Written by Morse
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Tags: The Spoof

Friday, 1 October 2010

image for Born to Spoof: Chapter 2 I think I love you #3.....!!

Jumping from Chapter 1, #3 disappeared between the beaded curtain, leading into...I know not what.

Taking a deep breath, I started to follow, brazenly brushing aside the cheap plastic beads when a grizzled hand grabbed me round the throat, and pushed me up against the wall.

As the pressure released, only slightly mind you, I was able to refocus and found myself looking into the demented eyes of an apparition wearing medical scrubs, holding a dental pick and whispering, "Is it Safe? Is it REALLY safe?"

Just as I was about to void my bladder, #3 returned and snarled," cut the crap Vic, that Doctor shit is getting old...leave the lad alone. He's here to see if he can cut it as a Spoofer...save your schtick for the Karaoke contest later!"

Thankfully my neck was released, and the apparition laughed and said,
'go ahead kid...step right in and check it out....let's see what you got...see me later if your prostate starts actin' up...#3 can have that effect on ya!"

"Who was that maniac," I said thankfully to #3 as we forged our way ahead through a narrow corridor lit dimly with red lights.

"That's our resident Canadian wild life expert, fisherman, taxidermist, and sometimes Pirate, Vicktor...a good sort really...short winded, concise, and usually to the point...except when it comes to telling fish tales...come along you...we're almost there."

At the end of the corridor I could feel a fresh breeze suddenly blowing across my sweat stained face, I smelled Jasmine, fresh roses, Lily of the Valley, not so fresh kippers, and what appeared to be burnt toasted cheese sandwiches...
I was starved, and thought I was in heaven!"

"Don't get a hard on," said #3 reading my mind and noticing my bulge, " the cheese is for Mark...it's about time for his post editorial conference snack...actually he's the only one at the conference, he likes it better that way...he only has to argue with himself...and of course, I guess we always know who will win the day....BASTARD!"

"But, but," I said taken aback, " He's the editor and you called him a B-Bastard..aren't you afraid he'll cut your points or cast your material into the mag section....he could ruin you!"

"Naw," said #3, picking a sesame seed out of her incisor with her long pinky nail, looking at it in the dim light, and casually flicking it on the floor, " he really don't give a shit...this is a part time job for him...he just uses it to meet new female writers and tries to get in their pants....onst in awhile he'll ban some guy, but that's only if the writer scores with some chick he can't get to first base with...you'll get used to him...he's not around much anyway."

We came to the end of the corridor and were faced with with a scarred oak door with black wrought iron strap hinges and a peep hole. Number #3
wrapped on the door in a rhythmic code too fast for me to follow with the large emerald ring on the middle finger of her right hand....'good,' I thought, 'she ain't married, but she likes to F*****around!"

A heavy chair was heard to move from within the room, a gravely voice uttered, "Speak you who goes there and state your business!"

"Number 3, with a Newbie Mark want's vetted...IS IT SAFE?"

The sound of a rusty bolt being thrown echoed down the corridor followed by squealing hinges and the door opened, again to more darkness.

As my eyes adjusted, I saw a rustic bar, well attended, and several discreet table settings in various corners with candles flickering in a somewhat romantic but erie manner.

"I'm Frankie the J, Master of Arms here. Don't cause no F*****trouble, mind yer manners, don't get uppity, and don't F*****with the writers that have been at the club fer awhile. If yer thirsty, head to the bar, start a tab...bartender's name is Skoob, ex boxer, coulda been a contenda...but maybe not...don't F****wit him neither, he's had a bad day and more than a few bad nights...
and oh yeah, see that table over there?' pointing to the darkest alcove.

"Don't even think of sitting there! That's table 5, Morse's seat...he'll be here soon sitting with his back to the wall. In the meantime, try not to annoy anybody, we'll get to you soon and see what you've got...you better know how to spell and form a proper sentence...if not, Lynton will have you out on yer ear in a heart beat...now outa here and go get a Pint......."

I stumbled toward the bar, my feet seemingly not connected to my body.
What had I gotten into...did I really want to become a Spoofer? Shouldn't I have just stayed in Scotland as the Butcher's helper and boffing that married MP Mrs. Robinson? Will I find Success on the Spoof.com? Will I ever get laid again? Holy Dangling Participle...I'm so hungry I could eat a pickled egg!

More as the Evening Plays Out and Colonel Juan Starts the Inquisition.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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