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Akabusi sat in the Corsa playing with the indicators. He was f**king bored. Since Tanni Grey Thompson had retired he felt a void in his life - he had nowhere to direct his immense hatred for the woman. "Harry Potter in a shopping trolley" was the quote he gave The Times as reporters had surrounded his £126,876 mansion in Luton. Eventually he had been forced to send Regis out to clear them away. Two journalists were killed and for a brief glorious moment John Regis' rampant OCD was replaced with sociopathic rage and violence. One day at a time.
Since then Akabusi, Regis and Black had been holed up in the mansion playing strip Kerplunk and devouring KFC Mum's Week Off Buckets like Yorkshire policemen into a Sheffield crack mum. There were more bones strewn over the walnut effect flooring than an after party during London Fashion Week. After seven days of debauchery and finger licking the boys had decided to get out of the house and visit a local farmer's market. Black loved expensive bread with currants in it and doctors had told Regis that it was healthy for him to mix with other vegetables. Akabusi, on the other giant brown hand, hated the f**king places. "Overpriced c**t soupery" was the quote Kriss had given The Times.
As Busi moved from the indicators to the hazard lights he looked out the window at Black unfolding his Bags for Life and Regis counting the clouds in the sky, he reflected on the real issue of the last seven days. His meaty pussy pounder hadn't felt the rush of blood and the silky touch of a sopping fanny since "The Transformer" had retired. Kriss had sneezed this morning as Black was writing his shopping list and spunked 72 hours worth of man slush out of his large nostrils and onto his granite effect worktop. Maybe the farmers market would throw up a clunge and a bristol.
Akabusi wiped spunk snot from his dungerees and joined the boys. As the gang strolled into the farmers market Busi felt the rancid air of middle class self satisfaction and Safeway Savers potatoes covered in sh*t waft betwixt the denim of his dungs and his toned onyx frame. He welcomed the twinge that flickered down his resting chocolate plonker and could feel his weighty balls gurgle like Marc Almond in a cock shop.
He followed Black over to a Greek olive stall. Roger had purchased a small plastic container with 4 olives for £25. Akabusi roared with a laugh so long, dark and violent shoppers thought Winston Silcott was back in the area. "You f**king mug, Roge" cried Busi as he popped the four olives in his huge, piano key filled mouth. Kriss was enjoying himself - he loved all the media types struggling to carry bags of forty quid ham and fifty quid bog rolls made of papyrus. There were more weirdly shaped glasses than a Belgian public house.
Akabusi was having so much fun he decided to let free the heavy shackles of his denim dungs and let the low winter sun lick his chassis with all the skill of an office junior on the back of the Queens head. As he stood there as naked and hairless as Britney getting out of a Lambo, he began to sense a stirring in his chunky veiny marrow. He needed clunge and he need it immediately. Or sooner.
Akabusi ducked behind a cheese stall and let his colassal phallis smell the air. He'd drunk so much celeriac juice from the Original Organic Celeriac Juice stall that he was bursting for a slash. As he let loose a violent stream of horse p*ss into a pile of organic satsumas he thought it inevitable that someone would bottle his hot steaming yellow fluid and sell it as cider or vinegar or Akabusi p*ss at a 500% mark up.
As the last remnants of the torrent sloshed around the floor he heard a scream from beyond the Organic Sex Toy stall. He hurdled the satsumas looking like a horse with three legs to find a young blonde woman being harassed by two hoodies. Before he knew his eyes were all over the blonde like organic flies around sh*te. He knew beneath the tight white blouson was a pair of bristols so pert you could hang war criminals on them and tucked into the those sprayed on Armani jeans was a clunge as tight and prudent as Chancellor Brown.
Blood filled his meat feast as he dived into action, smacking the two yoofs with his increasingly engorged donger and making wild animal sounds. "You're Kriss Abamjuki innit?" barked one of the knuckle draggers. "I loved you on Gladiators. Safe innit" burped the other. As Kriss's penis reached full erection and his hoodie pulled back into attack mode, the hoodies ran away screaming.
"Mr Akabumbum. You're my hero. How can I repay you?" said the young girl as she wept for her lost pink mobile phone and the clumps of her hair that lay on the ground. "You f**king know how. f**king. That's how" roared Akabusi. "What's you're f**king name lady?"
"Chloe. Chloe Madeley" she purred as she swept the matted blonde hair from her oval face. Akabusi instantly knew what he had on his hands and inevitably on his cock. He had the prospect of plunging his blaxcalibur into Richard and Judy's smoking hot daughter. Pre cum formed on his diamond hard helmut as if to announce the start of a great epic battle.
He tore her blouson from her back revealing the naked product of the unholy union between Dick and Judy. Her milky pert tits had all the weight of the mother and as Kriss ripped off her jeans her glistening paper cut looked like her father - a thin, shaggy haired c**t.
He leapt on her like Rik Waller at a fat finger buffet and went up to the hilt within two strokes. "You say, I spray" thundered Akabusi as his hands explored her body with all the throughness of a OFCOM investigation into phone scandals.
Within hours Akabusi approached his vinegars with all the conviction of a man walking out of Tesco's with a trolley full of wine without paying. He let spray a tsunami of thick creamy knacker soup all over the heiress and flopped to the floor like Stallone's arm at the end of Over The Top. In the distance he could hear Regis and Black pushing over the apple cart and pushing 60 quid melons into the face of farmers and knew that he had to leave immediately. Or sooner. They'd head for the sanctuary of a Nandos.
He pulled on his denim dungs, reeling in his flacid phallis like a Japanese trawlerman hauling in a tuna friendly doplhin. He looked down on the pile of matted blonde tits, empty wine bottles, fashionable stubble and shattered viewer confidence, knelt down, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
The End.
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Akabusi didn't have a clue where he f**king was. Nor did Black. And Regis was about as much use as Cassius Clay with a speculum. They were on a boat on the Norfolk Broads and everything looked the same. And all the people looking from the banks looked the same. Horrible. Akabusi wondered whether this was the first time they had seen three blacks on a boat since a slave ship pulled up at Lowestoft. Last week.
Akabusi had been very depressed since part of his £127,675 mansion near Luton had collapsed because of dry rot. Extensive damp had been caused by epic amounts of knacker suds Kriss had splashed around the house in the last five years. Akabusi was crushed. Literally. But weeks of building works and wall irrigation was a small price to pay for the great w*nks he had over catalogues, Sunday fashion supplements and a copy of a six year old Loaded that now resembled a solid block of Portland spunk stone.
The boys had had to move out sharpish. He had more Polish in his mansion than Krakow. The men all had hands and faces like 100 year old bricks and the women were hardly better. His ebony clunge puncher had hardly shuffled as the naked women swung their hammers into his walnut effect flooring. And waking up to the smell of goat meat and decade old sweat was too much. Even for Regis.
Regis had been in a bad way. His nephew had been deadened and since then John's OCD had become exactly 872 times worse than it had been 28,987 minutes before. Roger Black was feeling no better. He was maintaining a low profile after completing some "wet work" in Jamaica. He had spent weeks enticing himself into the world of Bob Woolmar and in the end he'd done it for free, he'd enjoyed killing him so much. In the end "they" had paid him in scratchcards which Black had ripped up in "their" faces.
So all in all it had been a tough time for the gang. They decided to hire a 4 berth cruiser, buy a hundredweight of Greggs Steak Bakes and travel up the Norfolk Broads and kill Bernard Matthews. With extreme prejudice. Yokel Kurtz, as Akabusi had named him, lived in a £314,899 complex in Great Yarmouth and had apparently gone "native", cutting the head of turkeys and dancing around in his yellowing pants w*nking on crackers.
Black was at the helm and he was bollocks. They'd killed at least five swans and one window slurper in a kayak who had become detached from his outward bound group. All six of them were in the cooler now and would barbeque a treat later on. Regis was in his element. He loved to waterski behind the boat but as this jalopy only went 2 knots, technically the speed of an old woman chewing a boiled sweet, they just dragged John through the brown water as his skis picked up used condoms, diseased turkeys and his big gob filled with loose turds.
Busi laid out on the top of the ramshackle cruiser and let the cold low sun caress his onyx chassis like an Asian waxing a Nova. His cocoa pussy beater growled as it awoke from it's slumber. It hadn't pushed it's purple head into the wet crack of clunge or an arsehole for a few days and it knew that Norfolk was full of both. It was hungry and it needed feeding. Kriss was engrossed in the latest episode of Tanni Grey Thompson Sex Stories that Redmond had forwarded him via his internet connection. He hated Redmond but these stories made his balls rise like the price of twenty snouts. As he turned over his chocolate plonker pierced the roof of the cruiser. He was as hard as a pikey's sister. They were here.
Akabusi jumped ashore, his brown rudder dragging in the water. He let slip the brass shackles of his camo dungerees and let the fetid air of the Matthews encampment swirl around his diamond hard labia cutter and his heavy balls. Black kept the engine running and pulled out a bumper Suduko book whilst Regis counted the ripples in the water.
Akabusi stalked the perimeter of the compound and anyone looking would have thought he was a huge black panther with an f**ked tail. Bernard Matthews was exactly where he Akabusi knew he would be. Snapping turkey necks in his pine effect kitchen. Covered in blood. Naked. Bald. And quoting T.S Eliot. Busi pulled out a hefty machete with more grooves in it than a 70's night at the Roxy. It was from Black's vast collection of life stoppers and it was perfect for carving a fat turkey.
As Akabusi reined in his throbbing erection he stealthily moved up behind the braying Bernard and slipped the knife against his turkey neck. "Mr Abakumii, what the f**k are you doing?" said a voice from behind him as smooth and as fruity as a fart at a Camra meeting.
Akabusi turned slowly holding the machete firmly up into Matthews giblets. "Bootiful!" said Kriss as he spied the smoking hot daughter of the poultry magnet - Bernie Matthews. And she was. Busi knew that beneath her blood spattered white tunic rested a pair of epic bristols you wouldn't be ashamed to crave them up and serve at Christmas and a clunge so open it was letting a draft into the room. Akabusi dropped the twisted fat gristle of Bernard to the parquet effect flooring and pounced on Bernie like a sex offender at the Early Learning Centre.
He tore off her clothes revealing a massive set of breasts so white and creamy and capped by rock hard bottle tops it was like fondling Mrs Unigate. She was so wet Kriss thought he was putting his hand into fresh liver. As he slipped a fat brown finger she tightened, tighter than a ten year old pussy walking past the Pete Townsend Research Facility in Richmond.
He could tell by the way she gulped his king dong down her slender throat that she was from Norfolk. And married to her father and mother to his nephews, nieces and his grandmother. They were a tight family.
Within hours he was on his triumphant vinegars and he let fly with such an epic amount of ball gunk that Bernie was struggling for air like Roy Castle in a jazz club. "I love the smell of clunge in the morning. It smells like...like kippers" roared Akabusi with the power of ten Blesseds and one Biggins.
He slit Bernard's throat letting years of gluttony and several turkeys spill onto the kitchen floor. Bernie was the Boss now and Busi liked it. In the distance he could hear Black and Regis honking the horn. They were desperate to get away to the Monkey World that had just opened in Yarmouth. And so was Busi.
He looked down on the pile of spunk, milky white tits, father's blood and guts and reformed turkey slices, bent down, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
The End.
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