Miss Chief Maker

Dear Reader, the wait is over…

bookcovertreeskull

… the third volume of the Underdog Anthology is now available to buy!

As well as having a Harry and the FAKkers story included, I also had the very great pleasure of writing the Afterword again. This involves mangling a poem of great repute, to pass comment on modern political climes. And as this is a Halloween themed book, really there was only one choice of poet and one poem to tackle…

bronze-plaque-of-new-colossus

*Eww, Clicky! Lazarus rose from the dead, but that’s a completely different story…*

So, for your pleasure, and in the hopes that it might tempt you to buy the book (‘cos there are some absolutely corking stories contained within), please find below, ‘The Nuke Allows US‘ by Roo B. Doo, with illustrative illustration by H.K. Hillman…

The Nuke Allows US
There's nothing quite like America's aim,
With squabbling pols and a media grand;
Hollywood productions meticulously planned
A mighty mushroom cloud, a torch whose flame
Issues irradiation, and its name
Mother of All Wars. From the blackened land
Glows world-wide wonder; hegemony command
The Cold War winner of that global game.
“Keep in our good books now!” cries Liberty
With weighty lips. “Give us your money, your ore,
Your oils and gases (excludes banking fee),
The wealth contained in your burgeoning store.
Send all these and receive Democracy!”
*.../Lifts up arm, hand drops MIC to the floor...*

The Nuke Allows US

Now, as an extra special treat for all you synchromystics and synchnauts out there, here is a short talk from John Lamb Lash that you may find of interest. Eye gno I.D.ed… 😉

Until next time, Dear Reader… Have a Song ❤

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‘Morning Run’ – An Underdog Anthology Tale

Dear Reader, the next volume of the Underdog Anthology – Treeskull Stories – is on track to be published for Halloween…

UA3 cover

This time I have contributed one story and the Afterword, as well as providing copy editing services to Leggy. This is a pleasure, not a chore, as I get to read the fabulous contributions from the other authors first. And for free…

*Clicky, that’s free knot three…*

*/rolls eyes…*

In anticipation of publication, I thought I’d share one of my stories from Anthology 2 with you, Dear Reader. So here is ‘Morning Run’ for your entertainment… Enjoy! 😀

*******

MORNING RUN

By Roo B. Doo

Gasping with pain, Marcus pulled the graffiti daubed door open and peered into the murk inside. The hinges squealed their resistance in the spring morning that should have been filled with birdsong but was disquietingly absent. He sniffed in disgust at the dank gloominess but the room appeared empty, and Marcus was more than happy about that – the thought of defecating anywhere other than his own bathroom filled him with dread but he doubted he would be able to sprint back home in time. As if in agreement, his stomach growled noisily.

Usually Marcus picked up the pace when he ran past the public toilets on his early morning jog through the park. The low, stone structure, vividly tagged in garish painted symbols, sat at the far point of his circuit. Set back from the path and surrounded by shady trees, it had an air of quiet menace in its seedy isolation, a haven for druggies and vandals, pervs too no doubt. Today, however, a crunching gut spasm had assailed Marcus as he approached the building. He’d pulled up sharply, clutching his stomach at the sudden crippling pain.

Marcus swore at himself for thinking he could just run off the sluggishness he’d felt at the previous night’s overindulgence at the local curry house. And the beery one at the pub beforehand. For months he’d been on a strict diet regime in training for the London Marathon. It was just rotten timing that his best friend Craig had chosen Easter, the weekend before, to get married. As Best Man there was no way Marcus could miss the stag night, and a stag is a stag – there’s no point going if you didn’t stagger a bit as a result. It would be his only blow out and, besides, he’d have a whole week to recover before the big race.

Although his guts were wildly churning, Marcus remained reluctant to go inside. He was okay pissing in public toilets but shitting was another matter. He couldn’t stand the thought of exposing his backside to where other naked backsides had rubbed or smeared, nor the thought of anyone listening in, passively participating and passing judgement on the size of his bowel.

He briefly squatted down in the doorway to scan for the feet of hidden stall occupants, and instantly regretted it. The pressure inside him moved and there was an audible glug! Marcus tensed his arsehole; it felt like a splenetic Vesuvius ready to blow its top. With a final nervous glance behind to make sure nobody was about to follow him in, Marcus stepped inside.

The gloom deepened as the main door swung closed behind him with a creaking thump. Now the eerie silence was broken by a leaking tap’s plink, plink, plink from the wash basin to his left, accompanied by the continued rumble from his guts. There were three toilet stalls in front of him and he made for the nearest, dodging the dirty puddles strewn with litter, tugging urgently at the drawstring on his shorts. Marcus was determined to spend as little time in the place as possible.

The cubicle door swung open at his touch, revealing a filthy, shit filled toilet. A worn and dirty trainer, half submerged among the turds, listed near the top of the bowl. He moved on to the next but that too was blocked. Fresh beads of sweat prickled Marcus’ brow, his dread intensified – if the last one was in as bad a condition he didn’t know what he would do. However, the last stall at least looked relatively clean and it had a lock on the door. Bonus! Marcus thought as he whipped down his shorts, sank onto the toilet seat with a resounding thump and let go.

He braced his hands against the cubicle walls to hold himself up as he felt the world cascading out of his arse, before splashing back to soak his crack and balls. Both relief at the release and cold revulsion washed through Marcus, as his breath rasped with every squeeze.

“Arghhh!” he screamed aloud as his gut achingly contracted again, but by now Marcus cared little if anyone was there to hear him; he just had to get it all out.

He closed his eyes and swore again at his stupidity. He just had to play the big man, didn’t he? Buying another round of beers, choosing the hottest and spiciest dishes on the menu, followed by shots, lots of shots. True, it had been a hell of a fun evening but, by God, he was regretting his decisions now. Not to mention Craig’s wedding was later that day; he only hoped he would have sufficient time to recover before then. With a grimace, Marcus resolved to take a double dose of imodium and have a shower as soon as he got home.

He shifted his position as the stinging flow turned into a trickle, releasing a waft of putridity that made him recoil and hold his nose. Reaching for the toilet roll he found the holder sheathed only with an empty cardboard tube. He slapped at it angrily and looked around but there was nothing else to clean himself up with. Sighing loudly, Marcus pulled off his outer vest top, balled it up and started to wipe his backside. It was one of his favourites but he would have to leave it – there was no way he was carrying it back home.

Feeling drained, Marcus stood up and pulled hard on the toilet chain, eager to flush the contents of his bowels away, but the only thing it made was an empty clank. He pulled again and again. Nothing. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Marcus peered into the toilet bowl as he pulled up his shorts. Shit splattered the inside and dribbled down into a dark brown pool of his slurry. He had to get out there fast before anyone else came by. Flinging the balled vest top to the floor he turned to leave.

The lock on the door refused to budge. Marcus rattled it hard but it was stuck fast. He tried ramming the door open with his shoulder before remembering that it swung inwards. He kicked at it in frustration but the door remained firmly closed.

“What the fuck?!”

Plop… The sound came from behind him. Plop… plop.

Marcus turned around slowly to see movement in the bowl. The shit pool bubbled and burst like the hot mud springs he’d seen once before whilst on holiday in New Zealand. He stood there transfixed as more and more bubbles broke through the surface. Plop pop plop…

A slimy brown finger poked up suddenly, followed by another. Marcus flattened himself against the door, staring aghast as a hand emerged from the mess, fingertips feeling out, looking for purchase on the porcelain. A second hand shot up and gripped the edge of the toilet seat, pulling, heaving first a shoulder and then an oozing head up and out of the bowl.

Eyes wide with horror and disbelief, Marcus turned and hammered at the door, frantically grabbing at the lock. “LET ME OUT!”

A horrendous sucking sound caused Marcus to turn around again and he screamed to see the abomination now had a torso, rippling turds for muscles. A fat, pink worm poked out of the head, like an obscene tongue, tasting the air. Reaching out with dripping hands, the detestation gave Marcus a shit-eating grin before emitting a thunderous burp, sending a foul spray of ordure with a stench like an eyeful of needles.

Marcus screamed again and dropped to the filthy, wet floor, squirming in a frenetic attempt to escape from under the door. He kicked out as slimy hands grabbed at his legs and he felt a squelching slap on the back of his thigh. With an almighty heave, he pulled himself free of the gap and out.

Howling in terror, Marcus picked himself up and ran.

*******

Dogma Shit Demon

*Alright! Sheesh… I’m new to this writing lark, Clicky, let alone horror fiction…*

*Well, let’s hope so, eh?*

So, if you’re in need of a book of short stories for toilet reading this Halloween, Dear Reader, I highly recommend you try ‘Underdog Anthology III’ from Leg Iron Books

Pounds. Shilling. Portents.

Dear Reader, this post was going to be about steam…

steam (v.)Old English stiemenstymen“emit vapor, emit a scent or odor,” from the root of steam (n.). Meaning “go by steam power” is from 1831. Transitive sense from 1660s, “to emit as steam;” meaning “to treat with steam” is from 1798. Slang steam up (transitive) “make (someone) angry” is from 1922.

Related: Steamedsteaming.

steam (n.) Old English steam “vapor, fume, water in a gaseous state,” from Proto-Germanic *staumaz (source also of Dutch stoom “steam”), of unknown origin. Meaning “vapor of boiling water used to drive an engine” is from 1690s, hence steam age (1828) and many figurative uses, such as let off steam (1831, literal), blow off steam (1857, figurative),full-steam (1878), get up steam (1887, figurative). Steam heat is from 1820s in thermodynamics; as a method of temperature control from 1904.

We have given her six months to consider the matter, and in this steam age of the world, no woman ought to require a longer time to make up her mind. [Sarah Josepha Hale, “Sketches of American Character,” 1828]

…Thoughtful Man suggested it to me yesterday evening after first reading Leggy’s review of Poundland’s E-cig, yesterday morning…

*/flicks lighter… A good review that I’m happy to share, Clicky, but vaping? …/lights up… Fuck off – they’re just Tobacco Control Lite… /drags… If I want to inhale steam, I’ll boil a kettle…*

…And then during the course of yesterday, Thoughtful Man learnt that Poundland is also branching out into other steamy areas…

*/thinks and smokes… Nooky… No. Oky… No. OK Y?… Nukey… New key… Newgate’s Knocker!… /smokes some more…*

Something else happened though yesterday, Dear Reader. Something unsettling. Yesterday morning, whilst Thoughtful Man read Leg Iron’s post, I was reading an overnight posting by Red Frank, in the Red Universe

Merovee Gateways.png

A bit of a sleb in the Synchrosphere had paid MEROVEE a visit and left a comment. ‘Goro’ is a name that has been spoken of somewhat reverently by a few of the regulars there during the 5 years I’ve visited the site. And I’ve seen the name mentioned in Dispatches elsewhere. A bit of coup for Frank, you’d think…

coup

*I dunno, Clicky, it could be one of those…/stubs out fag…*

Goro had popped by and, BOY, was he STEAMED with Frank and MJ!

*Perfect choice of Song, Clicky! …/pats snout… It turned into a screaming match… /lights up…*

I suggest you go read it for yourself, Dear Reader. It involves an accusation of plagiarism

*plak- (1)also *plāk-, Proto-Indo-European root meaning “to be flat;” extension of root *pele- (2) “flat; to spread.”

It forms all or part of: flag (n.2) “flat stone for paving;” flagstoneflake (n.) “thin flat piece,; flawfloefluke (n.3) “flatfish;” placentaplagalplagiarismplagio-planchetplank.

It is the hypothetical source of/evidence for its existence is provided by: Greek plakoeis“flat,”plax“level surface, anything flat;” Lettish plakt “to become flat;” Old Norse flaga “layer of earth,” Norwegian flag “open sea,” Old English floh “piece of stone, fragment,” Old High German fluoh “cliff.”

… Which was weird ‘cos MJ had put up a Flat Earth post the evening before yesterday at her site…

Start here – it was the very first comment! I won’t link to Soro’s site; he brought his own links to Frank’s place. I paid a brief visit there, having not ventured there before. I don’t think I’ll be going back… You’ve gotta pay to be a member!

*/sniffs… I don’t care for his tone either, Clicky… /drags… *

In other news, Dear Reader, I had a bit of coup (second meaning) myself this week, having my Afterword accepted for the Underdog Anthology III by Leg Iron Books. This time round each of the stories gets an illustration and so will the famous poem that I stole… to mutilate and use for my own ends at the end of the book. Thank you Emma ‘Dead Rising’ Lazarus!

Leggy has just sent through its illustration, hot and steaming off his virtual press…

The Nuke Allows US

*Oh, Clicky, that looks great! …/grins… Quick, go fetch that Song we like… /claps hands…*

That’s quite enough for one post, Dear Reader. Until next time at the LoL… Have a Song ❤

 

 

 

Box of Mystery…

Upon arriving home from work earlier, I found I’d had an unexpected delivery, Dear Reader…

Baby delivery.gif

*What? No, not a baby, Clicky! How the fuck d’ya arrive at baby?*

what-you-should-know-about_-sperm-2

*No, I know how to arrive at a baby, Clicky… /splutters… Just shut up will ya and let me tell the story…*

…A care package had come in the post from my good friend Poppy Sweet Pea…

IMG_1763

*/sings… Sweet peas are made of these… /shakes head… Clicky! What’s with you tonight? Got fun up your ‘ole tonight or sumfing?*

… A neatly packed cardboard box that Loopy had helpfully opened. It was filled with good things – homemade ‘Bounty’ bars, German nougat, treats for the pup, South Korean face masks, a *cries with laughter* cup 

giphy1

*… cuddly toy… NO! Clicky, not a cuddly toy, for goodness sake…*

… And some heavenly scented bath wotsits, one in the shape of Dave

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*Yeah, it’s a good story… Like the rest of the tales in The Underdog Anthology…*

“Oh my god,” I said biting into a properly sized chocolate and coconut sweetie. “This is delicious! I’m gonna have to make something now to send back.”

Thoughtful Man laughed. The idea must have tickle him because he carried on laughing.

Loopy, who’d been hovering around the box of goodies, gingerly sniffed at the smelly flamingo – he’s at that awkward teenage, allergic-to-baths stage. “You can always make her a sandwich,” he suggested helpfully.

“A sandwich? I can’t make her a sandwich!”

“Oh,” Loopy said dropping the flamingo back in the box. “Well, can you make me one?”

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*I’ll have to think of sumfing, Clicky…*

I am now going to try out one of the face masks, Dear Reader, so I’ll CYA…

3w-4

*Or sooner…*

… Have a Song… 😉

In The Mood…

I’ve been working up to penning some short stories for the next Underdog Anthology, Dear Reader, due out for Halloween. Writing horror doesn’t come easy for me, so today I dipped into The Articles of Dume (written by my good friend the Doctor), during my lunch break, for instruction and inspiration…

*Fuck! I hope it doesn’t take forever, Clicky, the submission deadline is the end of September…*

Anyhoo… I thought I’d post the last of my three stories, but the first that I wrote, for Volume 1. The other two can be found here and here

*Not yet, Clicky, but I’m trying…*

*******

Succulent Sardines

by Roo B. Doo

During daylight the faded grandeur was all too apparent but in the evening the flickering lamplight transformed the interior of Crossgate House into a Gothic nightmare.

‘Well, this is spooky as hell,’ Helena whispered to herself as she lightly skipped up the stairs toward the darkness of the top floor.

Paul was up there, waiting. All she had to do was find his champagne glass and then they would have a few precious minutes to indulge in the most dangerous aspect of their relationship – risky sex. Helena shivered at the prospect and wondered at the audacity of the man the financial media blithely referred to as ‘Golden Sacks’. Getting your rocks off during a game of Sardines at the company’s weekend retreat, was the epitome of risk-taking.

Helena paused as she reached the landing to duck under the heavy, velvet rope barrier and sign firmly stating, ‘STRICTLY OUT OF BOUNDS’. Big bucks can buy use of historical dumps with disturbing histories, but some areas remained firmly off limits. Especially to drunken financiers with little understanding of the meaning of priceless.

She risked a look over the handrail, Helena but couldn’t detect anybody else on stairs; the sound of muffled laughter in the distance below confirmed that only she and Paul were in his part of the house. The rest of the party were searching for him elsewhere. Only she knew where he’d be hiding in a ‘fuck ugly, black wardrobe’ that he’d discovered whilst snooping about earlier.

Slipping her phone from pocket, Helena shone its bluish white light down either side of a corridor until she spotted a fluted glass on a side table beside a heavy, wooden door. The champagne bubbles inside danced and popped as she approached. Helena downed it in one and gripping the cold brass door handle. Part of her hoped it was locked – they had been told these doors were locked – but it swung open effortlessly under her touch. With a final quick glance back the way she’d come, Helena quietly slipped inside the room beyond.

“Paul?” she hissed as she scoured the room for a glimpse of him. “Paul? Where are you? This must be the most stupidest idea you’ve had yet.”

Helena put down the glass and lifted her phone again to take in the dust sheet covered contents of the room. Along the back wall she spotted a large, black wardrobe. Creeping forward, she could make out grotesque figures carved ornately into the pitch coloured wood. Helena grimaced; the wardrobe was indeed very ugly.

“Paul, let me in,” Helena whispered urgently. She flinched from touching the door knob, a carved fist clutching a human heart. Closer still, the carvings appeared to cavort in the cold blue light streaming from her phone.

“We don’t have long. Fuck! It’s doesn’t take a brain surgeon to know you’ll be hiding exactly where you not allowed to. It won’t take those drongos long to figure it out. Let me in.”

There was a metallic click and the wardrobe door noiselessly and smoothly swung open. Helena sharply stepped inside and her lover closed the door behind her.

“You’re a bloody nightmare, this place is creepy.” Helena lent up and pressed her lips against Paul’s neck as he ran his hands down her back. She felt his fingers dig into her arse cheeks pulling closer toward him. “But, I can feel that you’re already hard. That should save some time.”

Helena slid to her knees and swiftly unbuckled his belt. Within moments she’d freed his throbbing cock from it’s rich trappings and greedily began to suck. After a while Paul sighed.

“You’re a wicked child. So, you liked my game suggestion? No, don’t stop.”

Helena redoubled her efforts. In the oppressive darkness, the sound of her slurping suddenly filled her with disgust. This felt like a risk too far, she decided. She wanted to get it over and she didn’t want her attentions reciprocated.

“You really are very good. He’s hopelessly wrong about the most important things, but he’s quite right about you.”

Helena paused and looked up into the blackness. “Who’s quite right?” Her stomach made a queasy roll. “Paul, I’m not feeling too good. Can we stop?”

“Him. Your banker boss.”

Helena stopped and leant back, putting distance between herself and Paul’s engorged penis. The curve of an expensive leather shoe press into her inner thigh as she sat back. Reaching between her legs, Helena groped the familiar texture of Paul’s exquisitely tailored trousers. Shoe and fabric where linked by a cold, bony ankle encased in a silk sock.

“No, don’t scream. Not yet. And no stopping. Please continue.”

With a cruel yank of her hair, Paul pulled Helena back into a pleasing position. He pumped her head back and forth, pinioning her head in his hands.

“They won’t be able to hear you scream in any event. None of you heard his shrieks earlier,” he grunted and sped up. “Two hundred hungry years of solitude. You know, I was beginning to think nobody was left alive out there.”

Helena gagged at the forced pressure in her mouth. Bewildered tears ran from her bulging eyes. Please let someone come quickly, she thought as she succumbed to the darkness.

“As. You. Wish.”

Paul groaned long and loud as Helena’s body slumped onto him. He cocked his head at the sound of someone smashing the champagne glass in the outer room. Heaving Helena’s unconscious body away from him, Paul licked his lips and grinned.

“Yes, you’re very good and we will do that again. But for now, best to make space for the others. Now, I think it’s my time to gobble.”

*******

Right then. I’d better get on with it and get down to writing…

*/puffs out cheeks and blows… Got a suitable Song to finish with Clicky?*

 

 

Supposing A Smokers’ Symposium

A quick post for you tonight, Dear Reader…

*I know, I’m working on it, Clicky…*

On Monday evening, I spent a pleasant couple of hours in Blue Frank’s Smoky-Drinky, talking to chums I’d only ever written to before.

On Tuesday afternoon I was unexpectedly asked what ‘symposium’ is by a girl in the office – her boss had been invited to one and didn’t know what it entailed, so I told her… and then I decided to look it up…

symposium (n.) 1580s, “account of a gathering or party,” from Latin symposium “drinking party, symposium,” from Greek symposion “drinking party, convivial gathering of the educated” (related to sympotes “drinking companion”), from assimilated form of syn- “together” (see syn-) + posis “a drinking,” from a stem of Aeolic ponen “to drink,” from PIE root *po(i)- “to drink.”

The symposium usually followed a dinner, for the Greeks did not drink at meals. Its enjoyment was heightened by intellectual or agreeable conversation, by the introduction of music or dancers, and by other amusements. [Century Dictionary]

The sense of “a meeting on some subject” is from 1784. Reflecting the Greek fondness for mixing wine and intellectual discussion, the modern sense is especially from the word being used as a title for one of Plato’s dialogues. Greek plural is symposia, and the leader of one is a symposiarch (c. 1600 in English). Related: Symposiac (adj.); symposial

*/squints…*

I also met Red Frank’s brother yesterday afternoon. We work in the Tower on different floors, and until now our paths had not crossed, but were thrown together for a meeting. I took the minutes and then gave him a signed copy of The Underdog Anthology 2 to pass along…

*Okay! …/huffs… I get back to writing my submission for Anthology 3… /lights up… But for your info, Clicky, I did actually write some more of it today… /puffs…*

I’d better go for now, Dear Reader, I still have ironing to do, but I will leave you with my good friend, Legs’ post from last night…

*And a Song… /rolls eyes…*

 

 

 

 

A Dolphin Who?

*Thank you, Clicky…*

*Quite the intronaut, Clicky… not sure about the worms…*

So Dear Reader, in ‘Hang on a Mo (updated)‘, I mentioned that I’d written the Afterword for the new Underdog Anthology

The book is a tasty Easter treat…

*Chocked with stories, not dipped in chocolate, Clicky… You wouldn’t be able to read the words…*

It was surprisingly difficult to find a poem to mutilate this time round. Carroll and Poe had already been abused by Leggy in his previous short story collections…

*The Cleggy and the Cameroid, yes…*

*… And The Gorgon…*

When Legs asked me to pen the Afterword for the first Underdog Anthology, it was quite easy to choose, a) literary giant (duh, Shake Sphere) and b) political subject matter (Brexit, duh da)…

*Also Sonnet 6+6+6 is fairly short, Clicky…*

There are lots of great poets and poems out there, and no end of useless politicians and their fuckwittery to choose from this time… But what to choose, who to choose? I tell you, Dear Reader, I was stumped…*/scratches head…*

Enter Canada

*For fucks sake, Clicky! Canadians wouldn’t even be able to criticize the driving…*

O Canada” (French: Ô Canada) is the national anthem of Canada. The song was originally commissioned by Lieutenant Governor of Quebec Théodore Robitaille for the 1880 Saint-Jean-Baptiste Day ceremony; Calixa Lavallée composed the music, after which, words were written by the poet and judge Sir Adolphe-Basile Routhier. The lyrics were originally in French; an English version was created in 1906.

There, a poet, described as such by Wiki… DolphinBasilRuthier... So here is the Afterword poem from Anthology 2, with actions… Then, Dear Reader, have a Song… And don’t forget to buy the book(s)… Available in paperback if you feel the need to burn something after reading 😉

:O Canada! 🤦

:O Canada! 🤦
New home of the Muhammad band!
Politicians love the Islamist sons’ command
Who’s cowering hearts we see compromise
No more to stand strong and free!
On slopes you slide
Oi Canada, we facepalm for thee
God save us from your quisling glee! 🤦
Oy Canada, get off your bended knee 🤦🤦
Oh Canada, get off your bended knee 🤦🤦🤦