You're not fit to cut the grass!

[Carlos de la Fuente]

Stag nights? What do I know about them? Probably more than most of you, if the truth be told. Had you asked that question a few years ago, I would have responded with tales of high jinks, heavy drinking, the gobbling down of illegal chemicals, gambling, strippers, Amsterdam knocking shops, police cells and occasionally, small furry woodland animals. However, today I'd respond differently. I'd shake my head and say little; the darkness still haunts me.

I was up a ladder, cleaning out the gutter, when my mobile rang. Now, I don't know about you, but when I'm balanced precariously on a spindly wooden frame, so far off the ground that a tumble can only lead to ambulance ride, I tend to not make a habit of answering my phone. If I have got it in my pocket, I let it ring. Let's face it, nothing is urgent when you're up a ladder.

Why did I answer it? I don't know, if I'm honest. Like a lot of things in this tale, my only answer - my only excuse - is that I don't know. It's beyond me, I have not a clue, there is no reason. Maybe, just maybe, that's why it haunts me still!

"Carlos, it's Jimmy; what are you doing?"

"I'm up a ladder mate. What's up?"

"Listen, Terry's mate who works at Quick Fit knows some lad who he plays darts with and he's having a stag, in Prague!"

"Do we know him?"

"Who cares, Carlos, it's a stag, in Prague."

"We can't just pitch up..."

"He said the more, the merrier, so we're just more to make it merrier. I told Paula I'd known the lad for ages, so she's cool about it. Tell Wendy the same, and we're on for a weekend of cheap beer and somewhat tasty Czech hookers. If they're a bunch of knobs, we can always split and do our own thing."

"When is it?"

"Two weeks next Friday?"

"I'll have to check; I don't know what I'm doing."

"What? Listen mate, you're getting old. There was a time..."

I decided that up a ladder was not the best place to have a debate about responsibility, so I just agreed. I figured I could easily cancel nearer the time. I didn't though; this was what we did. We went on anyone's stag do, whether we knew them or not. We always had, and I guess that right then, I figured we always would. Now, I'll never go on another stag do again. Ever.

Prague was Prague; cheap lager, rather elegant whores, and bunches of English people on various stags and hens. We did what we had come to do; drink. I woke up on Saturday in the middle of the afternoon, and set about the hangover-easing ritual. I was on my third bloody mary when the girl in the nurse's uniform appeared. It transpired we'd had a stag-hen interface at some point, and the two groups were now pretty much dispersed over a couple of different hotel rooms. She wasn't all that through sober eyes, so after discovering Jimmy was in another room, I hit the street. I would call him once I had recovered a bit.

What is it about stags, hangovers and strippers? I ended up sat at the back of the darkened room, sipping a medicinal beer and watching a progression of middle-aged women peel off their clothing in a cold and uninterested way. The 1970s funk pumped from the speakers as they took it in turns to entertain me ... and the dozen or so other degenerates in Pussy Heaven.

I remember Pussy Heaven. I remember it well. I also remember Angelica; she was the bar maid. I remember talking to her about football, of all things. Then we talked about her job. She worked there to pay her college fees. She was studying art. We talked about art; well, she talked and I nodded. I switched to Tequila. I remember that too. I even remember that when she clocked off, and we left, it was dark outside. I remember going to another bar, then to a party, and then I met Olga and lost Angelica. Or did I? Was I with both of them, or have I just confused the time?

Then I was waiting. I don't know why. It was raining, and I remember being angry for some reason. Christ alone knows why. It's all a blur, then a car stopped and I got in it. Then ... well, then I'm not sure.

If you want to experience the worst headache of you life, then go on a bender, for however long it takes, and wake up on the floor on an Eastern European train. The vibrations rattled my fragile head which was resting on the steel plate floor. I was cold, cold through to my bones. My marrow was freezing. My mouth tasted of, well, it wasn't good. I felt like I'd gargled the contents of a cat litter tray, after excessive usage by the town's moggies. I felt pain in every part of my body. Seriously, my teeth, my joints, even my fingernails. What had happened?

I was awake because some goon in a uniform was pushing my chest with the toe of his boot. Yeah, thanks for that mate. I struggled into a sitting position. He was shouting something; he seemed a tad fractious. I guessed he wanted a ticket. I started to go through my pockets; then it dawned on me.

I had no wallet. I had no passport. I had no phone. In fact, I had nothing. All of my pockets were empty. I only had one shoe on. My unshoed foot bore a torn sock and a smear of dried blood. Why was I on a train? Why? As I patted frantically at my pockets, I realised I stank. Not just a slight odour, but a putrid scent of sweat and vomit, and maybe a tinge of urine.

That was that. As the train pulled away, I was left alone, standing by the track. There wasn't even a station. They wouldn't even afford me that luxury. Here I was, totally alone in a strange country, in the middle of nowhere, after God knows what had happened in Prague. Suddenly I felt sick, very very sick.

I had to get home, somehow!

[oldhammad]

Interesting start...

[ScottleeSV]

Welcome to the forums, Carlos!

I've got a good guess in my own mind as to what will happen in the next update, but I'll keep it to myself for now (especially as Czech Republic league stories are a rarity).

Nice start though. You write really well.

[JoeCFC]

Good start, I'll be following this

[CAFCIan75]

A great start Carlos, I look forward to reading more

[The RingMaster]

Always good to read a story based in a 'less fashionable' league, I am always more interested when I don't already have a complete knowledge of the clubs, players, etc. That combined with the story always makes for a good read for me. It's a good, well written start, I look forward to the next update.

[valierm]

Ha, ha, brilliant - had a similar stag night in prague myself - the chemicals did me - from the steam room in a strange hotel i woke up fully clothed, face down and half submerged in that is!

[Carlos de la Fuente]

Thanks for the positive comments, folks!

*

I started to walk. My first mistake - who am I kidding, my next mistake - was to head down the embankment and into the trees. I only thought about following the track once I was into the forest, and then despite wandering in circles for what felt like an eternity, I couldn't find the railway again. My shoeless foot was bleeding, so I took off my shirt and wrapped it around it to form a rudimentary covering. It was freezing cold, and I figured that jogging might warm me up, but I just didn't have the strength. I was hungry; in fact, it felt as if I'd never eaten any food. My mouth was coated with a acidic phlegm. To be honest, I'd had better days.

It started to rain. I walked on, the trees mocking me as I went. Why did this kind of crap happen to me? What I had done to deserve it? It wasn't like I was a bad person. I took care of my wife, I paid my bills, I helped old ladies get their shopping when it snowed, I did all the stuff that should have earned me some good karma, and here I was in the middle of nowhere on a rainy Sunday afternoon with no money, no phone, no passport and I had to get back to Prague before the flight left. Damn Jimmy and his stupid stag ...

The dog's bark made me jump; where was it? Where there's dogs there's usually ... people? I tried to run, but my shoed foot stood on a trailing piece of shirt and I went down hard into the mud. I dragged myself back to my feet, now splattered with dirt and with a bleeding nose. I heard the bark again, and stumbled through the bushes and onto the playing field.

It was a school. There was no sign of the dog, and it had fallen silent again. I crossed the football pitch and headed for the building. There would be no one here as it was a Sunday. However, I might find a telephone, some money, some food or water, anything that might help me. I looked around, pensive. I didn't like the idea of breaking in, but I had no other choice. A quick recky found an open window. It was small, but with some considerable struggle I managed to get through. I was in a toilet.

I turned on the tap and drank greedily. Then I ran some hot water. At least I could get cleaned up. I quickly stripped and began to wash. I gently wiped the blood from my foot and carefully washed the cuts. Then I started on the rest of my stinking hide. My genitals were manky; I ran my finger along the side of my scrotum, and sniffed it. By Christ, I was decaying! I took a scooped handful of hot water, bent over, and starting lathering up my crack and balls.

The little girl's scream cut through the silence, and made me jump. I will admit that I did do a tiny bit of wee, such was the shock. I turned to face her, and she screamed again. I cupped my hands over my privates, and stood there, rooted to the spot. An matronly woman entered, screamed herself, then ushered the child out of the door.

"Sorry, I thought ... do you speak English?"

But she was gone, her voice echoing in shrill alarm outside. Suddenly, the room seemed filled with angry adults. I backed into a corner - not a great move, but to be honest, I wasn't really thinking so well.

"Anyone speak English? Spakka de Ingliz? Parlez vous Anglais? English?"

I was doomed, utterly doomed. Then one woman, grey haired, bespectacled, and somewhat seemingly amused by my plight, spoke.

"I have a little English."

"Listen, I'm really really sorry. I thought no one would be here because it's a Sunday. I didn't break in; the window was open."

I pointed towards the window to emphasis the fact, then realised my cock was on full display, so quickly covered it again.

"Sunday? Today is Thursday!"

Her words were like a ice-pick to the head. I shuddered, deep within my flesh and blood and bones, I shuddered like I'd never shuddered before. My mind was like a tornado. Thursday? What? Where I had been since Saturday? I'd missed my flight. I should have been home Sunday night.

"Thursday? Are you sure?"

"Yes, it is Thursday."

"Look, I need to get to Prague, urgently."

"To the Czech Republic?"

"Yes, to Prague."

Then it dawned on me.

"What do you mean, to the Czech Republic?"

"You want to go the Czech Republic?"

"This is ... I mean ... where am I?"

"Vihorlat, near Michalovce."

"Where?"

"Virhorlat, near Michalovce. In the Kosice region."

"The Kosice region of ... where exactly?"

"Slovakia of course!"

I farted. It was involuntary.

"I need a phone, urgently."

"Get dressed, please. Then maybe you can use a phone."

I pulled back on my ragged and dirty trousers. My shirt was finished, so I put my jacket on and buttoned it up. I thought about putting my one shoe on, but there was no point now. I was relieved, sort of. I'd be home soon. Then I heard the siren.

"What's that?"

"It is the police."

"Why have you called them? I'm not going to cause trouble. I just need to use a phone."

"Why have we called them? Well, you break in, you expose yourself to children, you try to sexually molest them."

"No I didn't. I just ... it was all an accident. I'm the victim here."

"The police will decide that. We do not like sex tourists in Slovakia. Twenty years or so will teach you that. Mind you, here we have our local ways ... special ways ... of dealing with perverts."

I knew I was innocent. I knew that I wasn't a pervert. The police would check and find out that I was a Chartered Account from Muswell Hill. It would all be okay. As I said at the start, much of this tale I simply cannot explain, so I cannot explain why, at this point, I punched the old woman as hard as I could in the face and ran.

The police came in the front door as I headed out of the back. I ran towards the trees and let the forest swallow me up. The branches whipped my face and body as I blundered forward, running as best I could, ignoring the pain as my feet were pierced with thorns and stones. I ran and ran until I collapsed, breathless, spent, not an ounce of energy left.

I must have passed out, because it was dark before I realised it. I stood and started to walk. Every sinew in my body screamed with pain. I walked for what felt like an eternity. Then I saw it; a light through the trees.

I crept closer to the farm. I didn't want to risk being caught. I just had to get away, get somewhere civilised where I could contact the British Embassy. I moved slowly; my heart was pounding, urging me to run, but I knew that if I was caught, I might find out what local justice meant. I moved towards the barn, and squeezed through the gap in the doors.

There was nothing inside, nothing at all, apart from a sit-on lawnmower. It would have to do. I carefully opened the doors and pushed the mower outside and off down a track. I pushed it for about 100 yards, then when I thought I was far enough away from the farm, I started the engine, climbed on and set off.

It wasn't fast. At one point I got off, urinated, and jogged for about 30 seconds to catch it up and got back on. I drove all night, and as dawn appeared on the horizon, the track turned into a road; a proper road. In the distance I could see what looked like a small town. I willed the mower to go faster, but it trundled on at its pedestrian pace.

I saw a sign; it read Michalovce. The engine spluttered and picked up again. I was running out of fuel. I'd have to siphon some off a parked vehicle. The town looked hostile. Would I be safe here, or would I still fall foul of the locals' own brand of law? I needed to get somewhere safe before the lynch mob realised I was the Vihorlat flasher! Then the engine died.

I was outside a set of iron gates, of what looked like a football ground. An old man was busy unlocking the padlock that held them closed. He spotted me and spoke.

"Sorry, no understand. English!"

"You have come about the job?"

Job? A job equalled money, and money equalled getting back home. I nodded.

That's how I became the groundsman at MFK Zemplin Michalovce in the Slovakian second division.

[tenthreeleader]

Welcome to FMS! Clearly, your first posts are quite well done with evidence of a plan, which is what we like to see and read.

Will be following along. It's always good to have quality writing set outside of the 'traditional' FMS story areas.

[Carlos de la Fuente]

Once I'd pushed the mower to a pitch-side position, I tied up the details on my employment with the old man: Igor Soltinsky, the club chairman. He laughed when I asked for the key to the groundsman's facilities, and as he handed me the rusted item he quipped that I was welcome to it, for all the good it would do me. He sniffed the air, wrinkled his face, and suggested that I stop along the way at the shower block, and maybe pick up an old tracksuit or something. Then he waved me away.

The hot water rejuvenated me, and with a lurid yellow and blue tracksuit on, I felt ready for the day. Footwear was a slight issue; my left trainer was a size too small and crushed my toes, whilst the right trainer was three sizes too big, without any laces. I made a mental note to check the shower block each time I passed; hopefully, someone who took size 9 would be in there one day. I was owed some luck. Then I headed for the club canteen.

The girl behind the counter was a picture! Her hair was long and black. Well, what hair she had was long and black. The bald patches oozed some sticky secretion that looked less than healthy. Her blue eye was firmly on me; the brown one seemed to wander around the room at will. I introduced myself, and she replied. However, it sounded like she was gargling a mouthful of phlegm. Her one green tooth was set firmly in the centre of her lower jaw. The lack of other teeth allowed ample space for the gumboils to fester. I didn't catch her name, so I simply called her Duchess. She seemed to like that.

Whilst my newly acquired second hand tracksuit didn't quite mark me as a dedicated follower of fashion, it made me look snazzy compared to her. Her tits were somewhat droopy and thin, and she had fashioned a sling of dirty dishclothes to hold them up under her armpits out of harm's way. As she moved, one nipple occasionally appeared, a long black hair sprouting from it like some other-worldly antenna. I suppose the hastily-made garment stopped her udders from dangling in what looked like last month's gravy. Her skirt had seen better days, and some of the stains made me fear for her toilet habits. The split up the back was a bridge too far; I averted my eyes with shock. Still, she was the best looker in the room.

I turned my attention to the food.

"What's that, Duchess?"

"Horseradish stew," she spat back.

"And that?"

"Horseradish salad."

"And that?"

"Horseradish bake."

"Tell me Duchess, do you have anything without horseradish?"

"Beef?"

"Beef? Is that it? It doesn't look like beef."

"It's mock beef."

"Mock beef? What's it made out of?"

"Horseradish."

"Do you have anything that isn't horseradish?"

"This!"

Her dirty finger stabbed at a pile of what looked like horse manure.

"What's that, for Christ's sake? Dung?"

"Mock horseradish."

"Really? What's that made out of?"

"Swede."

I opted for the mock beef, and found an empty table. The saline decaying tang of dung was just settling on my tongue when a fat sweaty man approached, a stupid smile spread across his moon-like face. He nodded towards the seat opposite me, and despite my gut feeling I accepted his advance. He sat slowly, farted, wafted his hand around to try and dispel his gases, and then mumbled.

"Christ on a bike, this country is a like a toilet, a dirty peasant's toilet."

I forked another pile of dung into my mouth.

"You could say that."

"Oh, where are my manners. I am Sergey, Sergey Vasin. I am the new manager here. In fact, today is my first day."

We shook hands.

"I'm Carlos, the new groundsman. Today's my first day too."

"So we are both virgins. We get broken in together, eh?"

He sniffed his plate, and then pushed it to one side.

"This country stinks. The food is crap, the people are dogs; oh that I never left Mother Russia for this."

"Why did you leave?"

He looked startled.

"I never touched the girl. It is all a lie. I mean, the names they called me. Sex beast. Rapist. Molestor. It is all untrue. I did not touch her. Can a grown man not sleep next to a young girl without people thinking bad thoughts? It was innocent. That's it; just innocent fun. We just got naked to play the milk maid and the cossack. I didn't do anything to her."

With that he rose and strode from the canteen. I couldn't eat any more, so I followed. I decided to check out my new office.

The shed was leaning over at a precarious angle. It would have fallen in on itself had someone not had the foresight to jam a couple of grass rollers up against the side. The roof was missing altogether, instead replaced by a collection of ragged tarpaulins tied together with old shoe laces. The lace from my trainer was probably up there somewhere. The door hung off one hinge. Inside the damp was thick in the air, so thick you could taste it. There was a collection of old broken tools, a few pots of paint, cardboard boxes filled with paperwork and an old garden chair with a split in the seat.

I figured I'd done enough for my first day, so I settled down for a nap.

[Carlos de la Fuente]

I was in a forest; the sunlight spilled down through the trees, forming pools of light and warmth. The breeze carried a scent that was pure peace. Under the waterfall, the dusky maiden soaped up her firm young body, the clear water cascading around her, rivulets trickled down her flat belly, and into her secret...

I opened my eyes and the forest was gone. It was dark; cold and dark and smelly. One thing from the dream lingered; the trickle of water. I sat bolt upright and realised that a man was in the shed, openly urinating onto the floor.

"Oi, you dirty bastard."

"Ah, so sleeping beauty awakes, eh? And not before time, you lazy sack of manure. Who do you think you are, the king of Slovakia?"

I tried to stand, but with one leap he was on me, a rusted blade circling menacingly in front of my face. I froze, not through fear, but because I wasn't really sure if his old chap was still out. I didn't want to accidentally touch it, it might give him ideas.

"Do you know who I am?"

I shook my head. I didn't have a clue who he was.

"I am Emil. Emil Sudimak, assistant manager, and you, you have taken my brother Marek's job."

"Really? I thought the position was free."

"It was; free for Marek. Now you have taken his job, stolen the bread from the mouths of his children. You have driven him into the streets, set his wife upon the path to prostitution; you might as well have burned down his house, chopped off his manhood, and driven him out into the snow to fend off the wolves."

"It's not snowing, is it?"

"Don't try to be smart, my friend, because smart leads to dead in these parts. So, what can you do to ... alleviate ... the situation?"

"Well, if Marek's wife is short of a few bob, and she decides to go down the path of..."

The knife flashed in the moonlight, and I felt a burning sensation on my cheek. I instinctively touched my face, but it was too dark to see if my hand showed any blood. It didn't matter; I knew he had cut me.

"This is what you will do, my friend. Tomorrow you will resign your position, and you will leave. When you go, you will not be riding on that mower you arrived on. I think that should be left, for Marek, as compensation."

"And if I don't go?"

"I can make life very uncomfortable for you."

"Really? What are you going to do, make me sleep in a shed without a bloody roof and eat horseradish that's been made to taste like dung?"

"You will go. Trust me, you will go. One more thing; if I see you so much as look at my sister before you leave, I will kill you."

"Your sister?"

"The one you call Duchess."

I'm not brave, nor did I really care about the job. However, I was damned if some hook-nosed crazy was going to wake me up, p*ss on the floor and then tell me to clear out of town.

"Listen old son; I have no intention of porking your sister, but if I decide to and she's game, then let me tell you that I'll stick it in her, up to the bristles. Another thing; I have no intention of resigning until I can afford to get back to England, and when I do choose to go, that bloody mower is coming with me. Now, if you've finished peeing in my shed, could I ask you to f*ck off out of it. I've got an early start, mowing the pitch."

I tensed, awaiting the inevitable explosion of violence, but instead he turned and left. I could see the steam rising from his urine in the moonlight. I touched my cheek again. Brilliant. Now I was going to look like an overweight Action Man.

[tenthreeleader]

Brilliant. Now I was going to look like an overweight Action Man.

Now that made me smile. Excellent post, Carlos.

[QweebStyle]

this is great i want more

[Carlos de la Fuente]

"What happened to your face?"

Sergey's fat face showed little concern; if anything, he looked bored.

"I cut myself shaving."

"Yes, I understand."

He lifted his training top to show a series of jagged scars across his stomach and chest.

"I too cut myself shaving, just before I left Mother Russia. I told them I did not touch the girl, but they did not believe me. Ah, it's the peril of having urges, or having passions."

"With passions like yours, I'd advise growing a beard."

He nodded his agreement. We stood and watched the lads training. The pitch was in a shocking state, and a few of the players were ankle-deep in what looked like slurry. When the ball landed, it stayed stock still, captured by the muck. Eventually a player would splosh up to it and hack it up the pitch, where it would once more land and stay still, motionless in the mud.

"What can you do with this pitch, Carlos?"

"Well, I could rent it out as a refugee camp. We could get at least 50 tents on it, and at 50 Koruna a night, we'd be in for a few shillings. Then I could go home and you, well, have you ever visited Cambodia? They cater for men like you out there."

"Yes, maybe. But seriously, tomorrow we stage a friendly match, and this is unplayable. Is there anything you can do?"

"Leave it with me, Sergey. I'll have some breakfast, then I'll set to work."

I walked towards the canteen. What the hell was I going to do with the pitch? It was shot to hell, and I knew nothing about lawncare. I'd seen a few people forking pitches back home, so I figured I'd start off by doing that. As I entered the steamy room, I was hit by two things: the smell of rotting radish, and Emil Sudimak, his beady black eyes locked onto me. The Duchess smiled as I approached.

"Hello sexpot!"

She giggled.

"Don't laugh at me. It's not kind."

"Sweetheart, I'm not laughing at you. I'm serious. The first time I saw you I felt a burning fire rise in my loins. I'm smitten, really."

She giggled again, and spooned an extra dollop of dung-like crap onto my plate. Then she glanced around furtively, and reached into her stained blouse, groping under her left tit. She produced a dried black sausage with a bite taken out of it, which she slid into the pile of slop. Then she handed it over with a wink. I knew Emil would be watching like a hawk, so I suggestively licked my lips and spoke loudly.

"Listen, Duchess, do you want to go somewhere tonight?"

She grinned, showing off her green tooth like a mossy island in a sea of boils, and nodded. I could almost feel Emil's rage, like a knife in my back. We set a time, and I headed off to a table to force down the rotting mess that the good folk of Michalovce called breakfast. It tasted of turd, but I made sure I ate it all. I simply couldn't just leave; Emil might take it as a sign of weakness.

Eventually Emil rose to leave, and I darted out before him. Once outside, I slowed so he could catch me up.

"My friend, are you not leaving? There is a bus at 10 o'clock."

"I'd love to, really, but I can't afford the bus. Otherwise, I'd be gone as fast as you like."

He snarled, then reached in his pocket.

"I can spare you a few Koruna."

He handed over some loose change.

"Ah, there's a snag. I'm going to need more money for a train. I need to get as far away as possible. Here, have your money back. I guess I'll just have to stay here until I can save up some more cash."

Emil frowned. He new he had to make a decision. He went back into the pocket and produced a few crumpled notes. I muttered about the cost of food on trains, and offered the money back. He knew I was riding him, but he had to make a quick choice. Another handful of notes came my way.

"I will miss you. Goodbye."

"I'll miss you too."

Now I had some money to take the Duchess out, and in our own personal battle, the score was Carlos 1, Emil 0.

I walked away, heading for the shed. I had a pitch to fork!

[Carlos de la Fuente]

I'd forked the pitch. I'd forked it, rollered it, driven in circles on the mower, brushed the water off it; I'd done it all. It was a bloody quagmire. What's more, it had a terrible stench of slurry about it. I turned it from a patchy green field to a sea of watery mud. I had, in the words of the poet, f*cked it right up. At one point, Emil had appeared, and on seeing me had quite literally flipped. Given the mess I was making at the time, it might have been opportune for him to kill me. That option was removed when Sergey dragged him off for a tactical meeting. I knew things were bad when, on lighting up a Marlboro, my discarded match resulted in a sea of low blue flame across the penalty area.

I realised that I had no choice. I had to quit. This was it, I had hit my peak prematurely. It was like sex with a pretty girl; short, sharp and ultimately disappointng. I saw Sergey heading towards me. I was ready to fall on my sword. That's a reference to suicide, not a knob gag.

Sergey looked at the pitch.

"Nice job, Carlos. Nice!"

Was he taking the rise? I looked again. All I could see was an ocean of turded up dung with badly painted white lines. One end of the pitch was at gas mark 3, and the rest was steaming. It was hopeless. I even moved my date with the Duchess to the next night. I told her that it would be much better after a victory, and that the pitch needed my attention. After dinner at the canteen, I headed for the shed and slept.

The next day I was awoken by the horn. Right, look, no, it's not a knob gag. I mean the horn of a vehicle. A bus. Hooting. Nothing to do with cock. I stumbled into the day, only to realise it was late morning. The team and supporters of Drava were hovering around. Drava was allegedly some crap side from the Slovenian league. Slovakia and Slovenia seemed the same to the outside world, but inside, they hated each other. Tolerance made it work. Allegedly. I didn't see many signs of tolerance. That said, I had stuff to do.

There was some media interest. Okay, there was some fat paedophile with a camera, but it was all the same to me. I watched the management jerk each other off for a while, then on realising the office was empty, I headed inside. Drawers are made to be snooped through, so snoop I did. Let's face it, I needed paying, and I needed cash. I had no intentions to stay, so a snoop was what I needed.

I was reading a financial projection when the telephone rang. Instinctively, I picked it up.

"Yep?"

"Listen carefully."

"Pardon?"

"Listen carefully."

"To what?"

"To this."

"What?"

"This."

"When?"

What?"

"See."

"What?"

"Who?"

"Right, stop. Listen."

I yawned.

"Do I have to?"

"Yes!"

I put the receiver down. The phone rang a few seconds later, and I picked it up again.

"Who?"

"What?"

"See?"

"Oh, stop; LISTEN!"

"Okay."

"There is a bomb."

"A bum?"

"No, a bomb."

"Bum love? Are you sure? I mean, usually no, but tonight I'm game!"

"Right, listen, you knob cheese. There's a bomb, in the stadium. You're all going to die."

"A bum?"

"Stop it, please. This is serious. There is a bomb in the ground."

"Are you mental?"

"Why?"

"Well, let's be honest. If you blew this place apart, no one would notice. It's a crap hole. You'd be doing them a favour."

"Who is this?"

"Who is this?"

"I asked first!"

"It's ... umm ...Emil!"

"Oh, Emil, Let me tell you ... hang on, who is this?"

"Emil. Do you know Emil?"

"No. What is Emil? Are you mad? I don't know anything. I know only this. There is a bomb. Freedom for the Motherland. Take us back to the first empire. Viva Tiso. Remember 1939!"

I dropped the telephone back in the cradle and headed outside. The roar told me that the lads had kicked off. I wanted to head for the stand, but I saw the carrier bag first. I stopped and looked. Initally I thought it might be sandwiches and beer, but it was, as expected, a bomb.

As I carried it carefully towards the sit-on mower, I wondered who would want to bomb a crap hole that was about to fall in on itself? The only purpose had to be to kill someone, but who? Why blow up a second rate friendly? Why?

I balanced the bomb on the back seat, and gently engaged the gear. One jolt, and I was toast. I headed out of the gates, the explosive device behind me. If it went off, my arse was gone. It could go off at any time.

And no.

That's not a bloody knob joke.

[sherm]

Top stuff Carlos, looking forward to more

[Carlos de la Fuente]

The mower was painfully slow; to be honest, I was bricking it. Once I was out of the ground, I figured my best move was to get the bomb to an open area and get shot of it as quickly as possible. Was it on a timer, or was someone watching, ready to detonate it? I knew that there were only two people who knew about it; the bomber and me. Well, the bomber's friends might also know, obviously, but that was it. Every rut in the road - and it was a road with a lot of ruts - had me screaming inside. It could go off at any second. I had to ditch it.

I reached the end of the street and turned the corner. There was a large open area of grass. I headed towards it, but just as I was about to stop a bus pulled up. A gaggle of small children got off and started playing. The girls twirled a rope and skipped, the boys chasing each other. I had to keep going. Every second felt like an eternity, the risk of the bomb going off constantly increasing. I saw a sgateway and headed through it. There was a small wood and I started to slow. Then I saw the sign. Michalovce Maternity Hospital. Damn it, I had to keep going. A roar in the background indicated that the team had obviously scored.

I came to what looked like a small church. That was fine, I could dump the bomb in the churchyard. It was a Saturday, so it would be quiet. As I steered through the gate the wedding party emerged. The bride was followed by a string of bright-eyed bridesmaids. I headed back towards the road. I had to keep going. I had to. Then I saw the drop at the side of the road. I stopped and looked down into the valley. There was nothing, apart from a derelict shed.

I very carefully got off the mower and lifted the bag. Then, with a gentle arc, I tossed it into the air and threw myself to the floor. Nothing happened. It was silent and still. I looked up. The bag was lodged against the shed. I stood slowly and looked around. There was no one close. What should I do? For a moment I thought about going down there, but only for a moment. Then it dawned on me. Someone at the club had wound me up. It had to be Emil. Or was it? Was it malicious, or an initiation? Was it...

The blast threw me to the ground. I lay still, thinking. Was there any pain? Did I still have my limbs? Was I alive? Then I heard a voice, muffled and groaning. I lifted my head and peered down the slope. The shed was wrecked, and from the carnage emerged an old man, frantically pulling up his trousers. As he scampered away, trying not catch his erection in his fly zipper, there was more movement and from the rubble emerged a goat.

I got on the mower and headed back to the stadium.

As I pulled up next to Sergey, the ref blew for half time.

"What's the score?"

"Nil nil."

"Really, I heard a roar!"

"Oh yes, Lubarskij was sent off."

"So they're down to ten men?"

"No, we are. He plays for us!"

"So ... the crowd, the cheer was loud, I thought it was the home fans."

"It was. They hate him. He is a bastard. He works at the tax office."

The second half was dull, partly due to the fact that you couldn't tell who was who. The pitch was a muddy pool, and all the players looked like extras from Zulu Dawn. Then, on the hour mark, Sitov was hacked down and the ref pointed to the spot. Michalovce had a penalty, and Labun duly converted. Then the game slipped back into mediocrity. None of players were up to much, and all seemed equally hopeless. The clock crawled slowly, and eventually it was into injury time. Suddenly, Zaw, a young striker for Michalovce, picked up the ball.

He ran around one defender, jinked past another, turned the keeper and fired the ball into the net. It was one moment in 92 minutes of crap. Sergey smiled ruefully, and shook his head.

"One player, Carlos, one player, and he's inconsistent. I have no money, the wages are already too high, and I have one inconsistent player."

"Do you want to know what I think, Sergey?"

"Yes, yes I do."

"Well, I think that you are royally screwed!"

I headed off; I had my date with the Duchess. We headed into town to a small rat-hole called Radish Fantastico. I had a fair idea of what would be on the menu. As we pushed through the hessian sack that was the front door, I saw a figure in the street dart out of view. We had been followed.

We sipped our radish wine and checked the menus. Mine had dried vomit on it. I asked the Duchess about Slovakian history. She told me about the years Slovakia was a part of the Hungarian empire. I dragged the conversation forwards a few centuries. The bomber had mentioned 1939, so I asked about it. She nodded and said that was the year the war started.

"What happened here in 1939, and what's Tiso?"

"Tiso? You mean who is Tiso. He founded the first Slovakian Republic in 1939."

"So, he's a hero, then?"

"Not so much; for most Slovakians he represents a shameful era. You see, he was a nazi, and Slovakia under Tiso was a nazi puppet state. Over 100,000 Slovak jews were killed, and the ruling party also had a darker side, a hard-line wing committed to blood and soil principles."

"Nazis, eh? And today, are there still nazis in Slovakia?"

"Enough talk; let's order. I hear radish is an aphrodisiac."

"Well, then, I'll have a double portion."

I saw the door sack move. We were being watched.

[minisav]

Loving this. Funny and intriguing in equal measure

[Carlos de la Fuente]

My gut was distended. I could feel the gas building, even before I'd finished eating. We started with radish medallions and a house salad, which was basically grated radish with some black bits that resembled rat droppings. This was followed by radish wellington, a whole horseradish wrapped in what I thought was pastry, but I was later advised by the Duchess that it was actually a local speciality, baked rat skin. The dessert was radish tart with sour cream; not proper sour cream, but old cream that had gone off. The green bits were the giveaway for me.

We sat enjoying our after-dinner drink. I had shunned the inevitable radish brandy for a very explosive-tasting homemade vodka. I listened to the Duchess wittering on, but my attention was on the door sack. There was someone continually peeping in, but I just couldn't get a good look at them. I nearly jumped when I felt a hand on my knee. The Duchess was on the move.

"I'll just freshen up, then we can go."

I just nodded. She went off to split the whiskers, and I settled the bill. I had to double check the total, because I thought it came to the equivalent of pennies. It did. Thinking about it, I was overcharged. When the Duchess returned, she apologised for the length of time it had taken.

"Sorry about that; there was no paper. I had to drip dry, and trust me, when you see my curtains, you'll realise that there's a lot to drip!"

I shuddered, then stood. Once on the street, I looked around. I couldn't see anyone, but I knew they were there, in the dark, watching. Who was it, and why was I suddenly the object of their attention? At first I thought it was Emil, what with me taking out his sister, but I was pretty sure that this was a short man, shorter than my average 5'10". No, this man was under that, and Emil was a good 6'2" or more. But if it wasn't Emil, who could it be?

We walked towards her house, hand in hand, but I was miles away. At one point she stopped and asked what I was thinking about. I said I was imagining her naked. She seemed disappointed.

"No Carlos, you must not imagine me naked. You should imagine me dressed up, maybe as a dog or something sexy like that!"

"A dog?"

"Yes, then you can mount me in the street and force yourself on me, before the local farmers have to throw buckets of water on us because we're stuck together. Then I could bury your bone."

For the second time that night, I shuddered. We arrived at her house ... well, her shack ... and she invited me in.

"For coffee?"

"Yes, for coffee, if you like."

With that, she pulled me through the door, and before I could resist she stuck her tongue deep into my mouth. Her lips were slimey, and then I realised that one of her boils had burst. I pushed away and spat, and she howled.

"No, Carlos, not on the floor. Spit in my mouth ... then beat me."

With that she turned, bent over and hitched up her skirt. She was, as expected, without knickers. Either her backside was heavy with freckles, or she'd splattered the pan back in the restaurant. Mind you, as she had said, she did one hell of a pair of flaps on her, like a spaniel's ears, but mouldy.

Now, I know some men are precious about only screwing beautiful ladies, but trust me, after the hell I had been through, the idea of rough dirty sex with an ugly boiler was attractive. I kicked off my unmatched trainers and pulled down my trousers. By now she was bent over what looked like a couple of scaffold boards on two seatless chairs, serving as a rudimentary dining table. I knew that because the smell of old decaying food on the dirty plates complemented the scent of her box. It was heady, pungent and gut-wrenching, but I endured it as I entered her.

I pounded away, trying desperately not to let the stink put me off. How long had it been? Too long was the only answer. She started to grunt like a pig, and it spurred me on as I hammered my thighs against hers. I was approaching the point of no return, my loins boiling with a mixture of rage and desire. I felt my toes curling, digging into the decaying matter that made up the floor of her hovel.

I pounded faster and faster, struggling to breath, as it built inside me, and then with a mix of agony and ecstasy I ejaculated. As a did, for a split second, I saw a face looking at me through the dirty window.

I didn't know who it was, but I did know one thing; they were wearing a Michalovce shirt!

[dogs]

I knew that because the smell of old decaying food on the dirty plates complemented the scent of her box

Jesus!!

That line made me laugh

More please

[Carlos de la Fuente]

The lads had an away friendly at Spartak Vrable, and we had a new face, Sergey's first signing, a free agent left sided midfielder called Moringl. On the bus I sat with Vladimir, the coach. All of the staff were on the bus, and as yet I hadn't seen anyone short enough to be the person who was following me the other night. In fact, I didn't think any of the players were short enough either. It was, like Mary Brannigan's black baby, a mystery.

"So, Vlad, there's no one at the club around five feet, maybe five feet two inches?"

"No Carlos, as I have already said, there's no one that short. Well, there might be a few of the Youth players near to that height, but none so short. I am sure."

"Mmmm, he was slight in build. Which of the Youth team are that short?"

Vlad sighed. I had a feeling he was getting bored. I had been badgering him for about an hour. Eventually he spoke in a whisper.

"Listen, tell me what this is about. I am a man you can trust. Whatever this is about, it will go no further. I am the personification of discreet. I can only help if I know the full story."

I explained my plight, missing out the bit about the bomb. I mentioned going to Radish Fantastico, being watched, and then going home with the Duchess and seeing the face at the window. Vlad asked what made me think it was someone from the club, and I explained that Emil wasn't my biggest fan, less so since I had taken his sister out. Whilst it wasn't him, he probably had some stooge follow me.

Vlad sat silently, deep in thought, taping a biro on his hooked nose. Then, eventually, he stood and spoke in Slovakian. The bus fell silent, and when he finished, laughter broke out from everyone; well, everyone except Emil. He strode to our seat, spat in my face, slapped me on both cheeks, hard, and made a cut-throat gesture with his finger. Then he strode back to his seat, muttering about the harm he would inflict on me.

"Vlad, what the f*ck was that all about?"

"Oh, I told them that you thought you were being followed by a dwarf, and that you saw it looking at you when you were plooking Emil's sister in her poop-tube. That's all."

"Vlad, you bastard, what about discression?"

"I was very discreet; I didn't mention that the dwarf was wearing a Michalovce shirt!"

He laughed a twisted and cruel laugh. I changed seats.

The first half of the game was a shocker. Two inept teams belting the ball from one end to the other. At one point, a miskick saw two Vrable strikers bearing down on goal, and just when it seemed impossible to not score, Michalovce keeper Pillar stood firm and saved. Sergey marched up and down the touchline, wringing his hands. Vlad chainsmoked. Emil stood with his back to the pitch, his dark eyes locked on me as I sat alone in what passed for a stand.

In the second half, there were a few changes, and once Sitov was on the pitch Michalovce looked a different side. He controlled the play behind the strikers, and when he pulled a reaction save out of the Vrable keeper, new boy Moringl was on hand to put the rebound away. Michalovce were leading. All the players and staff celebrated; all except Emil.

On 70 minutes, the lads were unlucky not to extend their lead, with Gaspar hitting the post, then a few minutes later blasting wide with the goal at his mercy. After that, the fizz went out of the game as Michalovce ran down the clock, and ended up 1-0 winners of a truly dull game.

I spent the journey back to the ground sitting alone. As we entered the town, Vlad came and sat next to me.

"Carlos, I am sorry for my joke. I want to make it up to you. You must come to dinner and meet my wife. She is a great cook."

"No, it's okay Vlad. I've got that pitch to sort out."

"You must come. Olga will cook you a special meal. We'll even kill a chicken!"

I accepted. I hadn't eaten any meat since I'd arrived in Slovakia. As the bus emptied, I saw Emil lurking in the shadows. For one moment I thought about staying on it, but I figured I had to face him eventually, and there was no time like the present.

As the bus pulled away, most of the others had gone. A few stood by the road, chatting, so I headed towards my hut. As I moved behind the stand Emil stepped out in front of me.

"Listen, Emil, I didn't ... you know, Vlad was trying to wind you up, and ... look, it's like this..."

His knee rose rapidly and connected with my testicles. I doubled up with a searing agony burning through my groin, and he swung his fist in, connecting with the side of my head. I went down like a sack of radishes. I tried to tuck my head in, but I wasn't quick enough and he kicked hard into my face. My nose exploded like an over-ripe tomato. He tried to kick again, but I grabbed his foot and he fell backwards. My intention was to get up and run, but I couldn't move. I saw him slowly rise, and realised he had something in his hand. It looked like an axe.

I'll be honest; I screamed like a bitch. That's what saved me. Suddenly there was a voice, a woman's voice. It was the Duchess. She screamed at Emil not to kill me.

What? He was going to kill me? Arseholes!

She shouted for him to stop, that she loved me, that we would be married.

Married? Double arseholes!

Deep inside, I prayed that Emil would use the axe!

[dogs]

married oh dear

[Goldy]

Fantastic story so far, I like your writing style and the story just gets more and more interesting! KUTGW!

[Old Git]

More please! Great Stuff.

[Carlos de la Fuente]

I couldn't breathe. The Duchess had thrown herself down on top of me, and it had knocked the wind out of my body. I was an empty shell, spent, a void - well except for the fear! I was afraid of the sex-mad blubber that pinned me down, afraid of her sibling madman with the axe, afraid of never getting back home, afraid of nazi bombers, and afraid that the pitch would never be playable. Beyond the pumpkin-shaped head of the Duchess I saw Emil lift the axe, it's head arcing through the air like a silver tracer. Then it hit.

It came down and buried itself in the mud, about an inch from my face. Emil turned and walked away. The Duchess sank her greasy tongue deep into my mouth. I farted. I also followed through. When I look back at my life from some death-bed hopefully miles away from Michalovce, it certainly won't be my proudest moment.

It seemed the Duchess had been waiting for me in my shed, and my scream had drawn her out to investigate. As the reality dawned on me, that she saved my life, she became the most beautiful person in the world. She insisted that we went back to the shed, that I wiped my bum, and that we made the hump-backed beast until early morning. By 6am, the old chap just couldn't rise to the occasion, so she headed off to the canteen to prepare for the day ahead. I dreaded seeing Emil, but I also knew I had to see him; I couldn't just ignore the situation.

When he finally arrived, I was taking a soil sample. Actually, I was putting some mud in a bag without any other reason than that it looked technical, and I could see the bicycle shed. I was not only watching out for Emil, but also for anyone around five feet tall. There was no one that short. Emil walked straight up to me.

"Carlos, this pitch is a disgrace."

"Well, I'll see what comes back from the lab once I submit this sample."

"It is your pooh?"

"No. it's ... oh right, very funny."

"Listen Carlos. I hate you. I hate you with a vengance. Make no mistake about this, I will kill you. I know my sister, and she will tire of the whole thing, and then, when she no longer cares, I will split you like a pig."

With that, he left.

I ponced about with the pitch a bit more, then the lads came out to train, so I sat with Sergey and we chain-smoked for an hour.

"Carlos, these boys, what can I do? The new lad, Moringl, he is a different class, but the others. What can I do?"

"Well, Sitov looks okay; he's young and will improve and he reads the game well. Pillar looks okay between the sticks. Let's be honest, you're not going up against any really skilled teams. I reckon if you can get a few more free agents to join, cut out some dead wood, and concentrate on hit-and-run tactics, you might just get through the season."

"You think?"

"Yes Sergey, I think. I also think that if your club-footed ******* don't stop hacking my pitch up, I'll never get a good surface. Mind you, a good surface will only favour passing teams, and as this bunch can't pass, maybe it's no bad thing."

"Do you know, Carlos, when I was a school teacher back in Russia, there were these two blonde twins..."

"Hold that thought; I've got something to do."

I had no interest in his reminiscences of kiddy fiddling, and I had spotted Vlad working with a few of the strikers. I walked over and enquired if the chicken dinner was still arranged. He nodded, and told me to arrive for seven. I made a note of the address and headed off. I was going in to town. I hoped the local library had some books on lawncare.

Michalovce has a bakery. It also has a butchers. There's a tailors and a shoe repair shop. Down one of the dirty alleys is a bar and a knocking shop. There's a few eateries, another bar, an agricultural machinery repair shop and a barbers. I had my hair cut and enquired where the library was. The barber asked what such a place was, and I explained. He laughed and asked why Michalovce would have such a place; few could read, and those that could only looked at dirty books. All their learning was passed from father and son. When I saw my haircut, I figured his father had been a butcher.

I went to the agricultural machinery repair shop and asked if they knew anything about grass. We discussed the pitch, and their only suggestion was to turf it. I didn't know if old man Soltinsky would cover the cost of returfing, but if he would, I figured I could cut a deal that might pay my airfare home.

Time was getting on, so I took a slow walk towards Vlad's house. I'd had an uneasy feeling all day, and it was growing. Every time I turned around, there was no one there, but I knew someone was watching me. As I approached Vlad's place, I saw a small alleyway, and turned up it. I stood still, even holding my breath, and then counted to ten. Then I dashed back into the street, and there he was.

He was certainly short, clad in a Michalovce shirt, and with a scarf wrapped around his face. He'd obviously run after me, not expecting me to cut off the main street, and now he was exposed. I started running towards him, but he turned and sprinted, hurdling a fence and was gone into a maze of overgrown gardens. I gave chase, but it was futile. Despite all my beliefs, I was basically a fat middle-aged bloke who only went to the gym to sit in the bar and look at the sweaty hard-bodied college girls. At least now I knew for sure that I wasn't paranoid.

I arrived at Vlad's house a little early, but I was busting for a wee, so I knocked. A large lady opened the door, grinned like an idiot, and ushered me in. I explained I needed a wazz, and she told me the facilities were at the back of the house. I walked through what seemed a fairly clean lean-to and reached two doors. I opened the first, and Vlad was stood before me. He was dressed in a black basque, suspenders and black stockings, and high latex boots. He also had a pair of lace panties around his knees. Behind him was an elderly gentleman dressed as a vicar, smoking a large meerschaum pipe and furiously futtering Vlad with a cucumber. As soon as they realised I was there, the action stopped.

"Vlad, what the fu..."

"Carlos, oh my god, sorry, I am ... ummm ... I have some business, please, Olga will take you the living room."

I turned to leave and heard Vlad say: "Carry on Father, you still have another five minutes. There's no refunds for an early departure."

I headed for the door, but Olga appeared and blocked the corridor.

"I am so sorry, so sorry, but the club does not pay him well, so he ... does what he can ... to earn a little more. He cannot help it; they will not take no for an answer. If he does not pay, then they will kill us all."

Behind her I saw a gaggle of naked skinny children playing in the dirt.

"Look, Olga, really, I don't care, but I'm off. This is just too much for me. Let's just forget it, eh? I'll say nothing."

Then I smelled it; roast chicken. I walked towards the oven and opened the door, which then fell off. It had been jammed in to the gap. Inside was a roast chicken. I looked at Olga and smiled.

"Will Vlad be long?"

"About five minutes. You will stay?"

"On one condition."

"What is it?"

"You peel the cucumber."

[tenthreeleader]

Very enjoyable read, Carlos. Delighted to have you here!

[dogs]

ok i'm now reading this, you better not drop it midstory as i need closure now

[Old Git]

The Duchess sank her greasy tongue deep into my mouth. I farted. I also followed through.

Got to be the best line I have ever read!

[Carlos de la Fuente]

The chicken meat was succulent and tender. Even after Olga had cleared the table, I still clung onto the leg bone, sucking the last smears of grease from it like a starving man. During the meal I'd tried to quiz Vlad about his life, but he wasn't having any of it. He refused to sully a good chicken with what he called "bad talk". Now, with a few beers and Olga back in the kitchen, he started his tale.

"When I met Olga, I was a kept man. She was rich, famous and strong. She moved around the country, wrestling bears in the town squares. She was the best bear wrestler Slovakia had ever seen. She was rich, very rich, and I lived the life of a prince, never doing more than rubbing her down after a bout. I use to smear her with butter, wait until it had soaked in, and then I'd massage her creamy skin. We laughed, loved and lived life to the full. We had no place to call home, and it wasn't a problem. Then, the Government banned bear wrestling. It did not matter, for Olga was frugal, and we had a nice nest egg.

"We moved to Michalovce because Olga used to holiday here when she was a child. Back then, the town was a beautiful place, but the people; well, the people have never changed. During the days of the First Republic, the townfolk were ... what can I say ... rigid in their views. When the nazis left and the communists came back after the war, they stayed the same. Even when the land was freed from the Czech grip of oppression, and while many in Slovakia embraced the new found freedom, here in Michalovce, the old ways were still the order of the day. Blut und Boden!

"When Igor Soltinsky bought the football club, they people were not happy. He was not a local. When he employed me, they were even unhappier. I was not a local either. Then he employed Samuel as a physio. That tipped them over the edge. Samuel was a Jew. The locals visited me and offered me a chance to 'qualify' as a local under Blut und Boden. They told me that I had to eliminate Samuel. I refused, of course, and as a result we were burned out of our home. The only way I could protect our children was to buy the thugs off. It took every penny we had. The next day, they found Samuel, hanging from a goalpost at the ground. I went to the police, but they just beat me and sent back into the streets. Afterwards, a few of the local thugs demanded regular payments for protection. I cannot afford them; that is what I do what I do, the bumhole thing with the Priest! I am sorry."

Vlad buried his head in his hands and wept.

"Listen, Vlad, forget that. Look, you don't need to pay off these idiots. Let me help."

"Carlos, if it was only that easy. You cannot defeat a population with a unified mentality. You cannot fight back against the darkness. Even Soltinsky pays the price."

"He pays the thugs too?"

"No, but he has to have Emil. He is a local, and he must be there, with a stake in the club. Soltinsky was offered a choice; be burned out or allow a local ex-football hero to have a say in how the club was managed. You cannot beat it, trust me. Blut und Boden. It is everywhere."

"This might sound stupid, but Blut und Boden? What's that all about?"

"Blood and Soil, Carlos. Blood and Soil."

It was strange. I remembered blood and soil ideology from school. The nazi's considered it a sign of ethnic purity. Pure blood, from the master race, and soil was a reference to location, of belonging to the Motherland. You had to be ethnically pure and of the Motherland. It seemed now it was being applied to a region rather than a nation.

I had learned about it years before in a History class, and now, in the space of three days, I had heard the term used twice; here with Vlad, and a few days earlier when the Duchess explained the First Republic, 1939 and Tiso to me. Now there was a link; the bomber, the locals, the club all in some way touched by blood and soil ideology. For a moment I thought about mentioning the bomb to Vlad, but he was weeping again. I thanked him and Olga for the meal and left.

As I walked back to the ground, I tried to think it through. Soltinsky had bought the club as an outsider, he had employed another outside in Vlad, and a Jewish physio. The locals had asked Vlad to prove his worth by killing the physio, and he had refused. Now he was paying the price. Emil was involved too, but how? Was he one of the Blood and Soil activists, or was he just a local with some footballing knowledge? Why try to blow up the club? That bit still didn't make sense. In truth, little of it made sense.

I wandered into the ground and headed for the shed. Then I saw it, a bright red ember in the distance. At first I thought it was the Duchess, but then I remembered that she liked to suck her tobacco; the solitary tooth made chewing too difficult. No, it wasn't her.

I crept closer, keeping hidden by the darkness of the stand. As I approached the corner flag, I saw a shovel leaning against a barrow. I carefully picked it up and prepared myself. Whoever was in there, one thing was sure; they were going to get twatted!

[Welwyn]

Great story so far

[Spav]

Excellent and totally amusing.

Carlos, your style reminds me of the work of another of my favourite writers on another forum. Are you Paraguayan, by any chance?

[Carlos de la Fuente]

Carlos, your style reminds me of the work of another of my favourite writers on another forum. Are you Paraguayan, by any chance?

Was it the wrestling bears that gave me away? Maybe, but it more likely it was the cucumber!

[Carlos de la Fuente]

The strains of Cum On Feel the Noize by Slade blasted out on the tinny record player, as the one-eyed woman stripped off and once more tickled her own nether regions with a radish root. She'd been doing for it over an hour now. Each time the record ended she climbed off the pile of potato boxes, dressed again, put the same record on and climbed back onto the makeshift stge to go through the whole sorry striptease. It seemed as if I was the only one in the place that had noticed.

Sergey dabbed at his swollen mouth, carefully checking the tissue and pointing to a smear of blood.

"I'm still bleeding, Carlos, you could have killed me."

I shrugged. What did he want from me?

"If you go sneaking around my shed after dark, you're going to get twatted."

"But with a shovel?"

"Why not? I can't think of anything I'd rather batter someone with than a shovel!"

He showed a slight interest as the old crone peeled off her knickers for the fifteenth time. He watched carefully, then nodded.

"Definately a brown streak in there; I saw it this time."

I finished my beer and rattled the glass against the table. Eventually he took the hint and shouted up another round.

As he placed the beers on the table, I tried to get the conversation going agan.

"Look, I'm sorry about your face, but you still haven't told me what you were doing in my shed."

"I came to talk."

I sat silently, waiting. Then he seemed to be hit with some sort of wave of emotion. Was that a tear?

"Sergey, don't go all gay on me. You came to talk ... about what?"

"I came to say goodbye!"

"What?"

"Yes, I came to say goodbye. I'm out of my depth, I don't know why I'm here or what I am doing. The club is penniless, and the players are talentless, and worst of all I am watched by everyone as if I am some sick criminal."

"Well, you do molest kids."

"Maybe, maybe, but where is the forgiveness? No, I made a mistake. I cannot stay, and no one will miss me. After all, Emil can be manager. He is a local man, and he has the passion. It will be best."

To be honest, when Sergey suggested leaving, I didn't really care. I didn't know the man, and what little I did know was less than savoury. If I hadn't been trapped in some Slovakian hellhole nightmare, I'd never have spoken to him. At times, I didn't even like him. I was only here because I'd nearly taken his head off with the shovel. If the truth be told, I realised it was him just before I span the shovel round and slapped it off his big fat head. I knew it was him; I still did it anyway.

But now it was like a light going on in my brain. As sick as he was, if Sergey did go, then Emil took over. If that happened, it was curtains for me. There was no option, Sergey had to stay, no matter what it took.

"Look, don't be hasty. I mean, the side has some talent. Moringl works well on the left of midfield. That was an inspired signing; it showed real football cunning. Uhlar does the job on the right flank, so you have some balance there. Sitov is strong, he can make things happen, and I was watching Sninsky and he's a solid dependable holding midfielder. So, it's not all bad. Pillar looks safe enough between the sticks, and Vajda and Labun aren't the worst defenders I've ever seen. That Polish lad, Pyrka, seems to have a bit of skill. Okay, you need a left-sided defender and a strking option, but it's not the end of the world. No, Sergey, you can do this. In fact, you are the only man for the job."

I'd watched his face, and when I'd said his signings were inspired, he did perk up, but there was still something else. I needed an edge.

"Plus, what happens if you leave town? What about the girls?"

"The girls?"

I hated myself, but I had to play the right cards to block Emil's potential promotion!

"Sure, haven't you seen the convent school girls? They're ... hot for you."

His eyes sparkled brightly, and a little bit of light went out in mine.

"Really? No, I don't believe it."

"It's true. listen, you stay, and I'll ... bring you one."

"No!"

"Yes, really."

Cum On Feel the Noize started up again. What had I done? Could I really allow one child's life to be ruined by exposing her to such a depraved monster as Sergey? I looked around the nightclub. These people were animals. They hadn't been that welcoming to me, and if all went to plan, I wouldn't be here for too much longer.

I reached over and shook hands with Sergey.

[tenthreeleader]

So did Quiet Riot cover Slade or did Slade cover Quiet Riot? Inquiring minds want to know.

In any event, what a fun read. Thanks for this tale.

[Carlos de la Fuente]

Sitov broke free and left the Sparta Krc players trailing. He switched out to the left and galloped forward, before picking out Gaspar in front of goal with a precision pass. Gaspapr switched feet, turned, switched again, and that moment of indecision saw a defender get in and hack the ball away. Sergey rolled his eyes and spat.

"He is turd; that is all."

"Give him time, he'll settle."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes; he'll settle."

"No, not about turd-boy, about the other thing."

"Trust me; the song in the club was Slade, and it's the original. It was 1973, and Quiet Riot did theirs in 1983."

"Then why do I know Quiet Riot's version, and not this Slade band?"

"Well, Slade were from the Midlands, which is as fashionable as syphillis, so most people tried to ignore them. You see, back home, you need to drink in the Pink Palace in Brighton and be called Jason to have heard of Quiet Riot. We don't go much on chutney ferrets in rock music, so unless you spent a long weekend in Frisco with someone called Warren, chances are no self-resecting Englishman would even have heard of them. No, Slade were the kings of bad hair and bad shoes, but at least they knew that their backsides were exits, not entrances."

We sparked up a fresh smoke and watched Lubarskij hammer a shot off the post. Admittedly Sparta Krc were some halfwit Czech outfit, but Michalovce were looking good. Uhlar was storming on the right flank, and when he picked out Gaspar it looked like a certain goal, but again the striker hesitated and their defence cleared.

"That's it, turd-boy is coming off."

"Sergey, have some faith."

I wasn't sure that Gaspar would come goof, but Sergey relaxed a few minutes later when another Uhlar cross found the wayward striker, and this time he hit it on the volley and we were 1-0 up! Sergey marched up and down the touchline, shouting to the small crowd that braved the afternoon rain that they should have faith in his managerial style, and his selection had come good. I didn't care if he took the credit, as long as he didn't dip out and hand control to Emil.

Michalovce grew confident, and after 40 minutes Lubarskij hit a shot from 25 yards which screamed into the top right hand corner of the net, and the lads were 2-0 up. It was a good way to end the half. I nipped to the canteen for a warm up, and the Duchess was sulking. I tried to have a joke with her, but she wasn't having any of it. I asked her what was wrong.

"What is wrong with me? What is wrong with you? I save your life, I agree to marry you, and since then, nothing! I have heard that you went to dinner with Vlad. Did he do the lady thing for you? Every one knows he does that, letting men stick things in his bumhole. Did you do that with him? And then a friend tells me that you go with Sergey to watch the one-eyed slack-lipped whore shake her mudflaps. So, there is nothing wrong with me, apart from the fact that my fiance is sticking his shaft everywhere but into my secret succulence."

I stiffled the laugh by pretending it was a cough, and explained that Sergey had been feeling down, and that I had somehow managed to brain him with a shovel, so we just went for a drink. I told her I was shocked by the antics of the lady, but couldn't leave Sergey alone. I think she bought it.

"Okay then, but Vlad, the ladyman? Did you winkle him up the back alley?"

"Darling, really, me and Vlad? No, Olga had a chicken, and..."

Her scream split the air.

"A chicken? So you leave me for a chicken? Isn't my radish the best you've ever tasted? Another woman flashes her scrawny chicken and you go running to her and her bendy whatever-way-up husband-wife? How could you be so cruel, and to think I swallowed your muck!"

"I have needs, Duchess. You give me love, and that's all I need in that department, but meat? Come on, that's different altogether."

She fell to her knees, her face screwed up in a mixture of emotions, and howled like a dog before spluttering that if I needed meat, she had meat for me, all the meat I could eat. The roar from outside signified the second half had kicked off, so I patted her on the head and went back to the dugout.

The lads pushed on in the second half. Sergey had wanted to make changes, but I told him to stick with his starting 11 for at least an hour. They kept up the momentum, and when a mazy Lubarskij run saw him dragged down in the box, the ref pointed to the spot. Vajda stepped up and made it 3-0. Sergey swapped the squad around, and the last 30 minutes was more of an exercise session than a coherent game.

As the lads trooped off, Emil approached and I watched him and Sergey engage in an animated conversation. Emil followed the lads into the tunnel and Sergey came over.

"He is not happy. He says I should discuss the team with him, not with the worst groundsman in Slovakia. He says the pitch is crap, and that you worry more about plooking his sister than doing your job. I don't know Carlos, maybe I should go."

"What? We had a deal. Come on Sergey, four games, four wins, nine scored, one conceded; you are the man!"

"Yes, about the deal. There was something you promised, something ... extra."

"Well, I need a car. I can't kidnap a child and drag her through the streets on my mower."

He handed me his keys and headed down the tunnel. I made for the gates. This was all I needed. With a car I could get away, keep driving, put the miles in. I'd be back home by the weekend.

For the first time since arriving, I was happy!

[Carlos de la Fuente]

It's not uncommon for people think of cars in terms of ladies. Many see the sleek lines of a Ferrari as the metal personification of a senorita such as Monica Bellucci. The curves of a Bugatti are reminiscent of the heaving bust of Cristina Del Basso, the Englishness of the Bentley is perceived as being taut and hard like Liz Hurley a decade ago, and the excitement of the TVR is close to watching Anna Friel and Kate Beckinsdale go at each other like a couple of sex-starved succubi! If you apply such logic, Sergey's car was like Mrs Mills, havng been freshly dug up from her resting place of the past 31 years!

The petrol gauge showed it as being empty, so I quickly siphoned some fuel from the team bus parked near by. As it fell into the tank, it just as quickly spewed onto the ground. I checked underneath, and found so many rust holes that I knew it was never going to hold more than a cupful. My chances of escape were fading fast.

With one foot on the door sill and another flapping in air trying to find a pedal, I wondered where the floor pan had gone. Oxidation had claimed around 60 per cent of the vehicle; it felt like it would tumble inwards if a breeze built up. Twenty minutes later it spluttered into life, and I edged towards the town. At first I thought the brakes were spongey, but then I realised that they didn't work at all. With the help of a tree, I stopped near the girl's school.

A gaggle of girls stood outside, chatting. I had to wait for the group to split, for one to be left alone. A bus arrived, and most got on. Two girls remained, talking to one of the nuns, then a tractor approached, and one of the girls climbed onto a trailer stacked with hay bales. The nun went inside and the lone girl started to walk down the road, away from town. I had my target.

She was easy to bring down; small, lightweight and with little fight. I tried not to notice her blonde hair, her blue eyes, her little mouth forming a scream as I dragged the sack over her head. I opened the car boot and pushed her in, slamming the lid. I cursed Sergey and his sick desires, but I had to keep Emil in his place. I got in the car and pulled away. As I checked the mirror, I saw her in the street, struggling to get the sack off. What te f*ck?

I ran back and managed to punch her in the gut, winding her and stopping her attempt to flee. I dragged her back to the car and opened the boot. It had no floor, rusted edges revealing a gaping hole showing the road. It wasn't going to be easy. The rear seat was missing, and unless I wanted her to be seen in the front seat with me, I needed a plan.

It wasn't ideal, but it was all I could come up with. I managed to tie the sack in such a way that all that was showing were her feet. I punched her again to knock any struggle out of her. Then I wrapped my jacket around her legs, before picking her up and laying her on the roof. There was no roof rack, so I used a piece of rope to wrap around her waist, with one end coming in the driver's window and another in the passenger's side. With the two ends clasped tightly in my fist, I set off towards Sergey's house.

Why was I doing this? I suddenly realised that somehow I had gone from overdoing it on a stag night to kidnapping a child to supply to some sort of sex monster. This wasn't who I was. I could just go the police, explain what had happened, contact the embassy, and they'd fly me home. Did I want to go any deeper than that? I didn't owe these people anything, and I certainly didn't like any of them. What did I care if they made each others' lives a misery with their f*cked-up ideology and blood rites? I was better than this. I was...

I realised I was outside Sergey's house. He was lurking in his doorway, furtively looking up and down the road. I felt sick, and as I got out off the car I realised I was going to puke. This was it, I'd had enough. Sergey looked inside the car and shrugged. I nodded towards the roof, and he squealed like an over-excited pig.

As he struggled to drag her off, I pushed him to one side.

"Stop. This isn't going to happen."

"But ... you promised me."

"I don't care; I can't let you hurt a child."

"Carlos, I won't hurt her, really, I am not a beast."

"No, stop. I mean it, it's all over. Nothing will make me..."

I heard the radio at the same time as Sergey. The police car had pulled up next to us. The faces inside were hostile. A bald one wound down his window and enquired what was going on. Sergey started to speak but another inside the darkness of the car cut across him.

"You are not local?"

Sergey confirmed that he wasn't a local, and the voice from darkness warned that often, those who were not local turned out to be trouble, sometimes too much trouble, and maybe some other sort of justice might be needed. The threat was obvious. Then they turned on me. This was bad, very very bad. I had no choice. I admitted that I wasn't local either, but that I was just helping Sergey deliver a new ... carpet. As the words came out, I knew I'd condemned myself. I was guilty. I was stuck deep inside the insanity that had developed. I was, essentially, guilty. Then God saved us.

When I say God saved us, I mean it. There was a crack of lighting, thunder and the heaven's opened. The rain came down like stair-rods. The officer intent on examining the "carpet" changed his mind. Sergey suggested that maybe he should pay carpet tax. They agreed. As the car left, I did eventually puke, all over my shoes.

We got the girl inside and untied her. She was angry, but not as angry as I thought she'd be. In fact, as soon as she saw the various football-related crap strewn around the place, she perked up. She talked excitedly about Slovakian football, about the various clubs and players, about the youngsters coming through. Sergey and I exchanged the odd quizzical glance, but mostly we listened.

Eventually I stopped her and explained that the kidnapping had been a mistake and that I'd take her back home. Now she did get angry, and refused to leave. She insisted on staying. She said if we tried to take her home, she would tell the police what had happened. Then she said she was getting undressed.

Sergey licked his lips, but I stopped her.

"Look, you're going home and that's it."

"No, I won't. I hate it. I hate my father, and I hate my school. I am staying here. I know about football, and I can help you."

Sergey reaffirmed that she did know about football, and pulled her towards him. She went, and settled happily on his knee.

"Sergey, no. Now, missy, outside and in the car. You're going home."

"No, I won't. My father is a bully. He makes me go to the convent school. He say's it is free, so I must go, even though..."

Sergey echoed that the father was a bully. I was going to kick him in the nuts as soon as I got her in the car.

"Listen, your father just wants you to have an education, because ... what do you mean, even though?"

"I mean even though I should not go."

"Why?"

Suddenly Sergey pushed the girl from his lap and leaped up, furiously wiping his hand on his trouser leg. Then he bellowed: "Holy sh*t, she has a penis!"

The girl smiled as Sergey screamed, and then replied: "Because I'm a boy."

[WelshWolf]

Brilliant... pure comical genius

[Carlos de la Fuente]

Marek told us his story. His mother died in childbirth, spawning Marek, and his father hated him for it. As a child he was left to relatives while the menfolk farmed the land, and as the other siblings grew and flew the nest, Marek's father had a moment of clarity. He realised that his only hope for a easy old age was if Marek got an education. However, the local schools all wanted paying; cash, produce or labour was the currency for education. Only one school delivered free education, and that was the convent school. One problem: they only took girls.

Marek's father turned Marek into Maria, and his education began. On returning from school, he initially shed the dresses of Maria to pull on the pants of Marek and help his father in the fields. Then one day, his father stopped him changing back to Marek, and Maria was told to cook, clean and wash the clothes. From then on, Marek lived as Maria.

Sergey sat up and asked, "Did he ever ... treat you ... like a girl? Did he ... bum you?"

Marek shook his head, but Sergey seemed interested.

"Look, Marek, stand up. Twirl. Let me see the dress."

I intervened, insisting Marek returned to the story. He shrugged. That was the story. He had escaped a life of feminisation, and now he wanted to be a boy, to play football, to chase girls, to bugger goats, like any other Slovakian male!

Sergey seemed upset.

"Marek, the dress makes you seem ... so sweet. Maybe just one more night?"

That was that. Marek moved in with Sergey to escape his tyrannical father, and I moved in with Marek and Sergey to make sure that Sergey didn't dress him up and rear-end him at every opportunity.

The next day Michalovce faced Polish no-hopers Piast. The game stated off dull; no one semed up for it. The players slugged around, and luckily Piast were crapper than we were. I sat in the stand with Marek. Emil was fuming when he found out I had moved in with Sergey, and he wouldn't let me anywhere near the bench. With ten minutes to go in the first half, a mediocre through-ball from Sitov found defensive midfielder Sninsky, and he rolled it - without any real conviction - towards the goal. The Piast keeper was even less interested, and Michalovce were 1-0 up.

Ten minutes after the break, Piast got one back, and Sergey changed all 11 players. The second string were keen to impress, and within 10 minutes a double from Jan Koziak made it 3-1. The lads were buzzing, and when Piast got a lucky second goal, the Michalovce players upped their game, with Kunca and Viskup netting to make it 5-2 at the final whistle. As the lads ran off, Marek handed me a piece of paper. It was a list of names. It meant nothing to me. I handed it to Sergey and told him to sign them. They were, according to Marek's notes, all unattached.

After the game we had a few beers, and then I felt some slight stirring in the trouser department. I figured it had been a while, so I headed off towards the Duchess' house. At first, I walked off-skew, on account of my hard-on, but as I got closer the feeling of lust had subsided into something less comfortable. I kept checking behind me, but no one was following. Well, I couldn't see anyone, but I could feel them. They were there all right. A couple of times I ducked into alleys, then jumped out, but nothing. Maybe I was cracking up.

When I arrived at her house, it was in darkness. I let myself in through the door hanging off the hinges, and stood in the dank living room. It was cold and smelly. I figured I'd at least keep warm, so I went into the bedroom, undressed and crawled under the pile of radish sacks she called a duvet. It stank of pig urine and festering canker. I kept rubbing my chap, trying to keep it up. I'd surprise her when she came home.

It must have been an hour later when I heard her stumbling in. Then it hit me: there was someone with her. I heard her giggle, and then she said something about going to bed. I don't mind admitting it; I did a little bit of wee. Then I heard the second voice. It was a man.

Now, some men would fight for their woman, but the Duchess wasn't all that, plus I was naked, cold and wee-covered. I did what any man would do. I hid in the wardrobe. The doors didn't fit well, so there was a good crack to peep through. The Duchess came into the the room. She was wearing a uniform of some sort. She toppled backwards onto the bed, and a man in the same uniform fell on top of her. They kissed. Not kissed, but sucked each other's slug-like tongues in a psycho-sexual display of saliva exchange.

Then the man moved. I saw his face, as he slowly unbuttoned his trousers, pulled them down, and waved his erection around like a flagpole.

I knew him. It was her brother. It was Emil.

[JamboJen]

Very funny story, Carlos. I actually laughed out loud at one point.

[Welwyn]

Very funny story, Carlos. I actually laughed out loud at one point.

Agreed, still makes me laugh out loud!

[Paulo1985]

Brilliant story Carlos. this quite often has me laughing out loud!

[Jolanthustrel]

This has to be the most disturbing thing I've ever read related to football and I read the comments at soccernet.

>_> <_< Keep it up

[Spav]

Bueno, Carlos.

[JoeCFC]

Another brilliant installment

[Carlos de la Fuente]

Emil stood, erection in hand, as his sister nestled back into the filthy sheets and tore off her clothes. They rolled around, hands and mouths moving like an army of sex-frenzied creatures, in and out of each others' orifices. It was disgusting, vulgar and - strangely - somewhat erotic. He wrestled her fat body over, and she assumed the position on all fours, like a dog. Indeed, they were like two scabby dogs as he sniffed at her buttocks before mounting her.

She snarled, her face twisted in rage, as he grabbed two handfuls of her dirty hair and began to drive himself into her. Now I felt fear, an honest fear that shot through me like 1,000 volts. She was howling, literally howling, as he released her hair and started to pummel his fists into her body. Still he drove on, pumping away as if he wanted to split her in two. Now, whilst fear, disgust and hatred were my main emotions, I had to admit that Emil had it going on in the bedroom department, albeit in a slightly violent incestuous way. I was intoxicated by the act.

She began to growl again, and I watched as her limbs tensed. Her back started to arch, and as it did Emil sensed the urgency, and his violent thrusting grew to a speed at which I was sure he could not sustain it for more than a few more seconds ... but he did, growing in intensity, until suddenly she split the evening with a high pitched scream and he, right on cue, withdrew and spurted his seed across her broad, greasy, tattooed (I hadn't noticed that before) and remarkably spotty back.

Crammed inside the wardrobe, watching this like some Peeping Tom, I did feel aroused, maybe too aroused. My penis had been steadily growing, and unbeknown to me had started to push the wardrobe door open. Their final act, whilst being ultimately grotesque, was also too much, and final muscular spasm, that final twitch, was enough for Emil to see the motion.

"Who's there? Come out, I will kill you."

I had no reason to doubt his words. I also had no excuse as to why I was in the wardrobe, stark naked, watching him bone his sister, to whom I was engaged. Now, some people will try to tell you that their lives are a mess. Usually this constitutes forgetting to buy some milk, or coming home to find the dog has peed on the floor. However, in that wardrobe, I did understanding the true meaning of mess.

Emil was off his sister now, and was searching the room, no doubt for an implement with which to beat me around the head. He stopped, thought for a second, then went for his coat. Maybe he had a knife, or even a gun. I decided to flee. My clothes were on the floor somewhere, but I figured that I'd have to risk him finding them, even though the floor was ankle-deep in filth and discarded clothing. The Duchess wasn't house proud.

Between my legs was a basket. As I lifted the lid the stench told me it was the laundry basket. The first item I pulled out was an enormous pair of knickers. They stank, really badly, but needs must when the devil drives. I pulled them over my head. There was something in them, but it was too late. Emil was in front of the wardrobe. He yanked the door open, and as he did I charged into him, knocking him backwards. Then I took three running steps and dived through the tattered piece of cardboard that made up the bedroom window.

Back in the house the Duchess screamed: "Emil, who was that?"

Emil replied: "F*ck knows, but I tell you one thing; he was smoking a cigar!"

As I limped down the lane, furiously spitting to clear my mouth of the remnants of the log that had resided in her pants, my mind reeled. I couldn't believe what had just happened. In fact, had I not been staggering through a lane in Michalovce, bollock-naked and in severe pain from landing on a rusting bicycle, I might have put it all down as some dream. No, a nightmare!

I was getting close to Sergey's house when I saw the crowd. They were gathered on the corner, chatting. It was obviously a group of friends, but I couldn't let them see me.

I got as close to Sergey's as I could, then crawled into some bushes. As I did, I disturbed something, or should I say someone. It was a short person, slim and fast. I knew that as they sprinted off into the dark. Not only that, they were wearing a Michalovce shirt.

Once the street was clear, I headed to the front door and furiously knocked. My key was still in my trousers, somewhere in the filth of the Duchess's bedroom floor. Eventually Marek opened the door. He looked at me, and then shouted back into the house.

"It's okay Sergey, it's only Carlos. He's naked, and I think he's been eating chocolate."

[minisav]

I loved that last line

[Fogg]

this is brilliant reading!! Great work Carlos

[C-Mon]

This has gotta be the most out-of-the-butt insane story I've ever read. And it's really entertaining.

Although, I have to ask, is NOTHING pretty in this town or does the protagonist have to...well...rise in the divisions first? ;P

[Carlos de la Fuente]

I have to ask, is NOTHING pretty in this town or does the protagonist have to...well...rise in the divisions first? ;P

By the pricking of my thumbs,

Something pretty this way comes...

Eventually

Maybe

[The RingMaster]

This story is completely and utterly 'alone-in-a-cell-eating-flies-smearing-crap-on-the-wall' insane.

Interesting [and absorbingly horrific] read though