"Haha...I was laughing the entire time while writing this. A parody of you-know-what!"
The Boy Who Shat
Mr. and Mrs. Dundey, of number four, Private Drive, were proud to say that they were having perfect sex, thank you very much. They were the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything erotic or fetish, because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dundey was the director of a firm called Latex, which made condoms. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any penis, although he did have a very large ass. Mrs. Dundey was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of boobs, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, wooing the neighbors. The Dundeys had a small son called Dandy and in their opinion there was no better crappy boy anywhere.
The Dundeys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. Mrs. Dundey was pregnant with her second child. Their first child, Dandy was very crappy. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Jitters away; they didn’t want Dandy having sex with a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dundey woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that erotic things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dundey hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dundey gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dandy into his high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny dildo flutter past the window.
At half past eight, Mr. Dundey picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dundey on the boob, and tried to kiss Dandy good-bye but missed, because Dandy had shat on his high chair and was throwing it at the walls.
“Crappy little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dundey as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four’s drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar — a penis reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dundey didn’t realize what he had seen — then he jerked his ass around to look again. There was a tabby penis standing on the corner of Private Drive, but there wasn’t a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dundey blinked and stared at the penis. It stared back. As Mr. Dundey drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the penis in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Private Drive — no, looking at the sign; penises couldn’t read maps or signs. Mr. Dundey gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing but a large order of condoms he was expecting to get today. But on the edge of town, condoms were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in G-strings. Mr. Dundey couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dundey was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green G-string! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dundey that this was probably some silly stunt —these people were obviously collecting for something… yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dundey arrived in the Latex parking lot, his mind back on condoms.
Mr. Dundey always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate on condoms that morning. He didn’t see the dildos swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as dildo after dildo sped overhead. Most of them had never seen a dildo even in their lifetime. Mr. Dundey, however, had a perfectly normal, dildo-free morning. He shat on five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shat a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.
He’d forgotten all about the people in G-strings until he passed a group of them next to the baker’s. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn’t see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.
“The Jitters, that’s right, that’s what I heard —” “ — yes, their son, Garry —” Mr. Dundey stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it. He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, fucked his secretary, seized his penis, and had almost finished masturbating when he changed his mind. He put the zipper back up, stroked his penis, thinking… no, he was being stupid. Jitter wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Jitter who had a son called Garry. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his nephew was called Garry. He’d never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Hairyshit. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dundey; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame her — if he’d had a sister like that… but all the same, those people in G-strings…
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on condoms that afternoon and when he left the building at five o’clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.
“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dundey realized that the man was wearing a violet G-string. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even shitheads like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!”
And the old man hugged Mr. Dundey around the middle and walked off.
Mr. Dundey stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a gay stripper. He also thought he had been called a shithead, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn’t approve of imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw—and it didn’t improve his mood — was the tabby penis he’d spotted that morning. It was now shitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its testicles.
“Fuck off!” said Mr. Dundey loudly.
The penis didn’t move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal penal behavior? Mr. Dundey wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.
Mrs. Dundey had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door’s problems with her daughter and how Dandy had learned a new word (“Fuck!”). Mr. Dundey tried to act normally. When Dandy had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news: “And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s dildos have been behaving very unusually today. Although dildos normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these dildos flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the dildos have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.” The newscaster allowed himself a grin. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Dim McFuckin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of dildos tonight, Dim?” “Well, Fed,” said the weatherman, “I don’t know about that, but it’s not only the dildos that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Bent, Egg Yorkshire, and Mundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of shooting dildos! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early — it’s not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet(HEHE) night tonight.”
Mr. Dundey sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting dildos all over Brightain? Dildos flying by daylight? Mysterious people in G-strings all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Jitters…
Mrs. Dundey came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He’d have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. “Er — Felicia, dear — you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?”
As he had expected, Mrs. Dundey looked fucked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn’t have a sister.
“No,” she said sharply. “Why?”
“Funny stuff on the news,” Mr. Dundey mumbled. “Penises… shooting dildos… and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today…”
“So?” snapped Mrs. Dundey.
“Well, I just thought… maybe… it was something to do with… you know… her crowd.”
Mrs. Dundey sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dundey wondered whether he dared tell her he’d heard the name “Jitter.” He decided he didn’t dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, “Their son — he’d be about Dandy’s age now, wouldn’t he?”
“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Dundey stiffly.
“What’s his name again? Howard, isn’t it?”
“Garry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Dundey, his heart sinking horribly. “Yes, I quite agree.”
He didn’t say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dundey was in the bathroom, Mr. Dundey crept to the bathroom window and peered into it. Mrs. Dundey was having sex with a neighbour. Citing this behavior of her as normal, he went to the bedroom window. The penis was still there. It was staring down Private Drive as though it were waiting for something.
Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Jitters? If it did… if it got out that they were related to a pair of — well, he didn’t think he could bear it.
The Dundeys got into bed. They had sex a bit and Mrs. Dundey fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dundey lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Jitters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dundey. The Jitters knew very well what he and Felicia thought about them and their kind… He couldn’t see how he and Felicia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on — he yawned and turned over — it couldn’t affect them…
How very wrong he was.
Mr. Dundey might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the penis on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Private Drive. It didn’t so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two dildos swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the penis moved at all.
A man appeared on the corner the penis had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you’d have thought he’d just popped out of the ground. The penis’s testicles twitched and its foreskin came off.
Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Private Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his underwear. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his cock was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man’s name was Almund Dumbass.
Almund Dumbass didn’t seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the penis, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the penis seemed to turn him on. He chuckled and muttered, “I should have known.” He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again — the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dundey, they wouldn’t be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbass slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the penis. He didn’t look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.
“Fancy seeing you here, Professor Seagull.” He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the penis had had around its testicles. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn to her tight bum. She looked distinctly ruffled. “How did you know it was me?” she asked.
“My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a penis so stiff.”
“You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day,” said Professor Seagull.
“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here.”
Professor Seagull sniffed angrily.
“Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,” she said impatiently. “You’d think they’d be a bit more careful, but no — even the shitheads have noticed something’s going on. It was on their news.” She jerked her head back at the Dundeys’ dark living-room window. “I heard it. Flocks of dildos… shooting penises… Well, they’re not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Bent — I’ll bet that was Gold Digger. He never had much sense.”
“You can’t blame them,” said Dumbass gently. “We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.”
“I know that,” said Professor Seagull irritably. “But that’s no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Smuggle clothes, swapping rumors.” She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbass here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn’t, so she went on. “A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Smuggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbass?” “It certainly seems so,” said Dumbass. “We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a semen drop?” “A what?” “A semen drop. They’re a kind of Smuggle delicacy I’m rather fond of.” “No, thank you,” said Professor Seagull coldly, as though she didn’t think this was the moment for semen drops. “As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone —” “My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense — for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Violentass.” Professor Seagull flinched, but Dumbass, who was unsticking his penis, seemed not to notice. “It all gets so confusing if we keep saying ‘You-Know-Who.’ I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Violentass’s name.” “I know you haven’t,” said Professor Seagull, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. “But you’re different. Everyone knows you’re the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Violentass, was frightened of.”
“You flatter me,” said Dumbass calmly. “Violentass had penises I will never have.”
“Only because you’re too — well —noble to use them.”
“It’s lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pompey told me she liked my new bandannas.”
Professor Seagull shot a sharp look at Dumbass and said “The dildos are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what they’re saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped him?”
It seemed that Professor Seagull had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbass with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever “everyone” was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbass told her it was true. Dumbass, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.
Dumbass said “Why else do you think I switched off the streetlights?” and bowed his head. Professor Seagull gasped.
“I can’t believe it… I didn’t want to believe it… Oh, Almund…” Dumbass reached out and grabbed her boob. “I know… I know…” he said heavily. Professor Seagull’s voice trembled as she went on. “That’s not all. You have to buy contraceptive pills and I have to eat them before 72 hours cross!.” Dumbass nodded glumly. “It’s — it’s true?” faltered Professor Seagull. “After all you’ve done… you are going to fuck me? It’s just astounding… of all the things to stop me… but how in the name of heaven…” Professor Seagull took off her clothes and ‘Firmness in Action’ started.
“Yes,” Professor Seagull shouted in delight. “And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re here, of all places?”
“I’ve come to bring Garry to his aunt and uncle. They’re the only family he has left now and also to fuck you!.”
“You don’t mean – you can’t mean the people who live here?” cried Professor Seagull, jumping to her feet and putting her bra back on. “Dumbass — you can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got this son — I saw him fucking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for milk. Garry Jitter come and live here!”
“It’s the best place for him,” said Dumbass firmly. “His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he’s older. I’ve written them a letter.”
“A letter?” repeated Professor Seagull faintly, sitting back down on the wall. “Really, Dumbass, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He’ll be famous — a legend — I wouldn’t be surprised if today was known as Garry Jitter day in the future — there will be books written about Garry — every child in our world will know his name!”
“Exactly.” said Dumbass, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses, the only thing he was wearing. “It would be enough to turn any boy’s head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won’t even remember! Can you see how much better off he’ll be, growing up away from all that until he’s ready to take it?”
Professor Seagull opened her mouth, gave Dumbass a blowjob, swallowed his semen, and then said, “Yes — yes, you’re right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbass?” She eyed his underwear suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Garry underneath it.
“Shagrid’s bringing him.”
“You think it —wise — to trust Shagrid with something as important as this?”
“I would trust Shagrid with my life,” said Dumbass. “I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” said Professor Seagull grudgingly, “but you can’t pretend he’s not careless. He does tend to — what was that?” A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky — and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.
If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.
“Shagrid,” said Dumbass, sounding angry. “You told me you will be late. And from where the hell did you get the bike?”
“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbass, sir,” said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. “Young Serious Black lent it to me. I’ve got him, sir.”
“No problems, were there?”
“No, sir — house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Smuggles started swarmin’ around. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Pistol.”
Dumbass and Professor Seagull bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.
“Is that where —?” whispered Professor Seagull.
“Yes,” said Dumbass. “He’ll have that scar forever.”
“Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbass?”
“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well — give him here, Shagrid — we’d better get this over with.”
Dumbass took Garry in his arms and turned toward the Dundeys’ house.
“Could I — could I say good-bye to him, sir?” asked Shagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Garry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, the very gayish Shagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.
“Shhh!” hissed Professor Seagull, “You’ll wake the Smuggles!”
“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Shagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it —Mily an’ Games dead — an’ poor little Garry off ter live with Smuggles —” “Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Shagrid, or we’ll be found,” Professor Seagull whispered, patting Shagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbass stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Garry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his underwear, tucked it inside Garry’s blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Shagrid’s shoulders shook, Professor Seagull blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbass’s eyes seemed to have gone out.
“Well,” said Dumbass finally, “that’s that. We’ve no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.”
“Yeah,” said Shagrid in a very muffled voice, "I best get this bike away. G’night, Professor Seagull — Professor Dumbass, sir.”
Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Shagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.
“I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor Seagull,” said Dumbass, nodding to her. Professor Seagull gave him a blowjob in reply.
Dumbass turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Private Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby penis slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.
“Good luck, Garry,” he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.
A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Private Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Garry Jitter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours’ time by Mrs. Dundey’s scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being fucked in his ass by his cousin Dandy… He couldn’t know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: “To Garry Jitter — the boy who shat in his pants.