No Homo

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

No Homo

The last whisper of cold had taken its leave, and cherry blossom petals were swarming along the bitumen in the dusty afternoon wind. Suddenly, God decided that all women have penises from now on: two each.

Confusion rolled in like a tsunami. Men didn’t know if sex with women was straight – because they were still women – or gay, because of the penises. Was actual gay sex now the less gay method of getting one’s fuck on, because it would halve the likelihood of foreign penis contact? And whichever gender men penetrated, should they even use their penises, or was that now kind of a girly way of doing it?

The most powerful people in the world were wound up like those plastic chattering teeth with little feet. “I’m not gay,” announced the President of the United States to a thousand international journalists. The response from Russia was swift: “Are you calling me a faggot?” China and Japan each demanded that the other apologise for calling them a woman. It seemed unavoidable that human civilisation would soon be destroyed by war.

Soon, human civilisation was destroyed by war. But it was a rather perfunctory armageddon. To fire a gun; to launch a missile; to insult a diplomat by holding a bottle of mayonnaise in front of one’s crotch and squeezing it out onto his face while yelling, “This is what makes me powerful!” – somehow, it wasn’t as satisfying as it used to be.

The Case of the Mystery

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

The Case of the Mystery

My name? Let’s just say I’m a private detective. I’m a private detective. It was just another day in the office whence I operate as a private detective, when she walked in.

Sorry, I should tell you her name first and only call her ‘she’ after that, otherwise it’s confusing for you, sorry. Her name was Gertron Whipsturgeon. “My name is Gertron Whipsturgeon,” she breathed.

I wondered if she was connected to a well-known, wealthy local family called the Whipsturgeons, and if they were so well-known why I’d never heard of them. And what was a creamy wheel of camembert like her, from the delicatessen window of high society, doing in a run-down, two-bit rat hole like mine, breathing at a half-eaten, dried up Kraft Single like me? Come to think of it though I think ‘two bits’ actually means twenty-five cents and I feel like that’s probably expensive for a rat hole; like do rats pay rent even? Does there exist in the margins of human civilisation a parallel society of rodents, with markets, currency and government? Would it be a monarchy or a republic? I mentally put five bucks on monarchy.

If Gertron had been delivered to me by the postman, I wouldn’t have accused him of theft, because she was the whole package. As I looked her up and down, I began to wonder about the structure of this theoretical rat kingdom from a macrosociological perspective, and I simultaneously hoped and dreaded that I wouldn’t be getting any sleep that night, depending on the reason.

She had legs that went all the way up to her hips, where they connected to her torso in the normal and correct fashion, a bottom that made my penis erect, and a rack you could store magazines in. Plus a great big pair of tits.

“Those are the biggest tits I’ve ever seen,” I told her.

“Yes, I breed birds and other animals,” she said. “For example, let me show you my pussy.”

“I’m not really a cat person.”

“Oh, you’ll love Duchess.”

Gertron Whipsturgeon held her pussy right up to my face, and it was all I could do not to pinch my nose and slap it away. I couldn’t believe a classy dame like her was walking around the place with a beat-up, worn-out, flea-bitten, scab-covered pussy like that. It had patches of black hair tangled into greasy clumps, stank like old fish, and was making a low, threatening growl. She reached into it and pulled out a cat.

I said, “Hello, Duchess.”

“Greetings,” the cat replied. “I am Duchess Mittens of the Eastern Alleys. You have already met my human slave, Gertron, and the two ambassadors from the Tit Kingdom, whose names are Willy and Fanny. Gertron, you may put me down on the desk. Thank you.”

The cat paced back and forth all over my realistic detective items like she owned the place. “My child, Prince Oreo, is betrothed to Melody, the Black-breasted Tit Princess – a union that may end all pain and death in the world, forever. But there is one who opposes the engagement: Premier Ronald of the Democratic Republic of Rodentia.”

“Dammit!” I said, and wrote myself an I.O.U. for five bucks.

“The matter is this: Prince Oreo has gone missing – taken in the dead of night – and we are certain that a ring of secret rat ninjas is responsible. But we have no proof. Detective, I am here to ask that you put on a big rat costume, penetrate the ring, and find out what has happened…” – and here the cat had to take a deep breath – “Find out what has happened to my baby boy.”

I never knew I was allergic to cats but suddenly my eyes felt kind of itchy. I folded my arms and stared at the desk. The cat must have heard me mutter, “Poor prince,” under my breath.

“You will help me, then? You will rescue my son, and bring the rats to justice?”

Paw prints!” I snapped at her. “You tracked paw prints all over my desk. Look, kitty-cat: last time I checked, the sign on my door said, ‘Private Etective,’ because some kid peeled off the ‘D’. But that still doesn’t say, ‘Complete Chump,’ because I’m not one, and also because you can’t rearrange the letters that way. With a bit of creativity and a black texta, you could probably make it say, ‘Defective Privates,’ but I don’t expect that much from the kids around here; they’re not very sophisticated. The schools are underfunded. Similarly, my own education happened largely on the streets, and on those streets I learned two things: number one, don’t be a rat; and number two, don’t be a rat. You’re asking me to do both, albeit in reverse order. Do you have any idea what happens to rat rats?”

“No, I don’t,” said the cat.

“Neither do I. Because no-one has lived to tell the tale.

I hoped that would be the end of it, but the cat and the tits exchanged a look that told me it wasn’t. Her Grace the Duchess coughed up a furball, spat it out, and slid it towards me with one of her pretty white paws. “A gift from the Eastern Alleys,” she said, “given as a token of good faith.” Then the three of them made up an excuse and left me alone with Gertron the slave girl.

Gertron sat herself down and faced me across the desk. Her eyes meant business. If they could have leapt out of her skull, dressed up in tiny little suits and gotten high-powered careers in finance, they would have. And if I were working in the same office, I’d sexually harass them, because they were beautiful.

“There’s more where that came from,” she told me. Neither of us needed to look at the furball. “I can tell you’re smart, honey. Smart enough to get through the day. But it’s hard for a man like you to get ahead, especially if he has a vice, and a man like you always has a vice.”

I thought of the I.O.U. I’d just written. In the top drawer of my desk were at least a hundred more, all of them in my handwriting; signatures on a pile of tiny death warrants. I guessed I owed myself about three-fifths of a large by now, and I was barely making a medium. What a chump.

“Your problems,” she said, “can be made to disappear. Or, they can be made to not disappear. They can be made to be, like, super-perceptible. Like a fat man in fluorescent cycling gear. On a razor scooter. Scooting from door to door, asking people if they’ve heard about Jesus. And he’s got a voice like this: HELLOOOOO!! HELLOOOOOOO!! HAVE YOU HEARD ABOUT JEEE-SUS!!?

“ALL RIGHT,” I said. I ain’t the type to flip my lid but the author had left caps lock on from the previous sentence. “All right. I’ll take the case.”

“Good-o,” said Gertron Whipsturgeon, and I lit her cigarette.

From this point, there was a three minute movie montage of me dressing up as a rat, Gertron teaching me how to act like a rat, then me going undercover in Rodentia and solving the case, all to the soundtrack of ‘You’re the Best Around’ by Joe Esposito. Except whenever I masturbated, the montage would stop, the soundtrack would change to ‘Nimrod’ from Elgar’s Enigma Variations, and the movie would progress in real time until I’d finished, at which point the montage would continue.

When I masturbated, I thought about Gertron. She didn’t respect me and I didn’t trust her, but we were a good team – and more than that, I felt like beneath that no-nonsense, nonsense-intolerant, disinterested-in-nonsense, “Nonsense? Not on my watch!” exterior, something soft and fragile was hidden. After a long day, a couple of drinks and a few laughs, sometimes, in the second before she blinked, I could see it in her eyes: buried deep inside of her, there was something I needed. Maybe something we both needed.

It must have been my detective’s instinct because it turned out she was working for the rats and had Prince Oreo stuffed up her arsehole the entire time – which post facto put an unpleasant twist on a lot of my wank fantasies but at least I got paid. Duchess Mittens had Gertron’s head chopped off, which I know because she left it for me on my doorstep as a present. I had it stuffed and mounted, as best as I could afford to, and kept it as a memento of the finest cat burglar I’d ever met. Even now, sitting in this leather chesterfield armchair, wearing my smoking jacket and slippers, I gaze at the mantlepiece, over the dying fire that faintly lights the study in the nineteenth-century English country manor where I’ve been narrating this story from apparently, where sits Gertron’s misshapen face – skin a little green now but still firm and smooth, where mine is dry and furrowed – and I raise my glass of brandy and say, “Here’s lookin’ at you, you mere female with the brain of an infant.” I’ll be here for some time, contemplating her mouldy contours, maybe because I never stopped loving her, but maybe because, after all these years, if I retire to my bedchamber and sleep… maybe tonight, the rats will come at last to give me secret rat ninja dick rabies.

Invasion From Space

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

Invasion From Space

The space aliens came from space and shot at us. We tried to fight them in clean-cut, conventional ways, but nothing worked. Things were looking bleak for the human race, of which we are all members, no matter our colour or creed. But then a rag-tag bunch of ne’er-do-wells did things their way and saved America and the whole world. That showed those scientists! They think they’re so smart.

Anyway – each of the heroes was given forty-nine virgins and his own planet to live on, because this is set in the future after the Muslims take over and we all have to live by Sharia Law.

Thoknar the Warrior

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

Thoknar the Warrior

Thoknar the warrior journeyed over lands unknown, hitting many things with his sword, such as people, rocks, and more rocks. His sweaty nipples glistened in the harsh light of foreign suns.

When he was finished, the King said to him, “Thoknar, you are brave and none shall deny it, but you cannot live among us, for your warrior ways are too yucky to look at for posh people such as we.”

“Good point,” said Thoknar, hitting a rock with his sword. “But shouldn’t that be, ‘you cannot live amongst us’?”

“Either is acceptable,” the King replied. “It’s largely a stylistic issue. The important thing is to be consistent.”

Thoknar closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. He was no fancy man of words but a warrior. “I’ll be off then, forever,” he said, then tripped over the rock and fell on his face.

“You should probably open your eyes again before walking anywhere,” suggested the King.

“I shall tell tales of your wisdom, O King!” declared Thoknar, as he pulled himself to his feet. He opened his eyes, then tripped over the rock and fell on his face.

The King wore a look of sympathy. “Mighty Thoknar, perhaps you would find it easier to walk in a straight line if you stopped slowly shaking your head. In my own life,” he added tactfully, “I have sometimes found this an effective strategy.”

“Good one, O King!” cried Thoknar. “The gods chose you well, for you are good at figuring out solutions to problems.” He stood up once more, and with his noble head facing forwards, and holding his fearsome eyelids open with his fingers, he tripped over the rock and fell on his face.

The King muttered to himself: “My god, he’s got a brain the size of a mungst bean.”

A Wet Dream on Elm Street

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

A Wet Dream on Elm Street

Billie Smitherson was sound asleep after a long day of being a relatable modern teen. She was enjoying a pleasant dream about being trapped in a cupboard with several preserved animal foetuses in jars, that were, one by one, regaining consciousness and turning slowly to look at her, when suddenly and out of nowhere appeared Freddy Krueger.

“I’m gonna kill you or somethin’!” growled he.

“Gosh!” said Billie, who, it might be worth mentioning at this point, had a raging fetish for murderous nightmare spectres of dead burn victims. Her sex entrance got wet, and her lady-button swelled to the size of a beach ball, or whatever it is that happens to women when they become aroused. “Oh Freddy,” she panted, her cheeks flushed with oestrogen. “Do me up the bum!”

“No thanks, I’m gay,” said Freddy politely.

Billie was hot for gays and thrust a hungry, grabby hand between Freddy’s legs, which were suddenly paralysed, unable to turn and flee. “Yip, yip!” said Freddy’s penis, which had turned into a fluffy Pomeranian. The puppy grew several metres in length, like toothpaste being squeezed from a tube, then shimmied in the air, dancing to the five-piece mariachi band. Swarthy and mustachioed, they wore only sombreros, and had sleigh bells tied with ribbon to their unfeasibly massive erections, which they rang in time with the lively huapango as they sang. Billie’s blossoming imagination had spawned a cornucopia of bizarre sexual fetishes; a great tribe of buzzes, jollies and turn-ons – and tonight, it seemed, was the annual family reunion.

“Cripes!” went Freddy.

“I love the word ‘cripes’,” breathed Billie sexily, her tits flying out of her nightie and slapping Freddy repeatedly in the face. “That word is my number one word in terms of words that make me horny when I hear them.”

Número uno!” cried the mariachi singers.

“Let me return the favour, you big hunk of man-mince.” Billie opened a packet of doggie treats and, turning and bending over so that Freddy could see, began to poke them up her anus, one by one. She wiggled her bottom suggestively.

With an impatient bark, Freddy’s happy penis leapt forward and burrowed between Billie’s bumcheeks with mad excitement. “Thank goodness this is only a dream,” thought Freddy, but when he woke up he was pregnant or something? Anyway he learned an important lesson.

Terry Boober

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

Terry Boober

Terry Boober got into his rented car and drove it. I’ve never driven a car, so I’ll leave it to you to fill in the details about revving the indicators and so on. While you’re at it, you might like to insert some apparently straightforward yet somehow eerie prose conveying a mood of unease as, beneath the pregnant clouds, the car wound slowly through desolate mountain roads towards its final destination – some shit like that; I can’t be bothered.

Look, actually, why don’t you write the whole thing? I’ll tell you how the story goes, and you can put it into words in whatever way you think will have the greatest emotional impact on you.

So Terry’s driving somewhere – you can pick where; it doesn’t affect the story because he dies in a car crash on the way. (Don’t mention that too early – it should be a surprise.) He’s driving there because he heard about a ghost sighting, and more than anything else, Terry Boober wants to see a ghost. Try to drop subtle hints about his obsessive fear of death; perhaps proof of an afterlife would put his mind at ease.

A book on tape has been playing in the car since Terry activated the engine. It must have been left in the tape deck by whoever rented the car previously. This is how it goes:

“Driving in a rented car, through desolate mountain roads, was a man named Terry Boober.”

“What a ghostly coincidence,” thinks Terry Boober. “Quite funny really!” he tells himself. He’s about to chuckle out loud, but is unnerved by the sight of a spooky tree.

“A storm had been hanging in the air all morning; it loomed, black and inevitable. The car passed a burnt tree near the road, charred and skeletal; a spectre in the corner of Terry’s eye.”

He shivers, like a small animal predicting an earthquake. The tape continues: “For one terrible moment, all was enveloped by a sudden clap of thunder that seemed to come from every side at once, heralding that final, tragic rain in which Terry would soon meet his…” – but the final word is drowned out by a fearsome thunderclap.

Terry doesn’t like this at all. “No, no!” he shrieks, searching frantically for the ‘Eject’ button with one hand; both eyes on the road as the torrent arrives: great sheets of rain making the windscreen an impossible blur. Through the din of water and wind against glass and metal, and the unhappy squeaking of the wipers, dreadful, evocative snatches of prophecy are heard, unavoidably, from the book on tape: “…mad panic…” “…lost control…” “…plunged…” “…perfect horror…” “…fiery…” “…panda…”

Road safety ceases to be a priority for Terry Boober as, desperate to silence this cruel harassment, he gives his full attention to locating the tape deck. There isn’t one. There never has been. This bit, I think, will be a challenge for you, as you try to both imagine and describe the weird, paralysing cocktail of emotions Terry must feel as his car runs off the road and plunges into a ravine, his head full of a screaming realisation: Ghost car! Ghost car! (Plus you have to work a panda in there, somehow.)

A happy ending for our ghost-hunter, then; a gratifying conclusion to his life’s work. But wait – what’s this? Terry Boober’s angry ghost! A black wraith emerges from the flames of the wreck! In anguished howls, he swears revenge on the author of this story – for treating him like a joke; for making him suffer for the sake of a half-arsed campfire story – a pisstake! – all mock gasps and wry chuckles. “Fuck you!” he shrieks. “I will strangle your soul; I will poison your loins! Your piss will be brown and chunky; your offspring deformed and bad-tempered!”

I’ve never seen someone so angry. I’m glad it’s you he’s planning to haunt, and not me.

Heaven’s Host

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

Heaven’s Host

An asteroid hit the Earth and everyone died. All 110 billion people who had ever lived arrived in Heaven at the same time. There were streamers and balloons taped to the wall, and a chocolate cake on the kitchen table.

“Welcome, children,” said God, smiling a big smile. “Who wants to have some fun?” He waved his hands in the air and went, “Yaaayyy!”

Humanity responded with mixed levels of enthusiasm. God’s was undiminished. He handed out party hats and sat everyone in a circle on the floor, for a game of pass-the-parcel. “Spread out, spread out,” he said. “Let everyone in.”

God sat on a chair to one side, playing ‘Dorothy the Dinosaur’ from a cassette player on his lap. Whenever the song ended, he would rewind the tape – “The music hasn’t stopped! Keep passing, keep passing!” – and play it again. It took three and a half thousand years for the parcel to pass through everyone’s hands once, and God liked to playfully build tension by having it go around the circle three or four times before pressing ‘Pause’.

Suicide was, of course, unthinkably rude, and futile in any case. Anyone who managed to convince his neighbour to strangle him to death, or who very gradually cut open his wrists using a staple taken from his party hat, would immediately return to life and health, with a shellshocked warning for those sitting nearby: “Don’t do it. You get sent back to the start, and have to sit through the whole thing again.”

Then God would shush him for talking during the game. Quite often he had to shush huge sections of the circle for developing minor civilisations, with rich oral traditions and party-hat-based technology. “You’re spoiling the fun for others,” he would say, wagging his finger. If the chatter continued, soon enough the parcel would stop in the midst of it, and someone would unwrap a matchbox car, violently disrupting the local economy and leading to a total collapse of social order – thus restoring quiet.

The human species lived its own lifetime over and again, playing pass-the-parcel. Then came duck-duck-goose, musical chairs, pin the tail on the donkey… and so it continued for countless aeons, until at last, it was time to go home. Everyone got a lolly bag and a few molecules of chocolate cake, and was reincarnated as his own stomach. And that is the scientific explanation for indigestion and existential dread.

I thank my learned peers for their time and attention.

A Song of Rice and Beans

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

A Song of Rice and Beans

The throne room was silent with grim expectation, save the sound of each man’s heart beating in his own ears, as all the court waited for the King’s judgement. Upon the Throne of Many Swords sat Bolbert of Trough, calloused fingers curled around the ends of its armrests – now tightening, now loosening, now tightening again; heavy eyebrows pressing down on weary eyes. The throne was cold and hard and made him sore – a right pain in the arse, he thought, which is clever because like, the throne represents his power? So I’ve conveyed the impression that he’s tired of power, without actually saying so directly.

“What,” he said at last, his growl echoing from the high stone walls, “was the question, again?”

Sir Walpock Benladder did not hesitate to reply. For many years he had served as captain of the King’s personal guard – hair now grey, but eyes as sharp and bright as the famed sword Prickbringer, hanging at his side like a tamed thunderbolt. In a tone stalwart and assured – for the knight spoke as he fought – he stepped forward and declared, “Your Majesty, I don’t remember either.”

The King sighed with undisguised impatience, provoking nervous glances between the nobles. But the the silver-tongued chief counsellor, Lord Spergyn Plamft, leaned close and whispered reassuringly into his royal ear. “O King, I also don’t remember what the question was either.” His knowing nod was not met with high regard.

Seeking, perhaps, to relieve the tension, some other character with traits that suggest a certain archetype – let’s call him Dave – opened the question to the room. “If there is anyone here,” he said, in the way you’d imagine, “who remembers the question, we entreat him to speak, knowing he will earn the King’s gratitude.”

At this, the great hall reverberated with chatterings and hubbubbery, but alas, for each chatter there was a shrug of the shoulders, and each hubbub, a waggle of the bonce. There were some who remarked that Dave did not seem quite like himself today, but none who knew the answer. That is to say, the question.

The King was actually pretty bored at this point, but determined to stay in character. He did that trick to make his face turn red, and yelled, “Fools! Numbskulls! Noodle-noggins and bean-beans! Jesus, I’m really angry!” He shook his fists, then banged them, and to his own surprise, even tore a chunk out of his beard. It stung like buggery, but he didn’t flinch. Everyone was terrified. He was having a great time.

Wise men were sent for; seers consulted; knights and thieves alike tasked with retrieving the question from whatever figurative couch it had rolled under. But though they looked and looked and looked and looked and looked – high and low, near and far, hither and thither – comingly did they look, and goingly sought they also; to-wards and fro-wards did they rummage; upways peered they, and downwise did them peep; in directions both back-like and forthular prodded they their worthy honkers – honker of prince and honker of pauper; snooter of master and tooter of slave; schnoz of large man with axe, and two bloody slits of smaller man who just had his nose chopped off with an axe; wet nose of dog, and nose of whatever degree of moistness is supposed to be typical of a cat, of cat; olfactory pore of bee, parietal third eye of iguana, vestigial tail of capybara, and front left leg of writing desk – yea and yes, verily and forsooth did all of nature, and then some, venture north, south, east and west, into the queendom’s every quadrant – without qualm, qualification or querulous quetching; quarterstaff in hand, or quirt, or quiver of quarrels; through quaking quartz quarries and quiescent quagmires of quitch and quillwort; neither quitting nor quavering, but questing quixotically for that queerest of quarries: a quantifiable query – yet still the plot did not budge one inch.

Still waiting in the throne room, and sensing the reader might be losing interest, King Bolbert made a decisive decision. He rose to his feet and declared, from the diaphragm, “Half my kingdom to whoever can remind me what the question was!” Those courtiers who had not yet collapsed from exhaustion gasped cooperatively.

Lord Plamft struggled to hide his fury and amazement at the King’s rashness. Would you believe he’d had his own plans for half the kingdom. A tone of urgency perforating his practiced obsequiousness, he whispered, “O King, is this truly wise? Would it not be more prudent to—”

“Silence, foul serpent!” boomed the King, and took off the chief counsellor’s head.

“Would you put my head back on please,” said Lord Plamft, as calmly as he could manage.

“I don’t take orders from an android!” replied Bolbert of Trough, and booted Spergyn Plamft’s head clear across the room, knocking down the remaining nobles like skittles. Their last words were, “Hurrah!” Then a wizard came in and made everyone all better.

Now it happened that the King had seven daughters, each one younger than the last, and the youngest and tiniest princess was named Bingo. For some time now, Bingo had been trying to gain the King’s attention, at first by coughing politely, then by saying “Excuse me” quite loudly, then by getting engaged to a blacksmith, and eventually by biting her own head off – but in all the hullabaloo and alliteration, no-one had paid her any mind. Now, with that boyish boldness for which her sisters would ever chastise her, Princess Bingo marched right up to her father the King and stabbed him in the face with a big knife.

“Ho ho!” the King laughed, with a twinkle in his remaining eye. He scooped the little girl into his arms and bounced her on his knee. “Who’s this, who’s this?” he wondered aloud, and planted a raspberry on each of her blushing cheeks. He actually knew who she was though; he was just being playful.

“Daddy,” said Bingo, after some giggles, “I know what the question is.”

The King’s eyes widened with astonishment. A hush fell upon those assembled, in reverent anticipation of the childlike wisdom that was surely about to hit them like an atom bomb, or a large boulder flung from a trebuchet, if you want to be a nerd about it.

Bolbert of Trough stared seriously into his daughter’s face, but spoke in a voice low and gentle. “Do you really?”

“Oh yes, Daddy.”

“Well my darling, won’t you please tell me?”

“Oh yes, Daddy,” the child repeated, smiling like a woodland pixie. “I asked you before: which princess is the prettiest princess?”

“God that’s fucking stupid,” thought absolutely everyone, but observing the King’s amusement, they cooed and applauded appropriately. “Ha ha,” went the King, and “Ho ho” too, and glowing with paternal warmth, he declared that every one of his daughters was the prettiest princess in the universe. The applause reached a crescendo; the princesses blushed beautifully.

“Except—!” the King suddenly bellowed, “except for my third daughter, Caroline, who as you can see is a real dog!”

A roar of laughter filled the room, which was the result of everyone laughing and laughing and laughing. Even Princess Caroline laughed, through tears of anguish – even when all the nobles spontaneously formed an orderly queue in order to laugh in her face one by one; even when the King called for minstrels to immortalise her hideousness in song; even when tiny Princess Bingo squealed “Off with her head!” and the King doubled over with laughter and summoned the executioner; even though she knew that her younger sister Princess Coleslaw was an actual real dog: the Queen, some years prior, having miscarried, and presented her husband with a puppy instead, hoping that he wouldn’t notice anything suspicious.

The man whose dick is tied to a brick
Is worst at learning to swim;
The other lot, whose dicks are not,
Are worst at being him.

He whose knackers are tied to firecrackers
Is worst at staying in place;
And though benign, it’s Caroline
Who’s worst at having a face.

What a mess, what a mess;
Caroline’s face – ooh mama!

So sang the minstrels, amidst wine and dancing, as Caroline, still laughing along, placed her head on the chopping block. “Yee-haw!” hollered the executioner, revving his chainsaw and raising it over his head. Princess Coleslaw watched in silent pleasure: one more obstacle between her and the Throne was about to be eliminated with bloody permanence. Who would have expected this peasant’s mongrel – the runt of a sheepdog’s litter – to rise to the position of Royal Princess? Yes, they had always underestimated her, and soon they would pay. One by one, they would all – hey, a chicken! Woof! Woof woof!

Caroline closed her eyes and braced for a messy end. But all in a moment, she was saved; saved from the chainsaw’s murderous teeth! The dragons had come! The dragons finally turned up and burned everyone to death.

The Despot

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

The Despot

There was a nation once bountiful and prosperous, with fruit and that, that now groaned and withered under the rule of a ruthless despot, named Billy the Despot.

‘Great Leader Still Great – Wow, What a Guy,’ said the newspaper. In fact, Billy was a turd, but if you ever said so, they’d cut your dick off. If you were a woman, they’d cut your husband’s dick off, then sew it onto you, then cut it off. Billy was fucked in the head.

He would do shit like film himself doing bad and ludicrous dance moves to ‘Around the World’ by Daft Punk in various public locations, but with a straight face, then edit together a kind-of-amateurish, but-actually-kind-of-snappy-and-professional video of it, and upload it to his YouTube channel. Every citizen had to view this tedious crap multiple times, and leave comments like:

ha ha great leader this is fckn rad!!! nice moves bro


lol this is funy but actually ur a relly good dancer <3 <3

and then upvote any comments left by Cabinet members.

It was the role of farms and factories in this country to produce props for photographs. At least once a week, the front page of the newspaper would have a big picture of Billy inspecting a row of fine spanners, or an impressive pumpkin. It was important for citizens to see that they had spanners and pumpkins, since they didn’t have spanners or pumpkins. (They all had internet access though. Billy’s YouTube, Twitter and Tumblr pages constituted one hundred percent of the internet.)

One day the newspaper ran a picture of Billy eating a fine, impressive banana. The regime collapsed overnight, and the starving masses fed on the flesh of the privileged. The fact is, no-one can eat a banana without looking a bit silly.

Billy escaped to a neighbouring country, and lived out his days in comfort. But whenever he made a YouTube video, though it still got millions of views, nearly everyone clicked the ‘thumbs down’ button. And for the rest of his life, because Billy was so silly, people all over the world called him, “You fucking cunt.”