The Sunday Limerick #2

There once was a writer named Shane
Who frequently lied when he came
"I'll get hard again soon
We'll fuck all afternoon
But for now my cocks floppy and lame!"

(by S. Levene)
--- - ---

There once was a homo called Tristram
Who murdered his boyfriend then missed him
He missed him so much
With sense he lost touch
But at least he escaped from The System!

(My first and last limerick!)*
by Joe M
 --- - ---

*Liar, he'll give us another winning entry next week!

A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - part 7

Ransack is smoking another cigarette. Mackinstosh's face is partly obscured by his camera. Davies legs have buckled and have somehow walked him backwards and stuck hid stiff straight up against the far wall. In the corner, directly behind the open door, and down off the left bottom edge of the bed, is the body. For Ransack it doesn't look as atrocious as the first time he saw it, and now looking closely, within the mess he can make out what would have been a flimsy nightgown and at least one average sized tit. The centre of the body is a big gaping hole. It looks like it has been stabbed through hundreds of times with a cooks knife. From this wound internal organs and intestines have been ripped out by the handful and are spilled down upon the floor. What was once the top end of a woman is now just a back piece of neck and maybe some windpipe. Who knows??? The entire face and head have been bashed in with such furious violence that there is nothing left except a lump of blood clotted hair. Pooled out a foot, around the entire length of the body, is thick black blood  picked through with slithers of skin, teeth, bone and flesh. On the wall, about knee height, there is a round blood splattered imprint where a head has been brutally slapped against stone. Off to the right of the body the bed is trashed. The wooden headboard has been freshly split and has come away at the left side. The mattress is bare and grimy; stained by years of body fluids and spilt drinks. The sheets and covers have been pulled free and hang off the left bottom corner of the mattress and trail over towards the body. It looks like the victim was dragged off the bed by her ankles as she tried desperately to grip a hold of something. It was Crimescene Photographer Mackintosh who broke the silence:

“Inspector, please don't ask for any 'upskirt' shots... I'm suffering from gout and am worried if I go to ground I may not be able to get back up. The last thing we need right now is another player out the game.”

Ransack didn't respond. He just took the words in and thought Mackintosh an even viler specimen of human maggot than he had done so before. From another angle, however, it was interesting what Mackintosh had said. Ransack understood from it that it was down to him to direct the photographer. That all he had to do was show a few discerning looks and order Mackintosh to capture whatever it was he wanted. Ransack tapped an inch of ash onto the carpet and thought. .

“Davies, get yourself over here... you need to start getting this room noted”
“I can't, Sir.... Really... I need a moment....” replied Davies, still pinned to the far wall, his words sounding as though he was chattering with the cold.
“Well, a moment is just what we haven't got!” replied Ransack. “I need you now, Davies.. Right this instant, please!”
“I'm sorry, Sir.. I.. am... but I can't.... I really can't!... I'm sorry, Sir...”

Ransack felt worn, exhausted. It seemed that even when he honestly tried to get on with his job that everything conspired against him. He lowered his head and with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand began to slowly massage his temples, working the stress around in a circular motion .Even with his eyes closed he could still see the blood.

Suddenly, as if someone had connected live electrodes to the sides of skull, there was a flash, and with the flash a sharp pain went right through Ransack's head and deep into his brain. Then it happened again, and again. And each time it happened, not only was there the paralyzing pain, but now the body in the corner seemed to light up electrified and become visible even through the skin of the Detective Inspector's eyelids. Ransack let his cigarette drop to the floor and now clenched his head in both hands and scrunched his face up like he was experiencing a torturous migraine

Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.
Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.
Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.

It was Mackintosh, shooting frame after frame after frame... a perverted leer visible just under his camera.


Mackintosh rifled of a couple more frames, sending Ransack into spasms of pain, and then quit. “Sorry, Sir, just a few personals for a rainy day... You never know when the internet may go down!” he said, aiming his camera down towards Ransack's smoldering cigarette on the carpet and taking a snap of it. “Don't worry Sir, that's for personal too,” he finished, “probably!”

Ransack grinned and stared hard at Mackintosh. Mackintosh gave a squirmy puzzled look back and then gripped a little tighter to his camera as if it could somehow save him. Ransack, once again, produced his pack of John Player Blacks, and still staring intensely at Mackintosh ever so carefully drew a cigarette loose, placed it between his lips and lit it “Don't worry Mac,” he said, in a frighteningly calm tone, “this time I'll use the ashtray.”

(To be Cont'd....)

The Sunday Limerick

King David Copperfield

A biblical king of the Now
Turned magician to empty his bowels
an illusion of sorts
his shit travelled north
and turds became words in his mouth

(by Shane)
--- - ---

An Anorexic's Limerick?

There was a young lady named Maud,
Who was the most terribly fraud.
She never was able
to eat at the table
but when in the larder, Oh gawd

(by Joe M)
--- - ---

A friend and occasional commenter said something to me today which reminded me of a long lost passion, and one which was passed on to me by my step-father who recently passed away:  the limerick form of poetry... especially the dirty Limerick. As these are fun and quick little rhymes to invent I thought I'd make it a weekend feature of Bubblegum. From today forth every Sunday will be Limerick Sunday, and if anyone would like to take part and get one ready over the week, please do so. You can mail me entries ad I'll post them along with mine, or send your limericks as a comment on the day and I'll paste them into the post. They don't have to be dirty, or humorous... whatever you like... 

Hope you enjoy, Shane. X

(A Bad Case of Forgetfulness will continue tomorrow... )

A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - Part 6

If great photographers can make the camera lie, then the primitive, heavy-footed beast who sloped onto the scene next, with his knuckles nearer to the ground than his knees, would have been one of the best. In the past, when occasion had called for it, this man-thing had made swollen black eyes look like shotgun wounds, and brutal police beatings look nothing more serious than restraining marks. Though not a corrupt man in himself, he was corruptible. His historical fault was doing what he was told, just because he was told to do it. Mackintosh, the Crime Scene Photographer, was going to hell on someone else's command.

Davies waved the photographer over towards Ransack who was sucking the entrails out of his cigarette. He introduced the two men, and failing dismally to keep his smile an internal one,  said “Well, you did ask for a smoker, Sir.”

Now at a stop, standing there slouching in his white elasticated forensic suit, Photographer Mackintosh cut out an even sorrier sight than what he appeared at a distance. Here was a man who lived vicariously through his camera... pointed it towards any number of perverse scenes and felt innocent because he was looking at it indirectly. His instrument of work was his access to forbidden and secret pleasures; the lens and viewer his own personal little glory holes.

Ransack may not have known quite what to do with a photographer but he somehow knew that men who get to forty-five and have greasy, livery skin, a nose full of blackheads, and who are hunched over through years of mischievous wanking are often not the most sterile of souls. And even if others could support them, Ransack couldn't, and for some reason he detested such squalid, living low-life with a passion.

Ransack looked at Mackintosh like he was a cockroach. “I hope your abdominal muscles are stronger than they look,” he sneered, “beause if not, what lays to the left of this door... what you're about to get down and dirty with, will make you shit and vomit at the same time. Now don't say you've not been warned!”

Mackintosh's eyes crunched into a squint and a sick leer rode upon his lips. He brought his wrist towards his mouth and spat a dollop of foamy gob onto its underside. With it he began cleaning and buffing up the lens of his camera. “Well I hope that's not all boast, Inspector,” he said, never once raising his eyes to his subject, “the last time I saw anything worthy of a few personal frames was over five years ago during my time with the traffic police. That was some gig! Though after you've done road kill there's nothing left. Anyway, if we're all set shall we get on? With a bit of luck maybe I can still make use of the little light that's left.”

Ransack gave the faintest of nods, and together the three men entered the room...

A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - Part 5

Davies is looking at Jenkins and Jenkins is looking at Davies. They are both wearing 'What the Fuck?' expressions across their faces. Ransack is a way back down the hall, hanging behind to see if he can figure out what he ought to do next. He knows his colleagues are finding his behaviour somewhat bizarre, and not just his working practices, but the way in which he keeps losing concentration and drifting off into distant realms of utter blankness. After filling his chest with a good helping of air, Ransack straightened himself an inch and concentrated on looking authoritative. He knew he had to somehow do something normal, something that would take the eyes off him and allow for a few moments of serious thinking time. And so, he took out a pack of John Player Blacks, and shuffling a cigarette free he stuck it between his lips.

The clicking of the Detective Inspector's lighter carried through the house like it was the timing device on a bomb. Just about everyone jumped to a stop and looked his way. Some of the white suited forensics who were still shuffling about taking measurements in the kitchen even lowered their masks and stared at him in disbelief. Jenkins went into some kind of a panic that sounded like flapping bird's wings. He ended by shoving Detective Davies into a run and hissing, “Geddit'offa 'im... fer' fuck's'ache!”

In front of Ransack, Davies used his larger frame to shield the Inspector and in a second manoeuvre tried to coax him around and walk him off in the opposite direction. It's a technique that the Metropolitan Police refer to as 'cloaking' and one which Davies had excelled at during his early days of training at Hendon. It was probably the reason why his first ever active port of call was escorting the mentally ill out of public buildings. Well, Davies hadn't lost his knack for 'cloaking', although he felt quite uncomfortable pulling it on his superior.

“Sir, sir.. what are you doing?” he whispered, “You can't smoke in here! Good God... You'll have to go outside.... really, Sir you can't...”

“Can't?” said Ransack, stopping and straightening. “Well it seems I can! I'm Detective Inspector Ransack and I'm running this operation. I can do whatever I think fit and act in whatever way I think will best help me crack this pot of worms! And if there's a man here who'll stop me I'd like to see him try! No? Ha! Didn't think so! So look here, Davies, and listen because this is how it's going down: I'm smoking this here cigarette, and as I smoke I'm going to think, and as I smoke and think and bring some general calm to this investigation you''ll be off looking for the photographer. And when you've found him, or if we're unlucky 'her', we're gonna walk the primary scene and record it: You with words, the photographer with pictures, and me using guile, experience and logic. If that breaks protocol, well, FUCK IT!... it's never stopped me before. Jesus, I've smoked, drank, lunched, pissed, farted and shit in previous scenes and I believe I cracked the lot! This is how I work Davies, and it's usually why I work alone. Now go and find a photographer, make sure he's a smoker, and be quick about it!" And with that Ransack pushed Davies aside and wandered down towards the Jenkins, down towards the bedroom, smoking and dropping ash on the way...

A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - Part 4

The securing officer of a murder scene is the unfortunate git who stumbles across the mess, often into it, without any kind of warning. The initial call out can be anything, from young kids smoking cigarettes around the back of a building to a neighbourly dispute, only for the despatched officers to arrive and find ears and teeth all over the place. The securing officer who called this crime scene was unfortunately meeker than most. He hadn't joined the police fantasizing of drug busts and gangland shootouts but rather yearning to do the paperwork and wear the tit-shaped hat. Ransack, Davies and Jenkins found him sitting out in the front yard, his arms clasped tightly around his knees, and rocking to and fro on the heel of his buttocks... humming.

“Mmmm mmmm mmm mmmm MMMMMMM Mmmmm mmm mmMMMMM...” and he went on, just like that, his brain even more lost than the Detective Inspector Ransacks.

As it was Jenkins who was still leading the party of three it was his form that moved in and towered over the securing officer. With the little light there was blocked out, the distraught officer withdrew even further inside of himself, and with his eyes shot through with an unspeakable horror his hums then turned to whimpers. Jenkins squatted down besides him.

“Constable... Constable,” he said softly, “now we understand this is a difficult time for you, that you've seen things which you weren't prepared for, but we need to take a quick statement from you... just a few questions, nothing more, and then we'll get you seen to properly and hopefully off home. Ok? Do You Hear Me? CONSTABLE!!?”


With the above as a response Jenkins suddenly gripped the officer by either side of his shoulders, steadied him and twisted him around so as they were both in each others faces. “Now Constable, you're gonna have to get a fucking grip of yerself... this is serious business! You can crack up afterwards, but right now we've got the fucking world ticking down on us and we need to take your statement before we can get on! Now what's your fucking name?”

The traumatised PC let out a series of noises like he was crying the wrong way. He was obviously trying to say something but no matter how hard he tried only incomprehensible drivvel came out. It also happened that the more he panicked the harder and faster his rocking became, until Jenkins was shaking too, vibrating away like he was holding onto a jack hammer. If it was not for the following words, from a new voice on the scene, Jenkins would very likely have tried to slap him into reality.

“His name's Jameson, PC Alan Jameson,” it said. “I'm PC Sanderson and was with him when he came across the scene. It was actually me who called it... not that I've seen it... but I did call it! He's been like that since it happened... well, it took just over three minutes of silence first and then he lost it.”

As the PC Sanderson spoke Inspector Ransack slyly eyed Jenkins and Davies to see what they were doing. Both had whipped out their notepads and were scribbling things down – though it didn't look much like writing. Ransack patted around his pockets, found his own notepad and a pen attached, and started scribbling down nonsense too. Just to make sure he could still write if he wanted to, that he hadn't forgotten that art, he wrote the word 'bumrub' and then crossed it out. And then he did something that even surprised him: he flipped over to a new page, and the moment he put pen to paper his mouth opened and he instinctively asked:

“And why was you here, Constable? What were the details of your initial call out?”

PC Sanderson now turned to Ransack. He began by pulling a face like there was not much to tell and then proceeded to tell it in the most drawn out manner possible...

“It was an anonymous caller, a woman, and for some reason she thought her friend may have been hurt or assaulted in her property. The call was traced to the phone box just around the corner on Perkins Avenue. The only other info we received along with the address was that the caller sounded 'toothless drunk' and so we thought we was gonna arrive and end up in the middle of one of these alcoholic domestics with both parties accusing each other of every kind of perverted crime under the sun.... You know the kind, Sir, her screaming and bawling rape and sodomy and when asked if she wants to bring official charges against her significant other she looks through you all blurry and you know the previous accusation is already forgotten. The next thing you're warning the man that if he tugs at your uniform once more he'll be spending the night in the cells and he answers by telling you that she sucked so and so's cock and that's why he walloped her. Then she's laughing and bouncing off him, saying “But I walloped ya back... good an proper, ya lousy maggot! I gave jist as good as I got! I ain't scared of no two bit shitheap like you... I've 'ad worse... you ain't nothing, Jack!” And then he's gone and smacked himself square in the nose and through a mouthful of black blood he's screaming: “No bitch has ever hurt me! I can take much more than any whore can ever give!!! 'Ere, ya see these fists? Ya see this one, it's knocked seventeen people sober... the best fucking rehab there is! The other... I save that one for me enemies!” And then she's showing you what she thinks is a secret, sexy smile, but actually it's a mouthful of missing teeth and those that are left are stained shit-brown and each one points to a different hour of the day and you hope she doesn't cough or they'll end up all over you. Then her smile has gone and her whole posture has sunken a foot and she's scowling through the demons of drink, and suddenly she's on her man again. And all the while it's a miracle he's still standing because since he stopped showing you his bloated grazed and cut fists he's been swaying around like one of those 'wibbly-wobbly toys' with his eyes nine tenths closed, and if he can see anything it's the faintest blur of light through singed eyelashes. And then the wind from her missed punch brings him around like it it was full of smelling salts, and he's wild drunk again and it starts all over... back to how she hasn't washed her cunt in years and if ever she did manage to prise her knickers off the stench would kill all the wildlife within a ten mile radius. And then her skirts hitched up and the filthiest pair of knickers bar none are whipped down and she's saying “You'll never get none of it, so dream on ya old fucka!!” And though it smells something rank nothing actually dies. And then they both need a drink, so suddenly they're working in cahoots, acting all piss-drunk lovey-dovey... waving us away, saying they've overdone it with the drink, and they're sorry for wasting our time but they'll just get on to bed and suffer the hell of it in the morning... You know, Sir, a drunken dispute where the most you'll ever get is a 'drunk and disorderly' charge and a car full of stink. Well, that's what we imagined we'd be arriving to. And when we got here, the door was open and sure as hell it smelt like we'd imagined, but it wasn't messy at all – as you know. Then as as I looked around in the front room PC Jameson went down the hall, and not even 30 seconds later he was back, staggering so wildly I thought he'd been shot or stabbed. I steadied him and led him outside and when I tried to re-enter, to see what was inside, he gripped a hold of me so tightly and with such fear shot through his eyes that I never did dare return and look at what he'd seen... and I couldn't really, not even if I'd have wanted to, because it was just then that he lowered himself to the ground and started up with his incessant shaking and humming. And That's when I called it, Sir... nothing much to it.”

By the finale of the Uniform's incredibly detailed monologue all eyes were on Ransack, waiting for his next question... Only it never came. Instead, as one member of the Metropilatn Police rocked to and fro on his haunches... humming, another had ceased up completely, stood there in freeze-frame, his pen on paper and a huge blue ink splodge breaking out across the page...

(to be cont'd....)