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.

Taking a breather before the conclusion - 'Teleportation tussles tyranny, terrorism, taxes. Triumphs'

If the boffins working on teleportation can get off their arses and send something that's a bit more substantial and entertaining than a ray of light, then we'll have the future sewn up. At least the atheists will. Since the original object is destroyed by the process of teleportation and an identical copy made at the other end, the religiously zealous would be shying right the fuck away from it. No more worrying about whether crazed terrorists will obliterate your flight to the Costa Del Mar, taking out you and that lovely couple from Preston who run a micro-brewery - Kayeda Al will be stuck at teleport check-in, in the grip of a thorny theosophical puzzle.

-What'd you mean, you can't guarantee whether my immortal soul will arrive at the other end with me? I've put a label on it and everything!

-Sorry, sir. We can't ensure the delivery of intangible items - even if they do make you more than the sum of your parts. Maybe you'd like to get a ferry instead. That's nice and safe, religiously speaking.

Terrorism would be become economically unviable almost overnight, as they struggle to save the money to fuel even the Fiat Cinquecentos that they'll have to drive overland to where you are safely holidaying. They'd also be unable to afford both petrol and semtex, so even when they finally turned up all they would be able to do is jump out of the car and shout bang. Only to find you went home a week ago. By stepping through a magnet-bedecked doorway. Ha! Take that fundamentalism!

Even the most well-funded ones, with plenty of petrol and bomb money would probably succumb to the perils and pitfalls of long-distance car journeys long before they arrived at their scheduled die-stination. Which you'd expect with four of them packed in there; the driver becoming steadily more annoyed with each passing mile - his volatile passengers getting on his tits while he tries one last time to find a decent radio station.

-Are we nearly there yet? Are we nearly there yet? Are we nearly there yet? This bomb belt itches. I need a wee.

-Right that's it! I'm turning this car around and we can all set ourselves off in the bloody house! No, I've put my foot down and that's final. You've just spoilt it for yourself and everyone else now. Oh don't start crying...

Another added benefit would be that fundamentalist neo-conservatives from the US wouldn't be teleporting either. Nope, they'd be packed onto ships that we could cheerfully turn away from our ports, or planes that we could redirect to elsewhere. Sorted. Hurry up you boffins, that's all I can say.

p.s. I will conclude the retelling of my escape from the supermodel overlord hierarchy soon. Then it's back to cracked little rants like this. Oh, frabjous day!

"You want me to do what?" - The realisation of impending doom (part 3 of 4)

Fruit flies fuck rotten oranges. Not strictly true of the real thing, Drosophila melanogaster, which will happily impregnate all kinds of decaying things; but unwholesomely apt for us.  'Fruit Fly' was our name, you see. We, the captives, chose it - unlike 'mole', 'donkey' and 'rabbit' which were the terminology of our gaolers. They called what Hakim and I had been singled out for 'Stock hybridisation programme C-One'.

We were not alone down here. There were other creatures, just as alien to this underground habitat as we men. They however had grown accustomed to life in the caverns, having come from an even less hospitable place.

Hollywood.

Set your brains to 1971. If you weren't alive then, just imagine today but with the colour saturation turned up too high and seemingly no limit on the size of male shoe heels or the apertures in the bottoms of trousers. Also women had different shaped breasts then. I'm not kidding. Go on, look at a few adverts from around that time. They slope, don't they? Enough trans-generational mammary comparisons for now, back to the story.

It is 1971 and a tour bus winds its way through the parched countryside of Los Angeles. We faintly hear singing from within. Constant repetitious singing, without let-up or deviation from what had begun as a catchy whimsical tune but now echoed in the driver's ears like a mournful dirge. Suddenly the bus screeches to a halt on a forbidding crest with a rushing gasp from the air brakes. The doors open and a once lively voice, now etched with grim fatigue and despair, shouts "Everyone off to stretch your legs!"

In the half-light of pre-dawn we see sixty or seventy Oompa-Loompas traipse from the bus, puzzled at their remote location. This puzzlement quickly turned to dismay as Gene Wilder put the bus into gear and hared off into the California morning - finally free of those annoying singing cunts.

Some of them starved, some wandered off into the bayside night; never to be seen again. Others ended up in the cast of The Streets of San Francisco. The fortunate ones just became prostitutes. These were however dark days for the remainder of the employees of the chocolate factory, and most just huddled in the undergrowth living on berries, discarded tacos and good time memories of flower power.

That all ended one cloudless California night when the headlights of a 1971 Mercedes-Benz 280SE 3.5litre convertible washed over their shivering forms, and a perfectly manicured finger beckoned from the rolled down driver's window. Those huddled figures then gladly set to work below ground.

Of course, freed from their natural predator - absolutely fucking everything - those Oompa-Loompas thrived in this new chthonian habitat. Unfortunately they were piss-poor at mining, having enough sense of direction only to perform incredibly well choreographed  dance moves. Beyond that they blundered into walls, over sheer drops and under mine cart wheels regularly. That's when the supermodel overlord hierarchy [how often are you going to hear those three words together, eh?] instigated the stock hybridisation programmes.  A disturbing cross-breeding scheme between the female OL stock and the healthiest of their male captives.

Fruit flies fuck rotten oranges.

I understood the bitter humour behind the nomenclature now - and I was scared out of my wits. Apparently the successful progeny of these unholy unions were sent 'upstairs' - my first intimation that the major, and indeed all satellite mines, were situated below department stores and branches of Boots the Chemist all over the land. Hair bleach and radio-controlled shock collars were all it took to prevent spontaneous outbursts of singing and other Loompa-like behaviour from these secret orange ambassadors, and they were a great asset in selling off the mined resources. Sadly the male offspring of these experiments either died or were considered unfit to foist off on the public above. There were terrible rumours about shouty antique expert David Dickinson being the only successful male OL-human hybrid, but these were quickly quashed. I'm saying nothing about George Hamilton IV.

Hakim fearfully explained that the 'lucky' few chosen for this opportunity invariably went mad. He himself had spoken to an unlucky fruit fly before the poor man had taken his own life.

"He told me that not only did he have to do the deed mechanically, but because the models insisted on a fully enjoyable experience for their colour-challenged sisters all fruit flies had to be considerate in bed too. " Hakim told me in between uncontrollable shivers. "The poor bastard said it was like performing oral sex on the scene from 2001 where Dave Bowman is flying through the monolith."

That was it for me. I'd been shocked, beaten, suffered terrible pasty-related heartburn and the raging disappointment that I wasn't living in a recreation of The Two Ronnies 'Worm That Turned' serial. There was no way I was going down on a bloody Stanley Kubrick film.

That night we planned our escape. At whatever cost.

"Where've I been? I'll tell you where I've been. I've been to Hell and back. No, I didn't bring you anything. What would you want a souvenir of Hell for?"- The confinement (part 2 of 4)

A blurred and hazy image of an arched tunnel ceiling, all striplights and bared cables. Low thrum of generators and hiss of powered ventilation. Scent of perfume, sweat and cheese pasties. Those were my only impressions after blacking out in the van. When I awake I groggily came to the conclusion that they were brief snatches of consciousness from my arrival here. Wherever here was.

Here turned out to a a roomy cell with stone walls, a bunk and a sturdy looking metal door. I was alone. There was just the one bunk so it looked like I wouldn't have to fight off the affections of a cellmate. Also real prisons don't have roughly hewn stone walls. Or the Dolce & Gabbana mining helmet and overalls that hung on a peg. There was no time to investigate further as a clank of keys heralded a visitor.

"You're either the worst transvestite I've ever seen, or you've been crawling through makeup for hours." I told the man who came through the door.

"I've been crawling through makeup for hours." he replied curtly, handing me the uniform hanging by the door and propelling me out of it. "Welcome to the cosmetics mines. You are now a mole. Get used to it. There's worse things to be down here."

Indeed, before me lay complicated and sprawling underground mine workings. I saw legions of tired looking men toiling carts over  rickety Temple of Doom style scaffolding. There were stunning female overseers patrolling here and there, tasers at easy reach on their exquisitely tooled Italian belts. Finally, incongruously, there was a branch of Greggs.

My guide was Hakim, a taxi driver from Bude who had been snatched two months earlier, in much the same manner as I had been. He explained to me that all makeup was in fact mined from the bowels of Mother Earth herself - the three largest and oldest workings being under London, New York and Paris. These mines were staffed and ran by models (who were also useful in recruitment as I had already found) under the executive control of super-models; who only ever passed on their orders by telephone, being much too busy to toddle off down here for every little thing.

"And the Greggs?" I asked. I had to. It was there, after all.

Turns out man only requires baked goods to live, at least for the short time we hapless prisoners were meant to. The ubiquitous  bakers had also been determined (by model-scientists, or scientist-models, which they preferred) to be the only thing other than cockroaches to be capable of surviving a nuclear blast, so a simple cave-in should be a doddle to shrug off. Then Hakim told me why I was here.

We were truly moles, he and I. Our task? To dig out raw cosmetics from the rich deposits buried in Gaia's belly-folds and to transfer them to the carts for the 'donkeys' to raise up to the packaging plants.  Hakim was right, there were worse things to be. Rabbits, for instance. The reason why it proudly boasts 'not tested on animals' on makeup now. The first time I saw the unfortunate victim of an apricot facial scrub eye bath I decided that I wanted to stay a mole. Before he blindly ran over the edge of the shaft entrance into nothingness - plummeting fourteen floors to a wet, red noisy death with the tops of his femurs sticking up through his shoulders, he had screamed "I could have told them it would bloody hurt, but it's the law. It's the friggin' laaaaaaaw. SPLAT!" There were also Fruit Flies, of whom no-one would speak. Ever. Even in hushed tones.

The months passed slowly, and with little incident. Our overseers were not unkind, though they were highly resistant to all attempts at socializing. When I was told by one of them that they had ways of making me work harder, I grinned broadly and nudged her suggestively. When I recovered from the massive taser-induced electric shock, I agreed with her wholeheartedly and got right back to work. Hakim and I got to know each other better, swapping tales of our home lives an indeterminate distance above us. We were completely institutionalised and gave no thought to escape. Until one fateful night.

We had been summoned to the catwalk, from where all important announcements were made. In the flickering flashes and sound effect whirr of imitation pressmen the newest Size Zero sat dining at her table. She was very recent, this one. They changed like Number Two in The Prisoner, and she was already eyeing her waistline for tell-tale signs of expansion (though she had only taken two bites of tissue and a sip of imported Japanese sea mist) lest she be replaced by a thinner newcomer.

Hakim and I represented our team and were there to hear our orders for the coming week. I hoped it wasn't another uniform change. A fortnight in culottes is enough for any man keen to retain a grasp on his sanity. Is it a skirt with legs or some kind of broken shorts? Man wasn't meant to ask these questions on looking down at himself. Size Zero cleared her throat, thereby shedding nearly a third of her body mass.

"Our surveyors have uncovered a rich vein of shimmer eyeshadow no.4 beneath the mascara seam that your men are working on. We wish you to divert half of your resources to mining this valuable commodity. Immediately. That is all."

"But Size Zero, " Hakim blustered futilely. "That is an incredibly dangerous section of the mine. We had five collapses last month; and even those men who survived them had to be moisturised and exfoliated for a week before they could return to work!"

Malice sparkled in her beautiful eyes. "I think it is time for a species change for you two, and your insolence had decided your fate. Enjoy your rest tonight, gentlemen, for tomorrow you become Fruit Flies!" Accompanied by her mocking laughter we were led out by armed guards and left in a different cell, away from the digging and pasties. Hakim paced the room nervously, much more ill at ease than I. I should have known that it was only blissful ignorance preventing me from panic and horror. You see, he finally explained to me (in tones significantly lower than hushed) what Fruit Flies were, and what they were for.

That's when I knew we had to escape, and before the morning brought us our new and terrifying existence.

My trip into high adventure (and dudgeon) - The capture (part 1 of 4)

Allow me to tell you where I have been. Permit me to open your eyes to a world unknown to all but a select few. No, not the world of Max Mosley, where the word 'Nazi' can turn a perfectly respectable sick orgy into a reprehensible activity. Sorry Max, but even if you had been taking part in a bovine-themed sick orgy it is still the last two words which anyone outside the judiciary or the press are bothered about - not the costumes. Although you may have had better luck having moo-sex with whores, as they'd then be less likely to run to the press knowing that red-top headline writers and photo archivists would have a field day (pun partially intended) with them.

No, my unknown but welcome reader(s), this is a tale of a topsy-turvy world outside even the confines of jolly Gestapo uber-romps with loose-tongued prossies. A world hidden from all of us. A world I didn't even have the choice of stumbling across. It found me.

I rarely leave the manse, but on one fateful day last year I ventured out into the village below to see the sights and smell the odours of the world outside my ivory tower. I actually have an ivory tower, but do not think me cruel dear reader - my grandfather (non-ferret) discovered the true Elephant's Graveyard many years ago and brought home enough tusks to keep Harry Connick Jr. in piano keys for a thousand lifetimes. My grandmother fashioned the tower from what was left after Grandpa Magnetite sold off enough of his hoard to keep ten generations of us in the money. Yes, tainted money it was, but at least he was a step up from Prescott Bush.

I was happily window-shopping. I'd seen a beautiful one gracing the facade of the newsagent and had made a mental note to ask Withers to pay for and carry it back home as soon as I returned. Turning to cross the main shopping street I was stopped in my tracks by a white Transit van. It had screeched to a stop beside me, all peeling paintwork and rusted sills. Slightly shocked, I tapped on the passenger-side door to remonstrate with the occupants. A grimy window was haltingly rolled down and I got my first surprise of the day.

No 'white van man' this - the passenger leant out from the cab to reveal one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Taken aback, my complaint stuck in my throat. It didn't stand a chance of being voiced because just then another stunningly attractive face peered out at me. Then another. Driver and both passengers were absolutely gorgeous models.

That's when I lost my sight. I had succumbed to the phenomenon of 'lass-blindness'.

[A side note on lass-blindness, which you are unlikely to have explained - even by that most unlikely explainer - wikipedia.

Lass, or woman, blindness is akin to snow blindness. In much the same way as a small patch of snow in a green pasture will not blind you, one pretty woman alone is similarly harmless. It is the wall-to-wall, field-of-vision total expanses of both of these natural occurrences that does harm. This explains why men wake up next to some dreadful horrors after a night out clubbing. The male optic nerve becomes overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of beauties in sight and fails to register grots, hags and slap-tits at all after a while. Beer goggles do NOT protect the wearer, unlike snow goggles, and some researchers have posited that they may even make matters worse.]

The next I knew, I was being bundled roughly into the back of the white van. I fell atop other male forms as the doors were slammed shut and the engine started. Blind and terrified, I cried out to Withers to save me, but my cries were cut off with a rag, reeking of cleanser and nail varnish remover, stuffed into my mouth. I tried to fight back - but the fumes soon overwhelmed me, and I fell onto the pile of slumbering menfolk with the tinkling laughter of my captors ringing in my ears.

Where I woke up will be revealed in the next part of my tale of dread and wonder, coming to a pair of eyes near you soon.

A filler piece on the origin of Man while I calm down from my ordeal

I believe I have a sound theory as to why men like wanking so much. As luck would have it, it shouldn’t offend any Moral Majority types, as it’s a biblical story too.

Skip to just before the creation of Man. God’s a bit weary of it all now; it’s Saturday. He’s had to come in today. For a full day. At the flat rate.

The angels are just sitting around, being essentially jobless until they and Hell’s minions have got something to fight over. Just lounging, watching God work - occasionally shouting “You’ve missed a bit!” or taking the piss out of His builder’s arse, giggling, and then blaming each other when God rounds angrily on them.

He had to do several thousand species of bird yesterday, put two extra hours in as well. Went out with the seraphim and St. Michael on Friday night to 'have a quick go on the world, before anyone else did'. Woke up feeling terrible, created vomiting - thought “Hey, everybody should try this!”, quickly realised that there was no everybody yet, and decided to make a creature upon which to bestow this gift. So, as a consequence, He rushed a lot of the animals on that Saturday morning - stuck a couple of thousand species below ground in the dark, so He wouldn’t have to bother colouring them in - and it saved Him ages not having to do any eyes for them.

Around lunchtime He creates weather. It immediately rains. Mud forms everywhere and He’s getting up to eyes in the stuff. “What can I do with all this then?” He booms. Remembering the vomiting creature He was going to knock together, He grabs a lump of mud; a pinch here, a squeeze there - Hey Presto! Man.
A subcontractor, finally! God brings all the animals to Adam, and gets the little mug to name them for him. One less dirty job.

Adam thinks he’s on Easy Street, sitting there on his backside in a clearing, naming away like nobodies business.

“Goat”
“Mayfly”
Winks. “Duck-billed Platypus”

God resists the urge to smack the little twat around a bit.

It must have got a little bit hairy for the lad when the fish were being named though. Adam’s treading water, being unable to doggy paddle because he hasn’t seen one yet. God reaches into the sea, pulls out a something and goes “What’s this then? It’s sleek, long and pointy-toothed. Extremely angry-looking.” And He drops it into the water next to Adam.

A lot of those sea creatures probably got named from the beach after that.

Points. “Octopus”
Points. “Whale”
Points, shaking visibly. “Starfish”

Anyway, Adam at this point is still an innocent, having not eaten of the apple that God shewed him earlier, while he was doing his induction. “Pears, Bananas, Oranges, Fruit of The Tree of Knowledge - don’t eat it. Photocopier - jams all the time. Coffee machine - if you kick it, it dispenses free Bovril.”

Adam just keeps on asking stupid question. Ignorant as he is, he also ignores or forgets everything he’s told. God waxes wrathful and pins him against a Guava tree by his throat, and hisses “Listen, son. I’ve been here since the dawn of time, and all you’ve done is a little bit of bloody naming on your first Saturday job!” God suddenly calms, His grip loosens and His voice no longer splits the skies. “And sorry about the - what was it called? Oh yeah, a shark. Sorry about the shark bite.” And He lets him go, smoothing down Adam’s non-existent clothing.

Feeling a little sorry for Adam - there’s a terrible lump on the lad’s throat now - God says, “Right, I’ll make for you a helpmeet. Keep you off my back.”

And Adam replies,sniggering, “What’s a helpmeet? No wonder you let me name the animals. Fucking helpmeet.”

God says “You’re making this far too easy you know.” And He smacks Adam’s head off the Guava tree.

Adam comes to, minus one rib. Smarts a bit. Still ignorant here remember, he starts asking questions while God’s busy on Eve.

“What are those bits on the front?”
“Why hasn’t she got one of these?”
“What’s she for again?”

God wants to do a proper job this time, having essentially bungled Man, so He ponders for a while on how to distract Adam while He puts twice as much brains in this one.

No need, however. Adam has been looking at Eve for far too long, and it has had its effect. Adam looks wide-eyed down at himself. “Why’s it doing that?”

Problem solved, thinks God. He’ll never know it’s supposed to be a sin, because I haven’t invented sin yet. As long as the little idiot stays away from the tree of you-know-what, we’re laughing.

“Go and find out for yourself. It’s about time you showed some initiative. It’s got something to do with your hand.”

And off goes Adam. Into that first honeyed and idyllic night that fell upon that first, most beautiful garden in all of the world. Masturbating furiously.

Free at least!

I have managed to finally extricate myself from an incarceration the likes of which would strike a white stripe down a grown man's hair. More to follow.