Read Online Five Miles From Outer Hope by Nicola Barker - Free Book Online
Authors: Nicola Barker
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a wall-hanging of the USA with each state a different colour (that’s fifty states in total, so naturally someone’s gonna have to draw the short straw in relation to tincture. Texas is post-box red; Nevada, apple green; Philadelphia a sunflower yellow; Denver a bright south-sea blue; and from there on in things get a little hairy: Utah is the subtle shade of dirty bathwater; Virginia resembles a badger’s scrotum; Louisiana’s like a dead man’s liver… ) – she asks him whether he ever learned to knit (he never did), then she promptly takes issue with his painstaking re-arrangement of the main back shrubbery.
During the following two hours she goes on to scrutinize every single intimate nook and crevice of this huge Art Deco edifice, paying more attention to fine detail than a police chief inspector (I mean, down to the extent of noting how nine bulbs need replacing) and is suitably appalled when in one dark corner she accidentally happens across fat Patch biting loving chunks out of Feely’s dimpled, putty-coloured buttocks (purely for the hell of it. His arse is irresistible. It literally demands masticating).
Of course he’s protesting – and powerfully – writhing like a hungry pup, absolutely hysterical, the plastic mug jammed firm onto his fist again, his chin already pink-tinged with carpet burn. It’s like an obscene early tableau from Caligula .
Rather too soon after she finds me, large as life – if not larger – sitting cross-legged on the cocktail counter, painstakingly dissecting a troublesome verruca (I’ve learned over the years that if you soak your foot for long enough in slightly salted warm water and then pluck at the offending growth with tweezers, the whole organism can be extracted in one complete segment, like a perfectly-formed miniature cauliflower).
But the real surprise still lies quietly in wait for this punctilious Miss – like a low-slung, huge-jawed, gently growling jaguar – upstairs, at the very far end of the furthest top landing. Ah, mais oui! The lair of La Roux !
So they’ve inspected all the other suites (that’s fourteen in total) and this is the last. As a precaution the agent knocks cautiously on that (by now worryingly familiar) peeling aquamarine door, hears no audible answer, enters, inhales, blanches, staggers straight to the window and flings it wide open – the smell in there is already quite extraordinary, a burning, eye-watering odour of rank antiseptic – indicates the view (it’s a great one), the carpets and the original light fitments.
Catwoman snipes on about the heady aroma (she thinks something died somewhere), the hole in the ceiling, finds fault with the window-frames and bemoans the poor finish on the en-suite tiling. Phew . At last the inspection is finally over and they are literally just about ready to turn on their tails when Miss Fur-ball suddenly detects an untoward squeaking .
I think you know whither. She makes a hasty bee-line towards the stroll-in storage facility (hoping, no doubt, to add a minor infestation to her major demolition), yanks the door wide, and finds not a mouse in her house, as she’d fully anticipated, but a bad-skinned, balaclavaed, South African nest-builder spanking his pink plank in an orgy of wank, right there, large as life, just inside.
But that’s not the worst of it. La Roux (the sauce ) is employing something rather unusual as his masturbatory inspiration – his stimulus, his trigger . It is a photograph (old, well-worn, black and white) of a mongrel: part-chow, part-pug, part-golden labrador (when you think about it, a really horrible genetic mixture; bug-eyed, blue-tongued but with a ridiculously obliging, indeed, perhaps even accommodating nature).
Doesn’t look good, does it? Especially to a cat lover.
La Roux can’t say much as Ms Smolly gasps, curses, turns and scampers, but he does say something (credit him at least with the genius of brevity). In fact he says two things: the first is,
During the following two hours she goes on to scrutinize every single intimate nook and crevice of this huge Art Deco edifice, paying more attention to fine detail than a police chief inspector (I mean, down to the extent of noting how nine bulbs need replacing) and is suitably appalled when in one dark corner she accidentally happens across fat Patch biting loving chunks out of Feely’s dimpled, putty-coloured buttocks (purely for the hell of it. His arse is irresistible. It literally demands masticating).
Of course he’s protesting – and powerfully – writhing like a hungry pup, absolutely hysterical, the plastic mug jammed firm onto his fist again, his chin already pink-tinged with carpet burn. It’s like an obscene early tableau from Caligula .
Rather too soon after she finds me, large as life – if not larger – sitting cross-legged on the cocktail counter, painstakingly dissecting a troublesome verruca (I’ve learned over the years that if you soak your foot for long enough in slightly salted warm water and then pluck at the offending growth with tweezers, the whole organism can be extracted in one complete segment, like a perfectly-formed miniature cauliflower).
But the real surprise still lies quietly in wait for this punctilious Miss – like a low-slung, huge-jawed, gently growling jaguar – upstairs, at the very far end of the furthest top landing. Ah, mais oui! The lair of La Roux !
So they’ve inspected all the other suites (that’s fourteen in total) and this is the last. As a precaution the agent knocks cautiously on that (by now worryingly familiar) peeling aquamarine door, hears no audible answer, enters, inhales, blanches, staggers straight to the window and flings it wide open – the smell in there is already quite extraordinary, a burning, eye-watering odour of rank antiseptic – indicates the view (it’s a great one), the carpets and the original light fitments.
Catwoman snipes on about the heady aroma (she thinks something died somewhere), the hole in the ceiling, finds fault with the window-frames and bemoans the poor finish on the en-suite tiling. Phew . At last the inspection is finally over and they are literally just about ready to turn on their tails when Miss Fur-ball suddenly detects an untoward squeaking .
I think you know whither. She makes a hasty bee-line towards the stroll-in storage facility (hoping, no doubt, to add a minor infestation to her major demolition), yanks the door wide, and finds not a mouse in her house, as she’d fully anticipated, but a bad-skinned, balaclavaed, South African nest-builder spanking his pink plank in an orgy of wank, right there, large as life, just inside.
But that’s not the worst of it. La Roux (the sauce ) is employing something rather unusual as his masturbatory inspiration – his stimulus, his trigger . It is a photograph (old, well-worn, black and white) of a mongrel: part-chow, part-pug, part-golden labrador (when you think about it, a really horrible genetic mixture; bug-eyed, blue-tongued but with a ridiculously obliging, indeed, perhaps even accommodating nature).
Doesn’t look good, does it? Especially to a cat lover.
La Roux can’t say much as Ms Smolly gasps, curses, turns and scampers, but he does say something (credit him at least with the genius of brevity). In fact he says two things: the first is,
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