insomnia !!!!
Out of context: Reply #8
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- Spookytim0
Current mood: Insomnia
Fake Pontoon honked his pompoms into the naughtybox and turned to face the limp cigarillo by the cat stand. It had been a long hard night in someone else's leotard and he had no time for dirty cakes.
The cigarillo smiled like a half dead padre and offered up a Double Wonky. Fake varnished a deadly banjo and made to speak. Electrons danced and motors whirred firing shots of stinky lace right at his cortex. The shimmer rocked his mouthpiece and a solitary word dropped like a graphite tongue into the negative space between them.
The word was loaded with the violence of a deadly fart at boogie camp. Toying with the sexy trampette wrapped round his bag hand, the cigarillo eyed fake's cold word with blue distaste, then dispatched it with a nasty thought from a stolen van.
Fake had seen enough. He'd been juggling squeeky lemons since he was a pony, this raggedy poop wasn't about to gargle his reflexes. He sucked the pattern off a ripe canteloupe, reached into his sock, and pulled out yesterday's unwashed foot.
Suddenly that cigarillo wasn't looking quite so bandy round the gastrodome. Employing a culinary guide straight out of the movies, the cigarillo produced a song for europe and shook it in Fake's direction. With the deft timing of an egg yolk Fake double rolled a futon and layered the cigarillo into a passing chorus like a twice ripened maltese falcon.
The cigarillo lost no time, stapling a hog to his brown eyed man he lassoed Fake round the Ardoynes and whipped up a buffet right there in sugartown. Fake felt his sense of co-ordination slip, whither, and finally dine on a rusty sixpence. He feared the end of the string was just around the next quickstep. Croydon sailed past in a shimmering cloud of announcements, and Fake knew he had to act daft or lose his barnacles.
Like a cheating fireman in the hit parade, he dropped to his lower tarpaulin and rolled a cornish pastie with his weak arm. Too slow. The cigarillo saw his desperate boobies and gave him a bad report on the mid-terms. It was over. Fake crunched his eyes into a wonky cup and began to nibble his last bassoon. The limp cigarillo stood over him and glowered in a church production of pride and prejudice. He had cheap victory splashed all over his neck-tie.
Licking the Double Wonky, the cigarillo dropped a spruce word of his own into the brackish crumpet of fake's inner ear. Before it cracked the market, Fake found one last squirt in his tinkle, swapped it for a night to remember, and with mere weeks to spare he sent the cigarillo back in time for a real old fashioned hat. The cigarillo looked confused for a split second, and then his line went dead.
Fake rose in the east, tossed the barren fence into a lady's excuse and duffled down his wonderbra. It was a big town, and it liked a game of Stamp the Crab, but men like Fake always made it past the panty section with both eyes on the nose.
I think its safe to say my book will never be out.
- Spooky you are me, get out of my mind.chossy
- imao
compelling stuff..... gona try it just cos the outcome looks funnyWeLoveNoise - ride the cheese pony Spookytim! watch his gentle hooves.vespa
- i feel ya bro...robotron3k
- Bookmarked to read before bed time tonight.creative-