Chapter Four. Part 2
Wake up and smell your coffee
Both breathing heavily, he rolled off her and sat up on the edge of the bed. She turned on her side and with her head resting on the palm of a crooked arm, watched him wince as he rubbed his back and looked at the blood filling his hand.
“Oh, don’t worry, darling, it will soon dry and the scabs will come off in bed.” Her voice dripping with well satisfied sarcasm.
He stood up, not before flashing her a fake scowl. Now doing exactly what she had done before the mirror, he twirled examining the damage. Going into the bathroom he returned to her with a wet flannel.
“Please could you be so kind as to wipe me down. If that’s not too much trouble. Thank you.”
With his face looking towards the open door, she sat up behind him with crossed legs and taking the cloth, wiped first her soaking open hole and then applied it to his back.
“Ow! That hurts!”
“Stop being a cry baby soldier boy - my arse you are. Serves you right. Oh dear, Ha- hah, even your mascara is running. I gotcha real good. Although,” in a musing voice, “judging by the load you shot you really liked it. These ‘light’ scratches will last a bit longer than three days. You can always tell your future sex partners that you got them from fighting off a leopard. I am parched. Coffee time. In bed please. Half a sugar and a little milk. Thank you.”
Throwing her the duvet, he slipped into his tracksuit and with much pretence moaning went into the kitchen bay. Returning a short time later with two steaming mugs, and a sealed packet. Sitting back on the bed edge, He handed hers. “Look at this packed ground coffee. Notice anything about it?”
Taking it in her free hand she studied it, turning it around and upside down. “Nope, except it’s called strong. So, what’s the big deal. Is this what we are drinking,” as she took a small sip, hissing as the hot drink burnt her bitten lips.
“See the brand name? Minges. It is plural for minge. It also says it’s a family roasting house.” He started laughing, spilling some of his coffee onto his lap. “I bought it at Penny discount supermarket, on special offer.” He was shaking now trying to supress his amusement. “I think it’s very appropriate.” He handed her four laminated postcard sized cards he took off the chest of draws. All of them in sepia showing woman exposing very well-endowed sexual organs that were unable to be seen through the hand muff that covered them.
“I haven’t a clue what you are going on about.” Taking the cards, she gave them a quick glance, then placed them back where they had been laying. “Is this the mystery you promised me? A packet of coffee, four hairy women to do a DaVinci code on it all? Well I give up.”
“Okay, it would be impossible for you to know. It is slang in English for that part of your body that has been recently well put through a roasting process.”
She smiled, then laughed. “Good to know – not! I’m taking my coffee into the bathroom. I will be a while. And, if kind sir could feed us soon as I am starving. She added, “can it sort of be ‘normal’ as in - my attributes of fluid contributions to your expert cuisine are not this time be involved. Even the thought of you boiling an egg sends the mind cinema back to another 18+++ film.” Minge tasting coffee on closed, lightly damaged lips, and still giggling stupidly, they went out. She padded behind him and locked herself into the bathroom.
Looking at the mess surrounding him, he rolled his first joint. It was no big deal to sort everything out. Within the time she was showering, the surfaces were cleared and cleaned and ready to make a mess on them again. She arrived with a damp towel wrapped around her head and dressed in the grey flannel dressing gown that had hung on the back of the door, hugged him.
“A good housekeeper as well, this man of deep mysteries of the mind and hole. What we are having, and don’t give me the wait and see.”
“White colonial breakfast invented by the British, perfected by the Rhodesians and ruined by the Americans. Very simple – scrambled eggs on toast, with fried mushrooms, onions, pork and blood sausages, tomato slices, chicken liver and hearts in garlic and Piri-Piri sauce.”
“That sounds almost normal.” Handing him her empty mug, “ another please. And, as I noticed, you have a tin of spray cream, I would like that as topping rather than you jack of in my cup of minge. Alexa, spiel Bayern Eins.”
As the aroma from the huge fry, he went to the window and opened it fully wide. “Alexa, play Bayern One. She doesn’t understand German.”
Taking her mobile phone, she went to the couch, her stains now dried almost in the same colour of the sofa. As Supertramp came on, she entered her code and leaned back, placing her legs across the coffee table and waited till it awoke. The whirl of the extractor fan almost covered the series of beeps in almost never ending chimes as they chirped with the vibrating phone in her hand. She scanned through the messages, sighed and closing the protective cover, placed it on the table just as she was presented with the plate infront of full to over spilling, and took her coffee, knife and fork. Returning next to her with his portion he stopped her starting.
“Wait, first we must make thanks for this feast that delightfully awaits us to consume.”
Astonished, she squinted her eyes at him. “Have you ever been certified as not being 100% in the head?” She looked as he wiggled his bum “Ants in your pants or did someone rake your innards?”
Ignoring her barbs, he lifted his hands, clasped together as in praying to heaven and spoke in clear authority ‘Dear Jobcenter, I thank you for my monthly People Money, thus making it possible to feed this wench.”
As she tucked in. “Well I am glad that my tax contributions are paying for my meal. Even if its illegal being a Brexit dish. Pass the salt Walt.”
He passed the stainless steel shaker. “Catch 22.” As they both tackled the food, he swallowed. “Okay, you never fail to satisfy me to acknowledge that you have brain not totally controlled by your most basic of desires. Hence I give you food for thought. And, do you like?”
She nodded her head, as yet another mouthful was swallowed. She waved a hand in front off her moth , “a bit spicy, but I like. Now what have you planned for me today? No fucking till its dark. Your coconuts need fresh cream and my vagina needs to start squeaking again instead of sloshing.”
As he cleared the cleared plates, “I will get showered and changed and we then go out. Okay?”
“That sounds fine.” Standing up she looked around confusedly. With a frown, “where did I put my hand luggage.”
“Presumably where you left it. My guess it is sitting on the landing. You were to occupied to bring it in.”
“I suppose so. Really weird.” She stood up, retrieved it and he followed into the bedroom and stripped off. This time he locked the bathroom door.
Now it was time to wake up the neighbours and the other unsuspecting members of the public to the reality of Anarchism-Absurdism and Egoism…
