Held together by the firm knot in his tie round his neck Mr Windfall really was a product of himself.
Last night had really taken its toll on him again but he was really trying his best to avoid this topic, he hasn’t quite made it into the big time, but he’s very much on the cusp of it. Sitting opposite him you would first of all notice his smart presentation; as I said in the opening line a firm tie tied tight, top button buttoned up, collar bones barred down with the hot iron fist held domestic device, he suited his suit, it was cut fairly well and had cost a decent amount of money, so obeying the rule that if it cost quite a bit of cash then it must be good he opted for it, “yes I’ll take it” where his exact words I think. His shoes polished highly to allow the stitching detail to really shine through so that the casual observer could easily view and recognise him to be smart but not totally square because of the smart casual post modern tinge, they matched just about perfectly his colour scheme shirt tie suit hair, yes the hair remember the hair it’s an important top to a chap like Mr Windfall, smart polished with similar stitched stitching to his shoes, similar in shine to, come to think of it he was wearing his shoes on his head, top matched his tails.
Overall a pleasant viewing experience, though on closer inspection a few more details are uncovered; his knotted tie is indeed tied tight but it really is holding him upright, the tie is tight against his skin which oozes last nights excess, it’s a gutter on his face, the edge of the collar looks like a fry up napkin after math and he’s only been awake an hour, the edged greasy grimace collar laps against the banks of his porridge soggy skin which is castrated against his skull, it feels a size to small and looks a size to big, parts slightly yellowy grey like old gravy other blotches resemble corned beef other key areas liken to that of an untreated wound. The top button indeed buttoned up but the strain beneath it is in tough competition with single mothers, his freshly ironed boned collar is actually supporting specks of bloods on the right hand side where a rushed shave with a rushed blade rushed the cold water hot which rushed the lathering rushed the sweeping straight strokes straight to his throat where the blotched boiled over soup skin met its chewing rushed spoon sharp blade grinding it down beneath its fists, it really was a terrible shave. The only bits of his shirt other than his collar that’s ironed are the part you can see exposed between his jacket, a clever trick one that Mr Windfall was now regretting as his temperature was rising on the journey his brow was trick-trickling his pits where piss-pissing his neck spit-spitting his backs of legs leak-leaking his balls boiling over into his thighs, but if he took his jacket off the game was up, his shirt was like grease proof paper slept on overnight and then the process repeated till golden brown, also the amount of last nights piss that hadn’t come out as piss was now piss trickling down his arms thank fuck his elbows stopped some of this flow what a damn they made, thank fuck for lynx Africa. The suit was tired tied tried down with grief it had witnessed some terrible lows of the self and its tailored ebb and flow had resulted in its grubby close inspection, rubbed in grot of past semi adventures stains of previous semi’s larger blotched Pret crust smears that circumnavigated his straight leg inside leg measurement 33”. “Yes I’ll take it” was only repeated today when first awoken this morning by last night’s abuse. She was female he’s sure of that, designed by fourteen year old boys using crayolas only, maybe a few swan highlighters thrown in to..well highlight, her body was held together with parcel tape tailoring, her nails pink and sharp could tear out a fuck drip within a large radius her pout was that of a trout in a wig she posed and pouted till all possibilities where exhausted and the best sleaze sleepy state statues would guide and swirl towards her like a corpse in the dessert, let the vultures feed she thought the dead sit still but remain hungry. He sold used cars he was a used car she was a used car she sold used cars, no that was it she looked like a used car. He had to accommodate her, it was only the polite thing to do, pissed think to do, his brain being completely disengaged by larger abuse a sloshed it down to make up for lack of decent tailoring, which was spilled round most of the bar down his thigh her thigh, god her golden thigh any golden thigh golden at least in colour thanks to fake and bake tanning lotion lotion was what she wanted then he would provide it yeah what a provider he would be golden thigh caresser and golden inbetweener provider filler, more lotion than she’d ask for. Mr Windfalls account of the night has been edited by consumption but he remembers it going something like this; finished work finished off the beers finished a piss finished witty conversation finished a onemanupmanship put down finished a fag finished a note off finished a closing hour finished a conversation finished a shandy leer finished his snake charm finished his effort finished it with a long lingering gaze down into her eyes an empty compliment of lamented layers lolling around in his motley dick before moving in slow l l y towards her face with the conviction that this is what is best for her, his limping tongue down her throat his mutton meat lips on hers his class clashed teeth against hers his sewer splitters spit slipping down her struggling gullet his feverishly twitching knob end winking at her cunt between those golden thighs his aspergic hands laying claims to her thighs then waist waste the shoulders give me the firm felted tits clasp tight the nickel nipple his erogenous zone doing all the brain work his pathetic limp wristed attempt at item removal his need of a brown overcoat to match the care and attention sod her fuck it spit at it she deserves it she wants this when she was born the nurses all knew this would happen its no surprise then that his body and hers is now horizontal on the bed his cheap sheets from the modern department clinging to her naked curves like a velvet drape on the stage his stage ready to walk the floor boards, all his above hard work discarded on the floor of his bedroom his shirt his tie his suit his shoes his eager thrusting towards her thighs missing at first his nudging towards her golden brow his pushing up against the fake gold lotion towards the real gold his lack lustre towards the goal his only goal all day since it last happened his attempt pathetic attempt at the task in hand his success when she guides his screaming lord towards it golden goal his relief at sinking pleasure now to really show what he’s worth he knows what he’s worth he’s worth shit, prove other wise as her well oiled machinery lubricates and squirms against the tidal flow, the enjoyment is happening like in a film, there’s children dying in Africa fuck them I’m getting some friction, your wife’s in the phone fuck her I’m getting some friction, your mother s arrived to say that she’s terminally ill fuck her I’m getting friction, the environments burning the monarchy is dying the country is poor you have no job your cars on fire all your possessions are in the skip I’ve killed your sibling I’m taking away your freedom I’m giving you all the responsibility in the world everyone is awaiting your instructions you are this life’s new God, fuck them I’m getting in deep deeper deepest down into new levels of swirling pleasure sealed in skin enveloped in evils contained in contraption parcelled in purity bottled in bottle in bottle in bottle in between violence and power between organ and organ between shit and piss between hope and highs between chemical and conical between imitation and animation between his sheets his location his attempt at something that has been perfected by a thousand thousand others before him a thousand years before a thousand times what a pathetic site he is to all those previously screaming at him to forgive accept lead, no he knows what he’s doing if he is indeed the new God then this will be his first act as God and as a new God his back stiffens his dick stiffens his congregation stiffens his mind stiffens his fingers grip her flesh steaks his thighs moan and weep against hers his eye lids flicker his hair stiffens his toes his arms his neck his collar his shoes his suit his skin his tie his shave is stiff it stiffens the whole world watches to see what there new God has done, they all shrug their shoulders and walk off they’ve all seen a roaring climax result in so little satisfaction, like a kitten being sick he’s sick down her cunt.
He sips the power drink that he’s been gripping for breakfast since the off license takes a lip wetting sip his whole body convulses at the intake of more liquid shclip schlide down to the gullet not rot a lot drink but rot you not sugar gut stirrer. Swell sweat gleams off the shimmers of the bottle plastic finger nails hold apart the plastic swell between himself and the passing scenery below his mind turns to the next time when the opportunity will present itself for him Mr Windfall to become the next God of it all everything all that you know more that you don’t know, more over move aside if I move from this place I will surely die never again but when again will I be screamed at, worshipped, lusted over.
A fresh bit of friction God plan sits opposite Mr Windfall there is no one else in the carriage he’ll have to settle for her.