut off for nearly a year]

Finally, a note about Loompa-Land. It is now being used by the U.S. Government for extraordinary rendition of terror suspects since Guantanamo Bay got all the bad press. The confessions extracted from prisoners there are done without the need for controversial techniques such as 'waterboarding', as they now just have to open a window and say -

-Hear that, buddy? That's a Vermicious Knid. Now tell us what we want to know or we'll let it in here to devour your terrorist ass.

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