Tuesday, 28 August 2012

What A View!

How To Get South Africa Working

“So what’s this ‘brainstorming’ story about?”
“I thought it might be an interesting exercise,” I said. “After going into Zwelihle the other day and sitting in the car while we were waiting … just sitting there observing the crap conditions people have to live under …. Well, I thought, shit, there must be a way out of this. It’s like this idea of being trapped in a narrative. I’ve been trying to come up with a way to change the dead-end story we’re living in.”
We were still climbing but the road had levelled out a bit and the Grootbos sign was coming into view.
“Every second citizen has got a pet theory about how to solve the world’s problems,’ said Cupcake. “Who the hell is going to listen to your version of utopia? I mean, you might be sincere and very earnest, and all that, but you’re a nobody. You got fokol credentials.”
“That’s alright,” I said. “That’s not the point. What matters is to make the effort and do the exercise.”
Grootbos Private Nature Reserve. We stopped at the boom and a woman dressed like a Conservation Officer came out from the gatehouse. She was holding a clipboard.
“Tell her we’re coming to lunch,” I said.
She let us through with a friendly smile.
The road was only wide enough for one vehicle and wound through some dense Milkwood forest before coming out into open fynbos. The other guy pulled off in a passing bay to let an oncoming car through.
‘Hey, hold it!” Cupcake called out.
A male baboon had emerged from the bush and was heading for a sign some 20 metres away. On reaching it, he pulled himself up and perched on top of one of the two uprights. The sign read A FED BABOON IS A DEAD BABOON.
“Man, this is classic!” said Cupcake, taking pictures with his mobile.
“I wonder what our cousin would have to say if he could read the message,” I said.
“Probably think it neo-colonial propaganda,” said the other guy. “Like ‘Don’t give the natives strong drink because they can’t handle it’.”
At the Lodge there weren’t many cars in the parking area. We strolled along a path through ericas and proteas, passed a water feature and entered the reception foyer. The restaurant was a long room separated from the famous view by a wall of glass. We went straight to the bar and ordered drinks.
“Let’s sit over here,” I said, leading the way to some comfortable chairs in the far corner.
We took in the classy d├ęcor, admired the wide angle display of veld, ocean, mountain and sky, and settled ourselves around a low table. I opened my notebook.
“You’re taking this seriously,” Cupcake commented.
“Yep,” I said. “I’ve even got an agenda: we define the problem; we identify the causes; we propose solutions.”
“Sounds pretty basic,’ said the other guy. “No difficulty in defining the problem. Everybody talks about it, the threefold curse of poverty, unemployment and inequality.”
“Agreed,” I said, “Analysing the causes is going to be more complex, though.”
“We can start with apartheid,” said Cupcake. “Everything can be blamed on apartheid. That’s if we don’t want to lay the blame on the ANC and corruption and incompetence.”
“What about Capitalism?” said the other guy. “The neo-liberal feeding frenzy has brought the world economy to the brink of another Great Depression.”
“I’m glad you mention the Great Depression,” I said. I wrote in my notebook and then lowered the level of my glass, which contained a mix of one tot whisky to one bottle Carling Black Label. “We can learn some useful lessons from the Great Depression.”
“An unregulated banking system caused the Depression,” said Cupcake. “And the present financial crisis, which is beginning to affect us more and more, can be laid at the door of the financial sector – greedy scumbags speculating with assets that don’t exist.”
“And then there’s Globalisation,” said the other guy. “We were incredibly stupid to allow ourselves to be duped into joining the WTO and stop protecting our own manufacturing sector. Free trade is a confidence trick. We’ve lost hundreds of thousands of jobs because of free trade, and now the shops are stocked with cheap Chinese crap that no one can afford because they don’t earn anything.”
“Competition is another con,” said Cupcake. “Competition almost invariably means lower wages and worse working conditions. South Africa has absolutely no chance of competing with China and other Asian countries when it comes to manufacturing basic consumer goods. Look at our textile, clothing and shoe industries. They have all but disappeared because they couldn’t compete with China.”
“Yah, but the Chinese are also in trouble now,” said the other guy. “China’s heading for a fall if …”
“Maybe,” I said. “But listen, we’re getting sidetracked. And we need another drink.”
Both Cupcake and the other guy agreed that I should get the next round, seeing as this outing was my idea.
“Alright,” I said when I returned from the bar. “We’re making progress with our learned discussion. But I’d like to fast forward to the solution part now, if you don’t mind.”
“Okay with me,” said Cupcake. “But we’ve only scratched the surface with the analysis bit.”
“He can’t wait to get up on his soapbox,” said the other guy. Then, to me: “Go for it. Tell us how you propose finding everyone a decent job.”
“The politicians, the economists, , the intellectuals, even the average citizen, they all acknowledge the system isn’t working, and something needs to happen, like tomorrow,” I said. “But nobody has a clue about how to fix it.”
“Nobody,” said Cupcake, “apart from you and a few individuals at Valkenberg and Weskoppies.”
“That’s right,’ I said. “What we need is something drastic, something really bold. Like the New Deal Roosevelt brought in during the Depression. It was pure socialism but it got America working again.”
“I thought it was the Second World War that really got the US economy going?” said Cupcake.
“The New Deal got them started,” I said.
“Jesus, we don’t need a war,” said the other guy. “So tell us, what’s your bold new deal for Mzansi?”
“Well,” I said, “It’s as if our minds have been attacked by some virus that paralyses us and convinces us that we are powerless to change our situation. We just keep repeating the same old stuff about growing the economy, but we don’t actually do anything to make things happen.”
“Yah, it’s strange that we can’t get our asses moving,’ said the other guy. “Especially when you think what South Africa was able to achieve in 2010.”
“The World Cup was another con and a huge waste of resources,” said Cupcake. “But it demonstrated what can be done if we get fired up.”
“Exactly,” I said. “We need to snap out of this collective coma we’ve fallen into, and throw ourselves at another big project. But not something stupid like the FIFA World Cup.”
“That’s for sure,” said the other guy. “The World Cup made some filthy rich folks even richer, and left the country with incredibly expensive stadiums that we don’t need and can’t use. No more of that kind of shit, thank you. But come on, tell us about your amazing plan to get South Africa moving.”
It was at this point that the two men who had been hovering nearby pretending to be looking at the view, but who were actually eavesdropping, decided to cast social decorum aside and draw even closer.
“Please excuse us for interrupting and intruding,” said the older of the two. He was about 40 and spoke with just the faintest hint of a German accent. “We couldn’t help overhearing your most interesting conversation, and wondered whether we …”
Now, when a courteous individual employs ellipsis on me, I generally tend to react graciously. Not like Cupcake, who muttered something about a bloody cheek.
“Please join us,” I said, getting to my feet and holding out my hand for them to shake. My buddies also got to their feet, which was nice of them, and we all introduced ourselves. I noted with suspicion that Cupcake was now grinning sociably.
Dieter and Peter (Dieter was the older of the two) pulled up a chair apiece and we all sat down. Then, almost immediately, Cupcake took up his near empty glass, examined its contents, and then poured them down his throat.
“Aah!” he said with satisfaction, and put the glass back on the table. The other guy then performed the exact same ritual, right down to the appreciative but slightly disappointed ‘Aah!’. My own glass was already empty.
“Barman!” Dieter called imperiously. “Barman! Please send the waitress.”
The waitress arrived and he insisted on buying a round. While we waited for her to come back with the drinks, we exchanged pleasantries. They both worked in the German film industry and were on a working holiday in South Africa. They were knowledgeable and their interest in the country appeared genuine.
When the drinks arrived I was urged to continue with my grand scheme.
“Well, yes, thank you,” I said. “I was going to say that we have to start by changing our perception of the poor. Instead of seeing their needs as a liability and a drain on state resources, we should wake up to the staggeringly vast field of opportunities they offer us. Upliftment of the poor should become the main driving force in our economy. And by upliftment I don’t mean moving a family from a one-roomed shack into a two-roomed RDP hovel. There’s no dignity in living like that, and kids will never reach their potential if they have to grow up in those conditions.”
“You want to build everyone a bloody great mansion?” said the other guy. “You’ve got to be out of your tiny mind.”
“Not a mansion,” I said. “Mansions should be discouraged. No, what I had in mind was something modest but with all mod cons, like three bedrooms, two toilets, bath and shower, and a garage and a small garden. All built to First World standards.”
“Very nice,” said Cupcake. “And it would sort out unemployment for a while. But one small problem: where are you going to get the bucks for all this?”
“Print it,’ I said, and noted a look of derision on the four faces of my audience. “And why not? What I propose is the setting up of a state bank that would lend money at a minimal interest rate for this and other developmental projects. People tend to forget that money has no intrinsic value, and is only created to facilitate trade in goods and services. It’s the goods and services that have value. And this isn’t money that’s being given away. If the loan isn’t repaid the bank can foreclose, just like the private banks do.”
“Mmm, I see,” said the other guy as he sipped his drink, which was a double rum and Coke. “A big housing boom would definitely get the economy roaring.”
“It would also give the manufacturing sector a massive boost,” said Cupcake. “How many houses are we talking about?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I would guess at least 5 million. Anyway, 5 million is a nice number to work with. Can you imagine building 5 million houses at one million per unit? That’s 5 trillion rand! And everything must be 100 percent locally produced.”
“With such a project, on such a large scale, we would go from massive unemployment to a shortage of labour,” said Cupcake.
“We would need to fast track a whole lot of trade schools and training colleges,” said the other guy.
“In Germany we have developed a good system for artisan training,” said Peter. “A good artisan is as important as a good doctor. We could share this with you.”
“That’s it, Peter,” I said. “We could learn best practice from Germany and other countries where good systems have been worked out. No need to reinvent the wheel.”
“With so many natural resources,” said Dieter, “Your potential for growth is almost unlimited. Your idea is … Ah, but here come the ladies. Allow me to introduce you.”
The ladies were bearing down on us. Wow! So this is what they meant by a working holiday.
My buddies were on their feet and rapidly metamorphosing from one identity to another. Amazing what affect the presence of young females has on men.
“I hope you and your two friends will join us for lunch?” Dieter said to me. “We can continue the conversation at the table. And maybe you even have some ideas on how to solve the Euro zone crisis?”

Saturday, 11 August 2012

The Rape Scene From Kikaffir

The Madam, the mistress of the manor, opened her eyes. She had tossed and turned all night and only fallen asleep at the threat of day. And now? She turned to look at the clock. After ten.
She lay on the big bed under the thatch and listened to mid morning at Klein Paradijs. The big bed that had replaced the sacrificial altar upon which the previous owner had been taken apart. It was very quiet. Where was Patience?
Very quiet. She suddenly realised that it was so very still because there was no background rumble from the generator. She had become accustomed to the ever-present, muffled roar of the power plant, the way she was accustomed to the muted hubbub of the sea at their house in the Fog. Now, without that subliminal presence, she felt even more alone and isolated.
Of course the bedside lamp was dead. No power, no light. That meant there would be no hot coffee and no cooked breakfast. This was a bad start to the day and she could feel the anger and frustration mounting in her. What were those lazy bastards up to? Why didn’t they get the fucking generator working?
She got up, put on gown and slippers, and unlocked her bedroom door. Out in the passage there was no maid busy with dustpan and brush. At the head of the stairs she stood and listened for a minute. Two minutes, three. No clatter from the kitchen, no voices, nothing.
She went downstairs, and she was working herself into a state. How dare they take the day off without consulting her! Just because the generator had broken down.
To her surprise, one of the doors to the terrace stood wide open. In the kitchen all was neat and orderly from the previous night, but obviously no one had been in this morning. The house was deserted; she was on her own.
Bunch of fucking poeses! She thought, as she stomped upstairs. Well, she’d take a shower, get dressed, and go out there to the servants’ quarters and give them hell. When Mike gets back he must make an example of one of them. And Patience! She was surprised at Patience, and disappointed. She had been doing so well, having taken over from Miriam with such an air of calm self-confidence. Maybe she was sick, though. That would explain it.
Sickness was definitely on the increase. There had been three deaths in the past week alone. Mike said he didn’t think it was anything infectious. It was just a result of breathing in all that shit in the atmosphere, and they were all equally susceptible. Well Patience mustn’t go and get sick and die. God, what would she do without her?
As she slipped out of her nightwear, Lady wondered whether the water would still be hot. How long had the power been off? Although it didn’t really matter. The day was already so fucking hot she was sweating at the slightest exertion. So much for Klein Paradijs’s ideal climate! The fog was retreating as the ice disappeared, and soon they would have to move from here. But to where?

Getting into the shower she thought she heard a vehicle in the distance. Probably the mechanics working on the generator. The water was adequately hot.
After drying herself she powdered her armpits and her feet, squirted some eu de cologne into the palm of her left hand and patted her fanny and surrounds. Some days the odour was worse than on others. If she used enough scent and perfume she could mask it most of the time. Ah! Someone had come into the bedroom. Probably Patience; or one of the maids. They’d better have a bloody good story ready!
She wrapped her towel about her, pulled off the shower cap and shook her hair down. Hairbrush in hand, she pulled back the door and stepped into the bedroom.
“H..h..h..h!” Her breath was wrenched into her lungs so fast it juddered in the back of her throat. A gallon of adrenalin was being pumped into her system and her heart would have preferred to shut down forever, rather than take on such a workload. Her eye muscles had never been called upon to get this much light onto the retina. Her brain erupted in a billion explosions to produce one response – terror. Nothing feeble and demure like surprise or anger. No, this was stark naked terror. Because everywhere, written in big letters on the wall, on the ceiling, the floor, the window, the door – everywhere she looked – were the words NOW YOU’RE IN TROUBLE, BABY.
She had dropped her brush, her right hand clutched the top of her towel, her left pulled at the bottom of it, and she leaned forward, her knees together.
Seated on the bed was a young black man and she recognised him immediately. He was examining her pistol – the pillow lay to one side – and he looked up when she entered the room.
“Hi,” he said, in a super casual sort of way.
“W..w..what are you…What are you doing in my room?” she managed to say, her voice on the rise. “Get out of my room!” She was beginning to shout. “Get out! Get out! Mike is going to kill you!”
“No he won’t.”
She screamed and jumped sideways, which was the whole idea, because now she couldn’t retreat into the bathroom with the second man blocking the doorway. He had been standing to one side of it and she hadn’t noticed him.
It was Malcolm’s driver; she had seen him often, and had never liked the look of him. He was older than the gardener and had a mean look about him. Now he was sneering with satisfaction at the effect his voice had had on her. And the towel had slipped and she was desperately trying to get it back in place.
“When Bigboy comes back he’s gonna be dead meat,” the driver said. “Malcolm’s the boss now.”
She could smell alcohol but they didn’t look drunk.
“It’s true,” said the gardener. His features were more refined than his brother’s, but there was nothing friendly about the way he was looking at her, nor was there any softness in his voice. “Many of the men are sick and dying. Some of them are dead because they didn’t want to listen to Malcolm. And the rest are right behind him. Mike was a fool to go away, and he was fucking stupid to leave you alone.”
Here was the first thinly veiled threat of what was to come. She was panting with fear and her mind reeled in panic. The driver spoke.
“Malcolm said we must come and visit you.”
The gardener stood up and she backed into the corner. Her eyes were wild and bright, like those of a rat that knows the only way to go is up. But that would require superhuman qualities she didn’t possess. He went and put the pistol on the dressing table and came and stood in front of her.
“You can drop the towel now,” he said.
She didn’t realise it but she was down to her last three options. Screaming for help, fighting, and pleading. All three were equally bad in terms of likely outcome.
“Did you hear what he said?” The driver had also moved closer.
“Keep away from me!” she said. “Keep away!” she screamed. “Leave me! Leave me!”
Like an experienced boxer the driver feinted with a left jab to the head, she instinctively raised her hands to protect herself, and the towel was whipped away so deftly it looked like a well-practised trick.
“Wow!” said the driver, staring. “Man!”
They were both staring, and they had begun to pant, getting as much oxygen into their bloodstreams as possible.
She was trying to hide behind her hands and arms but they offered her so little cover she might as well not have bothered.
“Please! Please don’t do this to me.” She was sobbing now. “Please, I’ll do anything, but please don’t do this to me.”
Of course, by switching to pleading she triggered that other lust in them – the lust to inflict pain and humiliation.
“Did I hear you say please?” the gardener said. “That’s very nice; very good manners.” He was standing with his hands on his hips. “You know who I am, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“What is my name?’
“No, you fucking bitch!” He was suddenly angry, or pretending to be angry. “Not ‘P..Percy’. Percy. Say it.”
“Percy,” she sobbed, nearly messing it up again.
“That’s it,” he said with satisfaction. “Percy. I am Percy the Pig.”
And I am Rover the Rottweiler,” his brother chipped in. He obviously found it funny because he started laughing, but in such an offensive way it couldn’t have had much to do with humour and wit.
“You know that my tail is short?” Percy asked.
She tried to nod, the tears streaming. She knew where this was leading – any shithead could see where it was going. Acting like the victim she had become, she now began to believe she had brought this upon herself. She was being made to see her own guilt.
“Say it then. Say, ‘Your tail is short.’”
“Your tail is short,” she managed to say, as well as, “Oh my God!”
“But?” he demanded. “What else?”
She wept and quivered.
“What else?” he shouted. “What else, you fucking bitch? Say it! Say it!”
“Your cock is big.” There, she had said it.
“Ah, so I’ve got a big cock, have I?” He sounded rather pleased. “And do you know how big it is?”
What could she say?
“Well, I’m going to show you how big it is.”
He unbuckled his belt, undid the waist band button, pulled down the zip, and began to slide his jeans downwards. All very slowly, watching her standing there in her corner clutching herself, trying to look away, crying and whimpering.
First pubic hair and then the organ. Down, down, down until the full length of it was exposed and hung free like a long sausage. He let his pants go and they fell to his knees. From then on erection was extremely rapid, for the sensation of heaviness and stiffness fired his excitement, which in turn accelerated the pace at which tumescence took place. Up it came, higher and higher, until the process was complete, except for some fine tuning in order to reach maximum pressure and torsion, and he announced,
“That’s how big it is.”
She was trying to look the other way but couldn’t have failed to see what had happened. Christ, he was standing less than two metres from her!
“I’ve also got one of those,” said Rover. “It’s not as long as that, but it’s thicker.” And he indulged in another of those jeering, bully-boy laughs of his.
Percy bent over, pulled off his shoes and removed his trousers. He straightened up and moved a bit closer, his weapon swaying and bouncing back and forth.
As they closed in on her she broke off her terrified snivelling and began to snarl and spit, her eyes wild her lips drawn back. A hand reached out to grab her and she lunged with her talons.
“Leave me! Leave me!” she screamed. “Leave me, you fucking animals!”
They stood back, not because they were daunted but because they were preparing to pounce – like they were taking aim.
“Animals, are we?” said Percy. “We’re animals, all three of us. And you’re an animal too, you fucking whore bitch!”
They jumped at the same time, sending her crashing into the wall, knocking the breath out of her. They had both of her wrists, and then Percy was behind her, holding her arms in a half nelson. She tried to kick out at Rover but he parried her foot with his knee and then punched her in the stomach. As she jerked forward in agony he slapped her once, twice, open-handed and back-handed, so hard that she almost lost her senses.
That was it, the fight was over. Amazing what a bit of brute force can do.
The gardener’s hands were on her tits, cupping them, feeling their roundness, weighing their heaviness, and his fingers were at her nipples, his cock hard in the small of her back. She was hardly aware of him because the pain in her stomach was making her retch, and her head was still going round and round. Also, the stinging in her cheeks was almost unbearable.
He bent his knees and pushed his cock between her thighs until its head poked through, protruding beyond her pubic hair. He rubbed it back and forth a few times and said,
“I’m Percy, Percy, Percy the Pig. My tail is short but my cock is big. Now I’m going to show you what it’s like to be fucked by a pig. Get down. Come on, get down on the floor. Down, you bitch. Down!”
He forced her onto her knees and then she was on all fours. There was no point in any more resistance, she could see that. They were going to have their way, even if it meant beating her to a pulp.
“I’m Percy the Pig!” he shouted, also down on the floor now. “Here I come, you fucking bitch. Oink, oink, oink!” He began to butt her with his dick, first in her ass and then lower down, looking for the main entrance. His snout was slippery with semen. She could feel the battering ram at the door, forcing its way in. Oink, oink, oink. Into the vestibule it burst. Oink, oink, oink. It forced its way down the hallway, oink, oink, oink. It had broken all the way in and was about to defile the temple.
Meanwhile, the driver had lost no time in getting his shoes and his pants off, and was standing stiffly to attention, eagerly awaiting his turn to rush into battle.
“Oink! Oink! Aaaah!” The pig gave an ecstatic squeal and ceased all oinking.
He slowly withdrew his slimy black cock and got to his feet, all glassy eyed.
“Woof, woof! I am Rover. Woof, woof!”
Lady looked over her shoulder in time to see the Rottweiler coming at her. She shrieked and tried to crawl away.
“Fetch, Rover! Fetch!” the gardener called to his brother. He was recovering fast and was ready for some post coital entertainment.
Also down on hands and knees, Rover rushed at her and sank his teeth into her fleshy rump. She screamed in pain, much to Percy’s amusement.
Now she was being mounted by the dog. The pig had pioneered the way, making it dead easy for the second animal to gain immediate access, even if this piston did require a slightly bigger bore. Barking excitedly, he began to thrust away, hard and fast. So fast that in next to no time he gave a yelp and a groan and came to a standstill, all urgency suddenly gone out the window. He extricated his length of dripping meat and got up. It was his turn to look upon the world with jaded eyes.
“Keep her there like that,” said Percy, “while I fetch him.”
He opened the bedroom door and went out into the passage.
“Stay like that, bitch,” Rover warned Lady, and he began to laugh his ugly laugh.
“He’s just going to get our friend. You’ll like him. Ha, ha, ha! He’s actually a scientist. A very famous scientist. Ah, here he comes now.”
They could hear rapid footsteps and Percy’s voice. He was saying something reassuring, something encouraging. Then the third rapist appeared in the doorway and Lady let out a terrified scream and tried to get up. Rover grabbed her by the back of her neck, got in front of her and pushed her head down.
Yes, there he was, a fine specimen of evolutionary development, none other than Charles Darwin himself. He stood on the threshold, leaning on his knuckles, his beady eyes taking in the scene, his nostrils quivering.
Even Rover was a little shocked. He had only ever seen Mr Darwin from a distance and hadn’t realised just how big he was. In fact, he was fucking huge. And he was already in the pink and reaching for the sky.
Now, the fact that Lady’s face was being shoved into the carpet meant that her ass was elevated and her gaping cunt was displayed in an obscenely provocative way. As Darwin launched himself into the room, aiming at the target and going for bull’s eye, Percy shouted,
“Go for it, Charlie! Fuck the bitch!”
His only act of foreplay was to give the poes a good sniff, and then the baboon was onto her and into her, his long arms wrapped about her waist, his coarse hair scratching her skin, his hot breath on her shoulder, his bestial grunting in her ear. No wonder she screamed.
And, Jesus, talk about a fucking jackhammer! This guy pomped at such a breakneck speed he almost disappeared in a blur. In less than a minute the grunting crescendo reached its climax. Charlie gave a howling bark as he attempted to pass his genes on to future generations, then almost immediately lost interest. He went and sat in the corner, somewhat dejected, his bone back in the cupboard. All lustre had gone from his eyes and they had acquired exactly the same glazed-over look that the pig’s eyes and the dog’s eyes had taken on.
There was nothing glassy about Percy’s eyes right now. In fact, they were shining intensely and his member was back in business. Watching first his canine brother, and then his simian friend giving it to the bitch where she deserved it most had re-ignited his lust. In he leapt with gusto.
Technical problem, though. Over-lubrication on account of all the body fluid. It was as if his dick had gone numb and he could feel fuckall. To remedy the problem he was obliged to withdraw a short distance at each stroke, and then plunge back in. After a few minutes of using this technique he again went into the aah, aah, aaah and glassy eyes rigmarole.
Christ, this was becoming repetitious! And would you believe it? His cunt-fucking brother was hard as hell again and limbering up for round two. Man, this was becoming downright boring!
But not for long.
Mr Charles Darwin got the focus back in his eyeballs at about the same time as Rover was giving his cock a few strokes up and down to get it in tip top tone and ready for more of the old in-out. Satisfied, he began to take aim. It was at this stage that Mr Darwin behaved in a most ungentlemanly fashion.
He jumped to his feet, rushed forward, shouldered the man out of the way, and shoved his own pinko in as deep as it would go. Then the pneumatic drill got going.
No wonder Rover was indignant! How dare he jump the queue like this! Did he think he was a fucking American?
“Fuck you, Charlie!” he shouted. “You wait your fucking turn, you cheeky bastard!” And he grabbed the ill-mannered ape by the tail and yanked him right out.
With an enraged roar Charlie spun round, his formidable fangs flashing, and threw himself at Rover. Down they both went and human blood was flowing. Percy snapped out of his post-orgasmic daze and leapt upon the brute’s hairy back. All three of them began to roll about, making one helluva racket.
Lady raised her head and turned her long-suffering eyes towards the commotion. It slowly dawned on her that it didn’t make sense for her to remain where she was, crouched on the floor passively presenting her poes for the next prick to come and dip his wick.
Up she got, and across the room did trot, as fast as she could caper. So fast she fell over the corner of the bed and nearly hit her head on the dressing table. Reaching up, she groped about and found her pistol. It was the same type as Mike’s, which meant that its full clip contained 17 slugs.
On her knees, the gun held in both hands, she aimed at the centre of the entangled trio writhing on the floor, and began firing.

Read the odious story in its entirety. Buy Kikaffir