Part 1 with Princess; Part 2 from The Dark Knight; Part 3 at the Streetsider’s joint; Part 4 with Undiscovered and Part 5 on the Sunny Side. Part 6 with Angela. Part 7 with Heaven. Part 8 with Erique who passed the Courvoisier to me.

Thank you, Erique. Now go take your tabs, it’s five times a day remember? Use water, not beer. Well, seeing as I’m already undressed, let’s dig in:

The instructions:

1. You take the story, and give it your own unique twist.

2. Link back to the blogger who whispered to you and or include their name in your post.

3. Whisper the new challenge into the ear of a blogger of your picking.

4. Let them know by leaving a comment at theirs.

Pass it on with the instructions!

****************

Raymond was hunched outside the writer lady’s home. It had come to this. He had been given an hour by that sod Diablo and rather than get his balls cut off, he had to do something drastic. Occasionally, nervous laughter could be heard coming from the house. If this is what marriage was all about, Ray, as the ladies preferred to call him, didn’t want in. Heck, these people couldn’t even laugh normally. They all seemed to have something up their sleeves; the writer lady and her wild antics in bed with him, scared him the first time what with the slapping and meowing, her husband whose intimacy was reserved for some book he was working on, that boy kid and his strange ways, and then that little girl…ah, the princess. The only sane person in the family; she had enough babble for all of them.

He had to wait. She’d come out. Restless her. She’d come out and he’d grab her. His handkerchief would have her out in seconds. They probably wouldn’t notice she was gone. The sods. He smiled.

“I need a smoke…” he thought.

****************

“I need to get out of here,” Ellyn thought. It had been ages since this damn house felt like home. The house now felt too small. More so when her family was home. Jacob in one corner fiddling with the insects she’d gotten him, her princess beaming in front of the telly, her man probably jerking off in his study…she smiled. Mean thing to think of her hubby. But honestly, when was the last time he and her had gotten together? Back in the day they couldn’t get enough of each other; he adored her and she took him for granted. She used to get high on cheap liquor and do crazy things, like the time she let Michelle, John’s personal assistant take advantage of her…that was one wild night. Her, Michelle and…whoever. Did John walk in on them? She’d never know, and she’d never ask…the heights had left a hazy memory.

The walls seemed to cave in on her. The house was definitely getting smaller. She headed for the front door.

****************

Raymond saw her walk out and look around, as though aware that she was being watched. She shivered. Lost in thought. A broken woman. One with so many secrets, they’d kill her. He moved stealthily. She noticed the movement and turned. She saw him. She tensed, very shocked that he should be there. He smiled and kept moving towards her. She took a step backward. He lunged. She tried to run but he was too fast. She screamed. He fumbled, trying to get the handkerchief square over her nose. Her resistance waned. He started to carry her towards the parked car. He noticed someone at a distance limping steadily towards him, waving his hands furiously, mouthing some stuff he couldn’t quite make out. He threw her into the back seat and he headed for the driver’s seat. He felt a sharp pain race through his thigh…

“Leave my mommy alone,” screamed the weird boy child. He withdrew the knife from Raymond’s thigh and moved to strike again. Raymond was faster. He kicked. The boy fell and groaned. He tried to get up but failed. Raymond got into the car. The writer lady moved her head and stared through the window, trying desperately to do anything more than mumble incoherently to herself…the chemical was too strong. She passed out…

****************

Thud…thud..thud…throb…thud…

She’d seen him, her secret lover. She’d seen Jacob, writhing on the ground. She’d seen John looking on from his window…doing nothing. He seemed…he seemed…this hurt…he seemed unbothered.

Throb…thudddd..throb…

She’d seen Hez. Grumpy Hez. Hez the grouch. Hez moving fast, trying to save her, Hez so disturbed, Hez in a frenzy…she’d almost forgotten how strong he was. How could she forget? How strong he had held her? How high he had taken her? All those years ago, before the amputation…Hez, Jacob’s dad…

Throbbb…thud..throbb…the headache was increasing. She had no idea where she was, and the putrid smell wasn’t helping any…she couldn’t see a thing; a sack covered her face. And her hands were tied behind her back. Did they have to gag her with something socked in an old woman’s piss? And this chair couldn’t quite hold her weight…

“She’s awake”, she heard someone say in a deep voice with an accent she couldn’t quite place.

Confident steps moved towards her. And then they stopped. He was close enough for her to smell his cologne. A cologne she knew so well. Then he pulled off the sack…

****************

That’s all normal people and Streetsider. And because I am still hang up on the ‘Kill the president’ series you fed us on sometime, and also because we all doubt your sanity (lulu did the poll), Carsozy, let it rip…

Chics being the bag of she-motions that they are and guys being, you know, suave, collected, well-rounded, chauvinist (is it showing yet?), the meeting is usually quite a sight.

Ladies and gentlemen, in the blue corner, weighing 200 pounds of pure muscle, 3 pounds of facial hair, 6 pounds of body hair and 1 pound of undisclosed hair, with a 5-3-1 record: 5 wins (in which the ladies fell for him, hook, line and sinker), 3 losses (in which the attitude-queens kicked him out) and 1 draw (in which they had ‘fun’ but didn’t exchange numbers), I present BUBBA. (wild cheers from the guys)

In the pink corner, weighing…weight undisclosed for obvious reasons. But she’s lean, she’s mean, her body screams a three-letter appeal that the editor won’t publish. She boasts a 3-3 record. 3 wins (in which she ditched the bastards) and 3 losses (she still calls them, they never pick up), I present BUBBLE. (wild cheers from the guys, the traitors)

The clash is always epic. Guy takes jab at chic.

“Hi, I am BUBBA. You look hot, feisty, classy and unapproachable. What’s your take on this?” (showing her something)

Conversation struck. Numbers exchanged. Round one: BUBBA

Two days later, he calls. She picks, outta breath, says she cannot talk, but she’ll call back. She doesn’t. Round two: BUBBLE

He calls. Asks her out. She says she’ll think about it. He doesn’t let her finish, quickly feigns a call on another line, hangs up. Round three: Draw

A day letter, he calls, teases, disses, then suggests a meet. He spells out the day, time and place, cautions against late-coming, cuts her short, says he has to run, he hangs up. Round four: BUBBA

They meet. She laughs a lot. So does he. He is naughty. She is feisty. She loves to talk, he lets her. It’s a tug of war, a power play. I’ll pay, no I’ll pay. After you, no, after you. Round five: Draw

They part ways. She’s not sure about him, he knows what he wants. She wants time to study him. He feels too much time and he’ll become a ‘friend’ and ‘confidante’, or even worse, a ‘best friend’. Yuck!

So re-evaluating his original goal of getting in and getting out faster than you know, he re-evaluated his techneek and did….

He doesn’t call her. She wonders how he is. She calls him. He lets it ring for a bit, and just when she is about to give up, he picks up and smiles a wicked smile that she thinks she can recognise off the phone. He asks how she’s been, she says she’s missed his lame humour…

Round Six; Unfinished and in need of extra time

He promises to call sometime: she smiles and he hears it in her voices….

Round Seven; Draw

He calls her later that week, suggesting a quiet digs. She sees his plan and hijacks by saying he’ll be at FunkyTown with her friends, but they are not out all night, so he best join them soon enough.

He smells her game and says he will pass by later…

She thinks he is not bothered, and says whatever…

Round Eight: Inconclusive

At funkytown, Bubble is chilling with her homegirls and Bubba is bizzy calculating his time to make a move. He turns up earlier than she thought and decides to just eye her from the corner of his eye at the bar…

She smiles…. he flinches

Round Nine: Bubble

He sends her a text saying…

“your friends that boring that you gots to look at me while they are chatting with you”

She replies,

“Who is this?”

Round Ten; Bubble

He sends over a drink

She sends a text saying, “gentleman huh”

He doesn’t respond

She gets up and walks over to him

Round Eleven: Bubba

She walks right past him

Round Twelve: Bubble

She smiles when she has taken some steps back and he tries to front, so he smiles back and then the bombshell

“Bubba, I like your game.” “You are a bad boy type who actually knows how to chat us up”

“Let’s cut to the chase” “what dyu like about me?”

“Is it my smile, my behind, or my curves”

He replies,

“Bubble, its your mind!”

Round Thirteen: Bubba

Hmmn…

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Lets go kick some shit,2010. We cannot wait.

The public has been going on and on about the need to re-invent the massacres. Today, ladies, gentlemen, children, toddlers, lustful teenagers, (Ok, and some lustful guys)…rentedmess has been momentarily captured. Minutes of sweaty research gave me the location of the rentedmess. I proceeded with caution, knowing the inhabitant(s) to be the type that loved caressing the dark side. What does it look like? It’s a land of candy, walls adorned with females in various stages of undress, feathers falling outta nowhere, the eerie quiet is occasionally interrupted by ‘cluck-cluck’ noises, and there’s a quaint dark guy with shades, seated at a grande piano playing what seem like church hymns, but no sound comes out…I found Erique, in big-ass shades and wearing what looked strangely like a frilly top. He was having an intimate discussion with the trio:

Karen: And you know the worst part about it?

(Rhetoric question. They all stare at her anxious that she goes on with the story. You could clearly see who the man in the room was)

Karen: … (She plays out the suspense. Reaches for her fancy pink phone, plays a Clint Eastwood song as background music to build the tension. She has tension skills…) …The worst part was he didn’t even ask for my number!

(They all gasp thinking, “What a dork! How can you turn down a chance to get with this Keri ,Mendes ,Jolie mix”)

That’s when I hit, while they were still gasping. They are all bound and gagged, writhing in the corner next to the dark piano-playing guy as I type this out.

Presenting this gainfully employed sleek adonis’ s take on the massacres:

I have to pause to let out a derisive evil evil laugh…what is conquest without an evil evil laugh: Mrrrhhhuuuhaahhahaha….

PS: When perfected, the laughter almost sounds like a yawn. Almost. It’s the right yawn, growl, moan, mock mix that makes it lethal and evil. Ed

Yes, presenting the massacres…

Improper Lunching

Have you noticed how there is always a traffic jam in town at about lunch time? What’s that about? Think about it, it’s not like people still leave work to go home for lunch. That was in Baz’s days. You’d go and play but be back by lunch coz you knew Mzee would be home just for lunch. These days the boss calls the tea girl into his office and he proceeds to have a lengthy lunch, doors closed, papers curiously rustling all-through ‘lunch’. Busy boss that…and the dude even answers calls:

Boss: Yes, boss speaking..

Lunch-interrupter(L.I): crap…crap..crap..grunt..groan..moan…

Boss: Ok, you said twenty million?

L.I: nya….bla..moan…

Boss: Tea-girl, what do you think?

And the conversation shifts from the phone to the tea girl’s views on how the office should be run, L.I left muttering and moaning to himself on the phone.

Proper lunching

Now, against that lunch-hour, crazy-hour backdrop my workmates at ‘Good Brain Inc.’ have come up with something to get Uganda on its feet and sweaty all-through lunch. This stuff’ll give the lunch drag a much-needed shot in the arm. Wait for it…grab some popcorn…grab some water…Presenting, Lunch Hour Disco!!

Wipe that ‘I-am-so-stupid-why-didn’t-I-think-of-that’ grin off your face. No more will the precious lunch hour be spent trying to make eye-contact with that I-am-gasping-for-breath-coz-you-are-so-hot new workmate who only seems to have time for beefed-up guys without brains. She doesn’t see you, the in-house geek. She doesn’t know you have a blog. She knows not that Sleek and Erique have been to your blog. You sit at your table alone, picking at your food and coming up with an algorithm that’ll lead you to her heart. Lunch hour dancing…

For you the company clown whose jokes have lost their edge…

For you the tea-girl that the boss calls for lunch…

For you lingala addict who still loves to wear his trousers up to his belly…you who occasionally breaks into dance even in board meetings…Lunch hour dancing

For you the very hot chic who is tired of being undressed mentally so many times at work…Lunch hour dancing

For you who finds it hard to contribute to conversations at lunch coz GDP,DDP, GNP, FGM, UPC and all that stuff just don’t make sense…Lunch hour dancing.

One hour of sweaty, steamy, unadultered dirty dancing. Your boss, pot belly and all, will be there too. For you who work for government, you’ll have 3 hours. No whores, they are all asleep. Only hot vixens with white collar jobs. And respectable guys who want one lunch-hour stands. No strange fumes in the club. Great time to ask for a raise…as boss grinds on a hottie, drop the question.

And the verdict’s out. I took the liberty to showcase this stuff to some people. Here’s what they had to say:

`Hair-raising…’ Britney Spears

‘So milky’ Pamela Anderson

`Whoopy’ Hyena, incisive, leading journalist for a colored Daily read by many a pocketing male

As all of you, except Princess and Jny23, shoulda guessed by now, the usual cook here is Sleek. Yes, so fresh so clean. However, a need to push the boundaries even further arose so two cooks hit the kitchen and set to work on a meal. They mixed, they mingled, they flexed muscles, some sweat dripped, some sweat poured, the aprons got messy, fingers got burned, eyebrows got burned too…the kitchen TV was even muted. That’s how they missed the ‘How two chefs should make a meal’ Oprah special. Oprah actually went to the kitchen and while showing the lucky guests in the studio how the cooking is done, her wig caught fire and she run off stage screaming ‘I am hot, I am hot’…drat media freedom. How can anyone even say that about Oprah? You fake guy Sleek.

Anyway, the two chefs: Sleek and Mr. B2B. I made part of the meal while Mr. B2B made the other part. A bit of the meal has been displayed below, B2B will display the rest. Which part did I write? Which part did B2b write? Well, that’s for you to decide…

The way we react to issues is usually a small part of what is really going on in our lives over the past few hours/minutes/ months or even years…some people react there and then and the way they react is sometimes nasty… others are careful and generally just be stacking beef so that when their times comes, they can easily reel off a tonne of things that you mentioned that accidentally ticked them off…

Many times we are judged by how we react, and the main elucidation comes from the fact that whatever has been said at that opportune time actually cuts down to the heart of the matter. The main issue however could be different…

Have you ever noticed that people are amazingly quiet and seem all the more reflective until you say something that relates to them? The way we react many-a-time is as a result of our emotions being huddled up and constantly being picked on…

Like the time when my aunt told me that I can whatever it is I set my mind to… she was basically saying that I can fly if I thought hard enough.
…over to B2b 4 the rest…