THEREFORE I AM

[Phssthpok]

“If you used a f*****n’ decent motor,” slurred Bruno out the side of his mouth, “you wouldn’t keep getting blown away by grannies in Fiestas …”

Tuning his friend out, Phssthpok sighed and examined the damp interior of his pint glass with an expert eye. Bruno was caustically drunk and his limited attention span was oscillated between the barman’s firm rump and the perfect engine. By what torturous path their inebriated conversation had taken to stray onto building a killer car was beyond Phssthpok’s immediate comprehension. Whatever the reason, Bruno seemed to liked the idea of spending the equivalent of the 3rd world dept on the ultimate gas-guzzling engine. Not a very a Christian desire maybe, but Bruno was way too fat to be anything other than passively religious.

Phssthpok glanced at his black, plastic Divers’ watch and groaned silently.

In another life, he’d actually looked forward to their weekly blats around Oxfordshire followed by a Herculean drinking session. The gallon of real ale culminating with a plate of over-cooked scrag-end of Lamb Korma. Even the pole-axing hang-overs were a welcome release from mundanities of day-to-day responsibility. Six months ago Phssthpok started feeing a growing knot of boredom with his Westfield which was not readily explainable. On paper, the car should have satisfied anyone for any purpose. So why was he p******** off with it? Why couldn’t he flip the calendar back a few months and be mindlessly content again?

“I said,” grunted Bruno, banging his soft fist down on the chipped, Formica table top for emphasis, “have you ever thought of getting rid of that f*****n VX and putting in a proper engine?”

Phssthpok humoured his corpulent friend. “Now you mention it. No.”

“I have,” said Bruno with a smug grin. Then, furtively looking around the claustrophobic bar, stuck his face within kissing distance of Phssthpok’s and hissed, “I know how to build a motor that’ll suck your eyes out.”

Bruno’s breath smelt of smoky bacon crisps, unflossed teeth and something vaguely sexual. Phssthpok pulled his head away from the bitter-sweet aroma and nodded towards their empty glasses. Normally, distracting Bruno’s limited attention span was simply a matter of offering another beer. This time the ploy didn’t work, Bruno had the bit between his teeth and wasn’t about to let go.

“I’m serious,” he persisted.

“I’ve been thinking about buying a motorbike,” said Phssthpok, trying for a change of subject.

“It’s all in here,” Bruno grinned, tapping his flat forehead with a chubby finger. Chuckling at Phssthpok’s apparent ignorance, he pulled out his battered tobacco tin and attempted to roll a cigarette. After three ungainly tries he gave up and slid a ready-made out of the packet he always kept in the top pocket of his leather jacket. Lighting up, he blew out a cloud of smoke and announced, “You’d only need to put up the money…..”

[damianc]

Can we have the next installment please?  I'm all ears...

[Phssthpok]

“You’d only need to put up the money…..”

The following night was the monthly meeting of Oxford’s elite branch of Westfield owners. Phssthpok pulled into the car park of The Bishop’s Finger and couldn’t help smiling at the sight of twenty of Kingwinfords finest gleaming under the pubs amber lighting. The Bishop was a seedy gay cruising pub in the back streets of Cowley; the sort of place that gave homosexuality a bad name. The dank interior boasted two tortuously tiny bars, with a freezing red-lit urinal out back.

Shrugging of his club jacket, Phssthpok wandered into pub.

The scruffy barman was busy serving a pear-shaped lesbian, with an ear full of rings and a nose full of what looked like chrome snot. While Phssthpok waited he nonchalantly took in the small, band of Westfield drivers huddled in a corner. The Oxford Westfield Club (OWC), a decrepit mix of forty-something, pot-bellied punks wearing designer leatherette, were desperately trying to look heterosexual in front of a swarm of young mincers who kept asking to be taken out for a drive. The OWC took it’s meetings seriously and members took turns choosing their drinking dens, and this week it was Bruno’s turn. As per usual, he’d chosen the Bishop as was his sexual predilection.

Finally, Phssthpok caught the barman’s attention, in more ways than one, and managed to buy a pint of surprisingly good bitter just before a screaming match broke out between two pasty faced male tarts.

Finding Bruno gazing longingly at a geriatric toy-boy gyrating provocatively by the jukebox to Donna Summer’s Macarthur park he wandered over to his fat friend.

“So what’s this engine then?” Phssthpok asked.

“Never mind what f*****n engine,” snorted Bruno, keeping his eyes transfixed on the toy-boy’s weedy thighs as he slowly rubbed himself against the cabinet. “You want horses I’ll get you four hundred and fifty horses at the wheel in a normally aspirated straight four that you can use on the road.”

“Four hundred and fifty….,” mused Phssthpok, sounding not unlike Homer Simpson in a Mcduff factory. Then returning to reality, “I think you’re talking out of your generously padded bottom.”

“Okay smart-butt,” shot back Bruno, “You give me three large and I’ll have your engine by next week.”

[westy]

Dear Phssthpok,

We of the non-bondage and non-pain club would like to point out that your avatar which has been nicked from the Hampshiresexshop (see its url) does seem to portray you in a poor light.

We are however grateful that a picture of an was not used.

Cheers,

Westy.

[Phssthpok]

your avatar which has been nicked from the Hampshiresexshop

Yes, I know, but the pictures were taken a few years ago in my modelling days. Still, it could have been worse, I might have been in the Argos catalogue modelling shell suits. Is that your forehead in the car mirror?

[westy]

certainly is.  It would of been an entire picture of me but Im camera shy

Modelling days huh, yeah me to I used to have a train set.