Slop slop whack whack slip slop sloppy sloppy slop slop wacky pop.
A honk of clown cum squirted into Bonkers lucky bedside wank sock.
His head splatter blissful climax like a blender with the lid off, “Fuck” he moaned and dropped his crumpled magazine.
The screwed up monthly publication landed on the ground, the centrefold spread wide revealing an advert for a pair of size 13 sandals.
Bonkers collapsed onto his bed and drifted off to sleep to the sound of cooing pigeons.
Bonkers had been living in a pigeon coop on the roof of a tower block for nearly 7 years.
The ramshackled shack was the most reasonable rent an artist of his stature could afford.
He shared the great view of Ballygofeck with a gang of anarchist pigeons who had been squatting the weather battered coop for generations.
The tower was a brutalist depressed grey block.
The 18 floors had been cost-effectively redeveloped into bedsits that were rented to folk working zero hour contracts in the lithium mines.
Most mornings Bonkers would be rudely awoken by the boisterous cooing rants of the pigeons banging on about exploitation, property rights and the coming revolution.
It had taken Bonkers years to decipher the pigeons cooing twittering nonsense, but slowly over time it all began to make sense.
In the mornings while the pigeons tried to shit on the heads of the rent collectors that came and went from the soulless building, Bonkers would stand on the rooftop scanning the cities skyline.
Eating his breakfast of banana and vanilla ice cream it made him sad that he could never live in the city proper.
His affliction met that he need to keep his time among other people short. His work at Mr Farmlets peepshow of freaks and curiosities was the perfect gig for him. The pay and hours were terrible but the nature of the gig meant he never saw the people or their feet when he was working.
It was neither people or feet that were a problem for Bonkers, it was shoes, just a glimpse of shoes especially oversized shoes would cause him embarrassment and pain.
Since the age of eleven whenever he saw over sized shoes, they gave him an almighty hard on.
He would struggle in school, especially maths. Mr Collins was a size 12 and liked to wear massive brown loafers. Just one glimpse of the loafers and his cock would spring into a 90 degrees protruding angle of rigid hot flesh.
The teachers shamed him, the girls pointed and the boys bet him up.
He learnt young to stay hidden.
Unlike Bonkers the pigeons had flown far and wide.
They had fluttered over other cities, villages, forests and towns.
With their birds eye view of the miserable people and the wrecked land they had come to a consensus; that they could no longer wait for the revolution, they needed to spark the revolution.
The years of shitting on the city and its people hadn’t changed a fucking thing.
The pigeons all agreed that they needed a spectacular act of defiance.
Then one night while pecking from the remains of a bottle of Buckfast, the pigeons came up with an outrageous plan.
Bonkers listened careful to the persuasive pigeon’s reckless plan.
They cooed on about fat greedy capitalists, squawked about violence as a necessary means to an end.
Both Bonkers and the pigeons felt sure they were doing the right thing when he volunteered.
The next day the pigeons attached their scaled feet to different parts of Bonkers clown garb. They furiously flapped their wings, lifting and falling, up and down until finally with the grace of a hippo on pogo stick Bonkers lifted off the ground.
The pigeons flew their deadly clown cargo over the city towards its target.
They hovered over an open skylight of a huge ornate building and released the fool.
He plunged through the sky, a psychedelic flying squirrel of clown mayhem.
Hurtling towards his finial destination and to what might be his greatest or finial performance ever.
A large crowd had gathered for the unveiling.
A thick heavy heard of hedge fund managers, corporate CEOs and bankers grazed, schmoozed and compared bonuses, squaring up to each other, chests and beer bellies filling as much space as possible. Their trophy wives gathered close-by pecking and squawking at each others dazzling jewellery that swung from their necks while their mouths made raciest jokes about the staff at the Ballygofeck Grand Gallery of Art.
Sis White the Lord Mayor of Ballygofeck swaggered on stage with a pint of beer in hand and tapped on the microphone.
“Is this fucking yoke on?” He asked and then realising it was added “Yeeeooo what’s the fuckin craic, like?”
The rich fattened herd turned to the stage.
“Posh or what like, big shout out to Paul for organising the grub and drinks, the lobster tails are fucking lush, right?”
Sis haphazardly pulled out a piece of paper from his jacket, he nearly spilt his beer and failed to be able to read his scribble notes. He crumble up the paper and threw it over his shoulder.
“OK folks, give me a whoop whoop for the art like, and a huge fuck yeah for this venue, come on you cunts louder, fuck yeah.”
The room filled with a mighty “Fuck yeah”
“The missus is always banging on about how art is a load of shit and that all artist are a bunch of wankers. And she’s right.”
I’m only joking O.K.
He laughed at his own joke and gulped down some more beer.
“Not all of them are wankers, just most of them.”
“But seriously folks where would we be without culture? Texas, fucking Yanks, any Yank here? Of course not it’s an art gallery. And if you are a Yank you can fuck off.
On the subject of cunts, some hack journalists have been writing bollox about fucking waste of money, better spent on local artist bullshit, fuck em.”
“What we have here” Sis continued point to the huge object covered in a sheet in the middle of the room. “Is more that just art, it’s a tourist attraction. It’s busy bars, full hotels, and an iconically unique visitors experience which in time will become synonymous with Ballygofeck”
The herd clapped and hollered and Sis singled at some gallery staff, who pulled the massive sheet and revealed the art work.
“I give you the world’s biggest basketball shoes” Sis downed the rest of his pint, held the empty glass aloft and then bleached. The herd went wild.
Sis acknowledged their applause.
“Fuck you Portadown with your big fucking Pineapple in the middle of a round about, no one gives a shit about pineapples, and Cavan you can stick your over sized cat statue up your hole. This authentic replica basketball shoe is not only a world record, it’s going be a game changer folk, up da Ballers, I will see ye at the bar and now a quick word from our sponsors.
Mayor Sis left the stage.
Something clanged back stage, followed by a sharp stab of feedback, a flash of light followed by a honk, what looked like a pigeon and then the stage was dumped into blackness.
A small pool of light appeared and a clown stepped into the spot light.
“Hello everyone my name is Bonkers and I want to sing you a song.”
Bonkers reached inside his costume and took out a penny whistle and threw it away. He reached back in and found a harmonica, he flung that away, then produced a sousaphone it too was tossed away, then a bass drum and then finally a small ukulele. He cleared his throat strummed the uke and began to sing to the worlds biggest basketball shoe.
I’m a little teapot,
Short and stout,
Here is my handle
Here is my spout
And at that moment his great big baggy trousers fell down and revealed to the watching herd his clown cock.
The drunk herd stopped in their tracks when they saw the unusually shape and size of the clown’s cock.
They stared at the strangely glowing cock and all agreed it could be seen to grow.
People gasped, some screamed, four women and one man fainted.
The erection was lengthening, going from big to mammoth.
Two pigeons flew into the hall.
The clown threw the ukulele away and grabbed the microphone with one hand and his huge harding cock with the other.
Whack Whack Whack Whack.
Bonkers was pulling furiously on his ballooning shaft.
The clown kept sining.
When I get all steamed up,
Hear me shout,
The herd couldn’t look away from the perturbing shaft.
The clowns cock ballooned and fattened, it surged and bulged to the same size of a grown mans leg. The cock pulsated, first of flesh-red and then blues and purples. Colours seemed to swirl all over the cock, the colours mixed and churned into a rainbow candy stick of penis.
Bonkers grabbed hard onto the huge multi-coloured unicorn horn of hot veiny flesh and furiously pulled at it.
Whack Whack Whack, went Bonkers on his freaky magic stick.
Fear spread through the heard as they released that the multi coloured gargantuan clown cock looked like it was about to explode.
And bonkers sang:
Tip me over and pour me out!
And with that the clown’s cock ejaculated.
Clown seamen blasted violently over the panicked herd, vomiting psychedelic spunk into the gallery. It splashed and splattered on the herd’s suits and gowns. The clown’s load slapped itself onto their shocked faces.
The force of it pushed serval of the herd onto the floor, they struggled to get back on their feet as they slipped in the pools of clown love cheese.
Bonkers stared manically at the massive basketball shoe and pulled hard on his cock pipe. They were the fire and he was the hose.
The heard ran for the doors but they were locked, they rattled at them but no one came to the rescue.
Bonkers tugged and pulled, the cum kept coming, gushing sticky gloopy man custard into the gallery
They stared helpless at the splurging pyrotechnic glitter fountain of clown spunk that retched all over them and was filling the room.
Some of the shortest members of the herd were on their tipi toes as the soupy motley cum was quickly clambering up to their necks.
The tide of swill kept rising.
The herd waded in the heavy lardy liquid, some went under, others made the mistake of trying to save the sinking bodies only to have themselves dragged under.
The herd were swigging it down, some were surprised to find that it tasted of banana and vanilla ice cream.
They were gargling and drowning in the clown slop.
They gulped and gargled it down.
Arms flayed, their screams for help choked by the cum in their throats.
The room filled.
The tide of jiz rose and rose.
The weight of the heavy cum stew gobbled the heard one by one.
Lord Mayor Sis waded his way to the plinth, it was the only available high ground in the room. He used some submerged bodies to clamber up beside the basketball shoe.
But the weight of him made the plinth collapse and Sis fell into the lake of briny spunk.
As he went under he tried to scream but it sounded more like a gargle as the cum drained down into his lungs. Then the giant basketball shoe collapsed on top of Sis and together they sunk to their salty grave.
Soon all the guests were dead under the lumpy clown cum, all drowned. Some pigeons arrived just in time to see the last throb of Bonkers cock.
A mob of pigeons circled the dead sunken CEO bankers and hedge funds mangers.
Bonkers fisted one more giant tug and with that the clown cock erupted and exploded, flesh and blood stained the walls and bonkers passed out.
A hundred pigeons came and lifted him out of the hall.
When Bookers open their eyes, they were flying high above the city, drifting through the clouds as light as the wind, as free as a breeze.
The next time they opened their eyes they were back in their bed in the coop.
They lay with their dizzy thoughts, stars and yellow birds spun around his foggy clown head, dream like memory of the galley flashed back into his head.
And then suddenly like a jack in the box they sat up. He wailed and cried, tears arching out of his tear ducks in a constant stream like a small garden gnome pissing water feature.
The clown stopped crying then sniffled and wiped a sliver line of snot on the back of their hand. Slowly lifted the sheets and look at what was between their legs.
Bonkers wailed and cried again but even louder.
Bonkers fell flat onto the bed which groaned in rusty pain and then snapped in half.
Bonkers was dumped onto the ground of the coop.
Lying on the floor beside the clown was their magazine, the pages flapped in the wind, picture of shoes tease at their eyes, leather booth, Birkenstocks sandals, Dr Martins, Puma trainers.
But for the first time ever nothing happened.
Bonkers smiled a happy smile.