Steffany Stutter-quilt was in the kitchen. Already she was starting fronsic activities against a numb lelb. In a way it measured better to make beginings so soon in the day, seeing as the day previous to current had contained fuck all effort from the lazy little feg. As she hurried more with the flour, yeast and shin-warm water the active brain qualifications got up a gear into even more of fronsic party.
There was a CHING! Looking around the place anyone could have misplaced der dun din det , “ diet Jesus is the only cock sure way of learning by numbered fat, disused and discarded actual liposuck spillings. Who the cankered fut is that at the door?”
Steff curves her bendiest leg around the wall, into the hall then snutting to a firm parking in first face of the main house door directly. All of the other limbs, head, middle bit and familiar Stutter-quilt female testicle followed thereafter to also arrive prompt as the plastic ciber-postman at the foot of the main house door. She yelled through a flappy hole in the door making her voice leave the room quick sharpish out to the next room, which actually my facky nurses and doctors was in great detail to be seen as OUTSIDE. She yelled, “Who the cankered fut is that?”
“It’s me?’
“Who the canckered…”
“It’s me, Tin!”
“Tin? Fertud Tin from under this?”
“From over this!”
“Fertud Tin from over this!”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yees, yeees…yeees…yes.” Said Tin.
“What the cankered fut do you wann Fertud Tin?”
“Have you a blanket? Je suis zehr cold.”
“I will govern a set of synchroned action fists to push one round to you in 5, mon petite sange!”
With that, Steffany caused the door to shut with her eye and went orf to find a blanket for the Fertud Tin from over this- with her other eye. Wait. In her absence the kitchen had almost forged a false Identity in a anna a attempt to smuggly funnel off the naked flour/yeast/water to some early bread monkeys. So she skwiffed up her socks and manuvered her manicured bendy leg once more around various corners, ending up a hair’s tredth of the Latimer hoover-oven, pulling once again all of the other things her body owned all trips over to it. The oven is a special combi effectual unit encompassing a duo alternative to naughty seperational machines that, let’s face it always seem to block up small spaces which in turn makes them even smaller than is usual. Steffany borrowed the hoover-oven from Latimer which she had only meant to have it borrowed between 1988 … and late 1988. She didn’t ant entent intend it to be this long in her hand, but it just was.
“Ooooo Nnoooo! Give it a bleeding need in Ealing ! Quick-blert blat!!”, she decided to say. Then after she said it she did what she just said she was going to do. During the long duration of thumbing, prelging and facking the mix, it was forgotten by Stutter-quilt to go on the blanket seeking course.
CHING! “Who the cankered fut is that? Again my Jesus diet becomes a sickening turgid fatty mess in the face of this new event!” So off go bendy legs, snutting short sharp park at the main house door, and rest of Stutter-quilt follows. She shouts through flappy door-hole, “Fertud ?”
“Fertud?” voice of someone else, “No, not Fertud. Its Albert! I’ve come to kick your fucking face in and chip your teeth on the concrete!”
In this state of a sentence Steffany realised his exact name,
“Not Idiot! Albert Doomsday Danger Idiot!”
“Yeah! You’re due for it, handbag!” said Albert Doomsday Danger Idiot, in a threatening way.
Steff slammed door shut, BAM!
“Oooo fuckin awful! Quick, back to kitchen!” Up skwiffed the socks, off shot bendy leg to Latimer hoover-oven , follow slapback elasti-body landing Hair-tredth of the combi efectual unit. Again there was evidence of smuggling potential to the bread monkeys, so she was not happy!
“Ooooo Nnooo! Give it a bleeding needing the yeast needs feeding!”, she s-s-s-said. Then the thumbing, prelging, facking and a little stroke, it was looking nice and in a state of almost readiness for some of the more later events. Just an while longer, yes. Keep going.
A thumbing and a prelging and a facking and a prelging and a thumbing and a facking and a lick and a prelging and a double-lick and more facking and prelging and thumbing and licking, then again, another little stroke, almost done!
CHING! Went the aural indicator of the main door of house .
“Shuttit!!” shouted Steffany Stutter-quilt.
A thumbing and a lick, fack, prelg …
CHING! Again, trying to interuptisize.
… and a prelging and a thumb, lick, fack, fack, fuck, “Fuck! Fuck!!”
She is never going to end all this! Bendy leg, first up to door, elasti-body follows, preg open the door.
“Please, Steffany Stytter-quilt, have you that blanket suis vous plait? Je suis zehr, zehr cold!”
“Fun fun fun! That’s all shitting off in some other place innit? When does it end?” sighed Steff, “Hang on a belt a bit Mr Fertud Tin, I’ll go fetch it! Having a stunty day with my naughty combi effectual unit”
“What, the Latimer?”
“Yes, yes yes!” said Steff dashing orf into the other rooms in the house, bang on the blanket seeking mode.
Perhaps bathrooms are not always the best places to practice blanket seeking, certainly at this small early stage of the mode, but this was a nevertheless. Stumbling over a cow dripping bucket and a packet of trousers, Steff strapped herself to a special blanket seek device, just fitting between her low cheeks, sphinky motor revs on and in. BOOF!
“WWWoooooooo! Cor, flapping about like a crazy wasp here!” she cried.
Then her other eye got the blanket projecting onto the screen in the Steffy mind map, inside head. She goes to grab potential Fertud happy material.
CHING! CHING! Went the aural indicator in repeats this time.
“Shuttit!” shote a shented Steff.
Blanket now in hand, oh dear there are stains! Stains on the blanket! Small presise stains, only the sort that those controlling little fets can make.
“Bloody sex mice! I thought I rid got of ‘em!”
But you see nothing can interfere with the doings of the mice. They never go away. They stay, stay, stay, st-st-st-st stay!
CHING! CHING!
“All rye, all rise, all right t-t-tightt!” shote shorty Steff.
Leg off bend to door, rest follows. SSSHHHHHPUPP!!
But little Turdut Tin is on floor all red deep red!
“I’ve gorn and kicked his fucking little face in!” rose the awful voice.
“Oooooo NNNoooo!” cried she cried.
By now, the Latimer hoover-oven had grown so hot that the temprature caused the bread to be hot h-h-hot, rising as it did more and more towards the main house door behind Steffany. Quickening up as it got faster as it got higher as it got bigger and better in proper portion with the room size!
“Now I’m gonna kick your little teeth in!” shouted Albert Doomsday Danger Idiot.
But by now the bread was bigger than even Larry Stanfid’s shocking great Cambridge legs! Pushing fast, swift and rather forwadick extremely towards both Stutter-quilt and Idiot. There were sudden passing fast alien horrible squeaks that fut into the cornexious of one’s headroom …
“ eeeeek!! Eeeeeek!! Pik! Pik! Eeek!!” It was the sex mice running out of the danger they had quickly sensed, or some would say they had even pre-allocated the events in their naughty control brains before! Off they went hovering a Garry Baldy biscuit’s width above floor, shooting acroos the floor between legs and out into the big room (which was the actual OUTSIDE).
Big hot and massific in height and depth the bread came apon Steffany like in ‘Gaylords of the lost park’.
“Ooo Noooo!!” she cried and managed to dive to the floor.
“Gordon Bimta!!” shote Idiot, as he looked in heron at his impending doom object, and BOOOOOOOFFFF gets knockered by the bread like some ave-some-lunch avalanche event. Off squiff, down the stair bricks he goes. There’s no fucking chance for Albert Doomsday Danger Idiot.
Just as sooner he was had gone there was an acient sound released from Steffany’s back-hole door, a special release of farting relief.
“Well fub my dense eyebrow in a curtain swelling!” she said,
“That’s the last time I’ll put sex mice droppings in the farmhouse loaf.”
The next day everyone died…
