apologies if its been on already, but what the hell, ;D
Busi and The Booze Cruise
Akabusi was low. Bloody low. As he looked down on the flotsam and jetsam whirling around beneath him he was reminded of the words of the great existentialist Jean Paul Gaultier "Hell is other pussy". Or something. Something to do with pussy definitely. Or lack of it. The low late summer sun beat down on his ebony dome as if to remind of the heat that can be generated by great forces of pressure and getting balls deep in a big bang. Even the stars and planets were conspiring against Busi. Fuck them, he thought as he felt the rumblings of an impending april breach.
He spat into the wind. "Fuck you Mother Nature" he roared with all the power of Ainsley Harriot with his lariat caught in the spinning wheels of a stagecoach. The wind blew the gob back into his face. This shit better be good.
Busi hated making dirt music on ferries. The toilets were more full of tears and vomit than backstage at London Fashion Week. And the swaying motion of the car ferry made it nearly impossible to hold the Freemans catalogue in one hand whilst his greasy fat digits of his other shovel played chords on his onyx colossus. When he heard ripping he didn't know whether it was the hull of The Gerald of Free Enterprise breaking apart on a rock or his arsehole parting. When he heard the splosh and got his free bidet from the weight of his passage Busi smiled. And when he drew an ace on the tracing paper bog sheets he knew his luck was about to change.
Busi, Black and Regis were on the ferry over to Calais on a booze cruise for Regis's birthday next week. It was an annual pilgrimage to Eastenders to pick up an hundredweight of Scotch, jumbo packs of Haribo and enough fags to keep at least 100 beagles happy whilst they played poker in the drawing room. The trip almost always ended in disaster but poor old OCD riddled Regis loved it. And Busi knew since John had started big school last week that keeping two chests happy was paramount. If Regis wasn't happy he was about as useful as a cock on Cliff Richard.
Black was keeping a low profile in the on board cinema. He had been hired by the Portuguese tourist board to slip some evidence where it shouldn't have been. Work was work. As he stuck his cock into the bottom of a full popcorn holder the lights went down and Ratatouille started. Sweet.
Up on deck Busi had a spring in his step and a tear in his anus as he pushed down the creases in his gleaming white navy style dungs and made his way to the Gregg's Two Michelin Tyre Restaurant to join the Captain's table d'hote. He had heard that the new Captain was a woman. And as much as the thought of a woman driving this huge chunk of metal and chavs scared him, the thought of driving his huge chunk of rock hard muscle into her poop deck was enough to calm his nerves.
Busi and his fleshy veiny sidekick hadn't tasted the sweet essence of a woman's dripping estuary for several weeks and he was hornier than two bulls on a lastminute package holiday to the Peoples Republic of China Shops. His balls were so heavy with white passengers that Parliament had been in contact to help out with Big Ben's clank whilst the dongs were dusted. But Busi hated government work.
Krisstopher swept into the Gregg's with all the confidence of a scouse dog with two dicks and some knock off DVDs. Everyone was there. And the spread looked epic. The maitre d' pulled out Busi's chair near the head of the table. The captain hadn't yet taken her place, he was informed. She'll keep, informed Busi.
Akabusi devoured his piping hot starter - a Steak Bake - with all the gusto of a Russian chess player/serial killer. Busi had his fingers in a lot of pies right now. But none of the other diners seemed to mind. They knew how Busi sausage rolled. By the time the main course was served Kriss was covered in more flakes than a lepers pillow and the kitchen had run out of ketchup sachets. But Busi loved eating out the Captains table. And people loved Busi.
"Mr Akabaummsbum. I trust there is enough sausage for everyone" came a voice from the top of the stairs as rich and thick as Paris Hilton. Akabaumsbum felt a twitch in his meat crayon as he turned to look at the mouth that had wrapped itself round that statement.
The Captain was stunning. She was like a lighthouse in troubled waters. A clean cubicle in a Wetherspoons. And she made Busi harder than a boot in Fergie's two up front. He could feel the double stitchs on his white dungs straining as his offal ionic filled with blood quicker than the Polish into Primark.
Kriss knew beneath the crisp blue uniform was a pair of epic bristols and a clunge like Leslie Ash's boat in a wind tunnel. And he wanted to dock as soon as. But dessert was on the way. And he adored Cheese and Onion pasties. So he placed his huge hand in the Captain's face and told her to hold one.
One later he let slip his acyrlic armour and let his ardour stand to attention. He stood there in front of the flaxen haired half Nelson like a chocolate anchor. With a slip of the wrist he ripped the gear from the Captain's back. She was wetter than a Coldplay ballad with a pussy so hairless it looked like Kylie after the chemo and a pair of tits like Maddy's eyes.
He roared "Permission to come onboard" as he leapt on her like a Nigerian Enrol Flynn. And before he or she knew it he was up to his engine rooms in the creamy white skin of this dirty sea dog. His hands were busier than a millipeds manicurist and for a moment he saw the shape of his Captain Japseye pressed into the woman's lower sternum. He was in deep.
Within hours Busi was on his violent voluminous vinegars and he let fly with such a gush of knacker suds that many were lost at sea and James Cameron was in a mini sub filming it for a docu. He pulled out his Armada and let it slide around a bit before he reeled it in and slipped on his dungs. He always knew that the Captain was the last one to go down and now he beleived it.
"Booze ahoy" shouted Black as he sloped into the dining room with Regis who had been playing in the ball pool. They had landed in France. And like those septics on Omaha thinks were going to get better messy. "Kiss me hard, Busi" whimpered the Captain.
Busi looked down on the pile of giant whale spunk, matted hair, scurvy, rum and coke, bent down on his majestic brown knee, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
The End.
