25. Timothy the twink of Peter Astley the deceased bear; —
Timothy
Of Marshall Petoman the flatulist, it is known that he lived for several years in Warmoesstraat in Amsterdam. During my callow years, I stayed once for a few nights in a hotel in that very street, and to my mind it really was a very strange place indeed, a veritable Babylon where grizzled old gents in leather chaps strolled in pairs or with their twinks, and furtive masturbators flitted in and out of garish neon knocking shops and rub-’n’-tug emporia, where underdressed ladies loitered in booths and, on presentation of the appropriate testimonials, brought matters to a felicitous conclusion. —
Marshall Petoman, the flatulist, Warmoesstraat, Flatulist
All that is by-the-by of course, for some years later Mr Petoman was washed as if on a tide of sewage back onto the cliffs of Dover, these falaises no doubt requiring in consequence a jolly thorough scouring. Thence, by diverse labyrinthine processes, that autocopraphageous personage made his way to Bristol, where he enrolled as a member at Pex ’n’ Quads, and in a droll moment proclaimed himself number 2 in the League of Spartacists which I had myself set up to defend the interests and eke the sanity and very persons of the members of Pex ’n’ Quads against the insults and injuries with which the management of that gym menaced them. —
Bristol
Testifying in a purely personal capacity, I was absolutely delighted to learn that this faecal rogue was now to be despatched; for, as the diligent reader will have surmised, I resented the insinuations of Petra Mountjoy, Stig O'Dump, Herod et al that I was the Phantom Crapper, when all along as was quite plain this miscreant Marshall Petoman had been extruding his dung under their very noses. As the appointed day approached, I kept close by Mr Petoman, camera phone primed and ready, thinking to film him in the act of … er … squatting and grunting out onto the stairwell one of those reeking chocolate wursts of his. Mr Petoman, being all too cognisant of my attentions, was able in those final days to master that most base impulse of his, and so I did not succeed in my design. Withal, neither did I master the righteous indignation which I owned, and did avail myself of several opportunities during those dog days to hiss at him certain condign insinuations, bearing upon the approach of that dies irae which would put an end to the tribulations which the world had for so long endured thanks to his bottomfoolery. Mr Petoman in his shame affected to ignore my micro-aggressions, satisfying himself with unleashing into the ether the sundry trumps and quacks which generally served as the olfactory harbingers of that function whereby their propagator so distinguished himself. —
Camera phone, Herod
The appointed day found me installed early in the Spa Elysium, awaiting those reprobates, the kidult and the twink and flatulist afore-described, who arrived combled in the foule which pressed about them. The trio being arrayed in the standard white robes, the one thing which greatly surprised me on scoping them was that Mr Petoman had foregone the opportunity to follow Wanksy’s earlier example in besmirching his raiments with skid marks or a Rorschach papillon. And I must confess, a little part of me - which I strove to suppress - was slightly pained that there was no augury for wispy-bearded coprasophers to pore over. In contrast, Peggy did not scruple to rejoice in Mr Petoman’s eponymous feature, but straightway instigated a kind of water closet music or torture chamber duet, encouraging him to join his anal expostulations with her armpit farts, the result being quite literally the most disgusting cacophony ever to disgrace a salon. Herod, who would fain have commenced proceedings, strove to make himself heard, whereupon John Virgil Haruspex, who was always embarrassed by Peggy, enjoined her to moderate her behaviour. It struck me then that he never would threaten to show her the contents of his bucket; although whether that was because she was uniquely unmoved by the quiddity which festered therein, or whether he was to some degree self-effacing in the presence of her trumpets of Jehu, or eke some combination of the two, I felt it lay not with me to judge. —
Peggy, Spa Elysium
So saying, I hastened downstairs to Reception, where that stern Cerberida Billy fatly glared at me, and but grudgingly acceded to my stuttering and blushing request for a box of Kleenex. Thus equipped, I returned to the scene of Mr Petoman’s final outrage. The matter proved to be somewhat liquescent underneath the veneering of crust, and so it took half the contents of the box to scoop and wrap that pile so that none of it escaped. And of course my gorge in protest rose, which necessitated the deployment of the remainder of the Kleenex in order to wipe away as much as I could of my own emesis. —
Kleenex
This site would like to use cookies to count visits and measure advertising. Nothing is set unless you accept.
