We have a contribution! yayaya. Thanks Suzi van Es.

In such a sulk that his glory moment, had been more of a sorry one, Boswell forgot to pick up his strategically placed apple skin.

In what would have been a deliciously pre-meditated crime, Terri-Anne, quick to follow behind Boswell, determined to strike up a conversation with him after looking over at him and staring deep into his unmasked eyes...

crash, boom, whallop

The apple skin, perfectly suited to Boswell's out of the ordinary attempt at being different (he had been practising sliding on it after all), was not something Terri-Anne had ever encountered before...As her two legs splayed out into opposite directions from under her (she knew she shouldn't have worn those pink and yellow wedge clown shoes...the lady had convinced her, and she had a little too admittedly that this, yes, THIS would make Boswell notice her) she fell back.

The pigeon, not yet closed up by the others, electrodes still attached to the brain was the first thing she hit on her dramatic fall down to the cold, hard, ground of the operating theater..Terri-Anne reached out her arms to steady her fall, the electro-choloride-tetri anti sphincter a victim of her stupidly long clown arms. As it obeyed Newton and fell to the floor at a rapid speed, Terri-Anne called out, her scream piercing the silence of the theater as this horrific event slowly unraveled.

The bottle hit the floor, immediately reacting with the tiles, emitting a noxious toxic gas...the pigeon breathed deeply and thought to himself. 'Finally, these morons have made this crucial mistake - we have deceived them for so long. But finally, our secret weapon and the trigger has been released. HQ will be very happy with my efforts in fighting this war.' With that Terri-Anne's final descent into her fall caused her to sever the electrodes out of the pigeons brain..and its eyes closed for the final time

...

Sadly no one was there to witness his moment of glory. His moment of standing out from the crowd. Being Boswell and not just a clown.

So all he could do was skulk off...

...

Just before Boswell reached the door, he slipped. On a strategically-placed fruit skin. Not that of a banana, but an apple. Being the revolutionary he was, he thought he'd shake things up a little.

...

Click. That was the sound of the video camera being switched off. "Nice going guys. And now we can upload this to YouTube and all the clowns in all the world will be able to follow our lead. Mwuahahahahahaha," smirked Boswell as he was leaving the lair for his next paying gig: the infamous birthday party.

Tracey adds:

The clowns surrounded the pigeon splayed out on the operating table; surgical masks barely concealing their engorged noses and caps barely keeping their ginger hair in check.

"Alright, removing top of skull now."

The little machine beeped and the detached skull made a distinct slurping sound as it was removed. With its brain revealed (quite a bizarre sensation), the pigeon's eyes went squint; one eye watching a clown and the other deciding where to look. It didn't like clowns and so rolled into the back of the pigeon's head where to its distinct dismay, instead of the comforting and familiar dark, it found another clown.

"Electro-thoride-anti-sphincter please."

A "phhzzzz" sound and a burst of smoke coiled above the pigeon's exposed brain.

"Done. He should find blinking cars quite attractive now... One down. Two billion, five hundred and sixty nine to go."

And so their long-term plan to eradicate bird poo and good luck from the world began...

...

The clowns were sad to see this lady go but luckily they had a short attention span. So back they went to their plan.

Tracey adds:

And that was when she realised that she had knocked on the wrong secret, midget-sized door with a bronze knocker in that corner of the alley behind her restaurant.

...

No response.

She pressed her ear against the door in the hope of hearing at least something coming from within the hidden room. Nothing. hrmm this new development does put a spanner in the works. She knew that once she left, she could never come back to this place. Slowly and resembling a whisper, she chanted the secret code. Finally, a muffled sound. The door slowly opened and she was able to enter the inner circle of the clown sanctuary.

Tracey adds:

She slipped out the backdoor and chucked her apron into the trashcan. The rats squealed and scattered. She walked briskly towards the end of the dark alleyway. She glanced furtively over her shoulder and disappeared into the night as she made her way towards the darkest corner. Lighting a match, she got down on her knees. In front of her was a small door, one that would barely reach her hips if she were standing. She picked up the brass knocker between her thumb and index finger and thumped it three times (I say thump, but it was more of a ting - the sound a kitten's bell would make should said kitten fart).

...

Before the ambulance took the gentlemen out on a stretcher (probably the most undignified way to leave a restaurant) Henriette was able to hide the note in your apron. This was definitely not something that should fall in the wrong hands; especially the police or the church.

Henriette could only imagine the torture this patron must have gone through. This was clearly part of a suicide pact. There was no doubt about it. But the fact that she recognised the handwriting gave her goosebumps.

She needed to leave the restaurant pronto. She needed to check that everything was in order. She needed a stiff drink.

Tracey adds:

His blank look struck her heart cold. "Sir... Sir..." she said while nudging, and then shaking, his shoulder. His head slumped forward. She gasped.

After having discretely checked his pulse and called an ambulance, she noticed the piece of paper in his hand. The lavender scent radiated from it like a fart from a fat man.

"The Time has come."

Her hand started shaking as she realised she had seen that handwriting before.

...

As Pierre was about to pay for his highly caffeinated drink he noticed a small piece of paper lodged in between the lining of his wallet and his blazer. Intrigued he slowly opened this fragile, lavender scented morsel.

'The Time has come'.

Now Pierre was a firm believer in the bizarre, outrageous and extra-terrestrial and even with this history, the message didn't make any sense to him. Could this be his colleagues playing a trick on him? Or the old gentleman he sat next to on the Metro trying to pass along a message? Or could it be some alien being talking to him through this piece of paper? Pierre hit a wall.

His blank stare must have caught the attention of the waitress (and for all the wrong reasons, now he could definitely not ask her for her number. He must be looking like a crazed man). Nevertheless, the waitress came prancing to him with a panic stricken look in her eyes and a glass of tap water in her hand.

Tracey adds:

A bell tinged as the cafe's door was pushed open. Marie glanced up into the ornate mirror behind the counter and took a last, comforting drag on her cigarette before stamping it out in the ashtray.* She stood up, chucked cash onto the table and made her way through the packed cafe towards the door where a man, who was not horizontally challenged, was hassling a waitress for a good table. As she brushed passed him, her hand deftly slipped into his coat pocket...

*With the current legislation regarding smoking, this scenario would be highly improbable. But, hey, who cares?

...

After all the arrangements had been made Marie found herself sitting in a cafe, clutching to a cigarette as if her life depended on it - and that moment it felt like it did. Each inhalation, followed by the slow exhalation was the only rhythm that her otherwise disorderly life had at that very moment. All she knew was she was grasping to this mere whispering of normality and that it kept her from losing her mind.

One phone call was all that it took to get the wheel into motion. She still couldn't believe that she was in this predicament due to the recklessness of her neighbour, this could not be forgotten and would surely be rectified in the near future.

Mistakes like this could not be forgotten or brushed beneath a carpet to gather dust. Dust would leave clues, clues seek questions and questions would lead to not only her demise but that for all that she had worked for.

Slowly the glow of last night's champagne was being substituted by the insisting thumping of a dull headache.

Tracey adds:

Marie pushed away the impassioned man beside her - noting, wryly, how God did not hand out with both hands - and sprang to her bag, which had been discarded on the richly-velveted chair. She shuffled through the Mary Poppins-like contents. Desperate.

"Ma petite amie... j'ai une surprise pour toi, mais... tu dois revenir ici pour ca..."

She ignored him. She had found what she was looking for. She snapped open her phone and held it to her cheek. Her long fingers, joints prominent, were clenched around the rumpled piece of paper as she walked outside onto the ornate balcony. Below, a tourist on the street pointed, not at the famed views, but at the provocatively-dressed woman who had just emerged. Had she not been so preoccupied by the antagonizing ringing, Marie would have reveled in the attention.

Chapter 3

This was to be the worst day of her life. She would remember this day with such distain and would wish upon all stars that she had never left her precious Fiffy in the care of that idiotic neighbour. That neighbour ruined her life forever. All would soon discover her secret and that was the biggest concern for her. Not the dog. Not her life. Not the accident. Her precious secret.

And to think that the day started off so well; a decent lie in at her apartment close to Arc De Triumph, the sun kissing her skin and the Adonis of all men embracing her. Pure bliss. The fact that the god-like creature in her bed could not string a coherent sentence together really didn’t perturb her. He was her trophy. Hers alone.

Everything was hanging in balance after that phone call.

Tangents and daydreams were not for today. First order of the day had changed and she needed to rethink her game plan. Quickly.

Tracey adds:

... Taryn (the woman in the car) watched the mutt closely. One eyebrow raised. Foot poised above the brake pedal. She did not like the dog and the feeling was reciprocated. Having already experienced one seat-staining sign of this animosity, she was very wary of the smug look on the dog's face. Should that furry leg have the slightest quiver suggesting the mere thought of a lift, Taryn's foot would be hitting the pedal. Hard.

It wasn't her dog; the owner, (her neighbour), decided to visit a friend in Paris and had deposited said animal on her doorstep with a note detailing her expensive diet (and no money). It was an ugly dog with a head too small for a Maltese and a body too large for a Staffie - its mother was a purebred Maltese poodle and the father was whatever happened to jump over the fence one unfortunate Sunday (Taryn had a suspicion it was a large, imbred rat). However, the owner, as dim-witted as the mutt, had cultivated its delusion that it was sired by only purebreds. A half truth. Subsequently, all mirrors in the house had been raised above the dog's line of sight.

Suddenly, metal grating as abrasive as the yapper's yap, should it yap as it had yapped when yapping previously, shredded her ear drum.

Dog eat dog world

"Stupid pigeon," thought Fiffy as she sat next to her well-groomed owner. "If only all these pavement specials would disapear off of the face of the earth. I am a lady of leisure, which should entitle me to not see these mishaps of nature."

 

(Pic sent in by Mat Holley)

Fiffy was truly one of a kind and she made sure that everyone was aware of this; pure bred through and through and a regular on the pageant circuit. "Mommy didn't send me to finishing school for nothing," little did Fiffy know that these would be the last thoughts that would ever go through her mind as...

Here we go...

For a pigeon of his age, two, single, he has, to his mind, solved the problem of flirtation rather well. On Thursday afternoons, he flies to Newtown. Punctually at 5 p.m. he perks on the curb of Rissik and President Street, coos, and winks. Waiting for him at the traffic lights are his admirers. Winking. Alas, no matter how much he struts and puffs up his feathers, the indicating cars always turn and leave him. Alone. Ruddy cock-teasers. But this isn’t (but might, in fact, at some point, be) a story about a pigeon looking for a pomp - it’s the story of the person driving home who just happened to be looking out of the window.

Prologue

Hidiho!

You may (or may not) be wondering who we are. We're Tracey and Heike, two lil' girls from South Africa, who like to create dance moves such as "The Old Man Butt Dance," "The Zombie" or "Super Mario." We also like to have fun which is why we set up this blog (duh).

We thought it could be interesting to try write a story / novel / who-knows. One day, one of us would post a bit of a story or an illie and the next day, the other would continue it and so on. Then, we thought: "Hey! We're not the only people out there bored at work, so let's open it up to anyone and everyone!" Ok, not quite like that, but you get the point.

So join us, if you're reading this (which you obviously are right now). And if not, well, you can go poo.

First post tomorrow :)

P.S. If you want to become a regular author, just send us an email saying you would like to be added to the author list and your post (just to check that you're not Betty from Dallas who likes to use champagne bottles as dildos and can be found at easysex.com/dirtyslutwhore). We'll add you and then you can post all by yourself! Tracey out.