Subliminal Criminals

Archibald stood by the hearth of the bulging fireplace his mahood clearly poking out from behind his loosley tied dressing gown. Gwyneth sat knitting a frankfurter on the arm chair, her eyes burning like two steamed cabbages, hot, steamy and moist, unlike the fire which simply raged. She felt the burning in her loins as Archibalds hair piece burst into flames. A big oil painting of a gentleman wearing a monocle and holding a cucumber firmly in his hands, glared down upon them sweat glistening on his brow.
The lovers eyes met. Smoke rising from Archibalds now dwindelling wig and open undies, they could contain themselves no more! As Gwyneth stood, her tartan trousers fell to the floor, Archibalds dressing gown evaporated like a freshly boiled bag of sprouts revealing his knee high socks. He proceeded to grab his bugal and belt out a few shrill trumpety trumps of triumph sending biscuit crumbs flying into Gwyneths squinting cabbages…er I mean eyes.
At that very moment the old fashioned phone nestled firmly between Gwyneths globes chirped out a Barry Manilow ringtone Archibald dashed for his readers digest, exited backwards through the window and rode away on a scotch egg!
Gywneth sobbed silently as she rolled over and over on the carpet turned on the television box and carried on watching her favourite episode of Columbo.
FADE TO SQUIRREL !1!!ONE1!11!ONE!!1q11111!!

It was dawn on the McGintyre estate.

Peregrine McGintyre raked the strawberries stark naked, as he did every morning. Good for the constitution, his uncle Hawksbill “Gimpy” McGintyre used to say, until he was disemboweled by a rabid toad. Gertrude, the groundskeeper’s daughter, sidled up to Peregrine, her breasts heaving like a sack full of jellified blood.
“Oh, Perry… your hands looks so masculine gripping that long, hard pole… so very masculine in their pulsating thickness, like a mongoose caressing a string of licorice.”
Peregrine let out a throaty laugh, like warm piss trickling down a brick turned on its side. As he did so, some of his teeth flew out and into Gertrude’s wig, causing it to burst into flames and scurry into her ears.
“Oh, how careless of me…” said Gertrude, and one of her breasts fell from her bodice like a dead slug sliding off a tree branch. The morning mist curled around their feet like cool morning mist curling around someone’s feet.
“Gertrude, come closer. I will use my rake to put out the flames.” He began beating her about the shoulders with the long rod.
“But Perry, what about the flames in my heart? You know, the flames of passion…”
“I’ll see what I can do.” And with that, he thrust his rake into her chest cavity, causing her lungs to explode out of her spine and a ferret in a nearby tree to have a heart attack. “It was never meant to be, dear.” And with that, he continued raking the strawberries, whistling a merry tune. Fade to a kilt, then black.

“I need someone to escort me to town to see Archibald Plucketts,” said Lady Crippleshit. “A beautiful young bachelorette with breasts like wads of unleavened dough and a minge like a hollowed out sausage filled with castor oil should not be walking around the capital alone. Peter, you will come with me.”
Peter, the family chauffeur, shook his head. “I’m terribly sorry madam, but today, I must comb the hair of the family ostrich. If I do not comb it, it will become enraged.”
“Dash and blast. Whoever can take me to the town now?”
Just then, there was a knock at the door. Peter opened it. There stood Matthias Kleghorn, the village doctor’s son. He was a handsome fellow, with a chin like a U-shaped bag of crushed walnuts and automobile grease, a nose like a hawks bill with two large, fleshy nostrils cut out of it, and eyes as deep as hoof-divots in freshly laid cowshit. He had a beautifully pasty complexion, as one whose life is spent around dangerous chemicals and strange metal implements to be shoved in various orifices.
“Hello, good sirs and madams. I’m heading into Londinium and was wondering if any of you fine breasts needed a lift. I’ve got a big cart with two horses, a driver with a lovely moustache, and an ice bucket with some elderberry wine in it. The back seat folds down to reveal a silk-lined swimming pool full of frogspawn. What what.”
Lady Crippleshit gulped and her armpits began secreting sweat like milk from a dog’s eyeballs.