Written by Jaggedone
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Tags: The Spoof

Tuesday, 5 October 2010

image for Chapter Six: E.Q. (and others) Starring in "The inevitable art of Spoofing and other intellectual pastimes!" To be or not Toby (it's a scabby dogs life!)

EQ, relaxing on his favourite Chesterfield studded, chrome leather armchair, smoking a clay pipe shaped like a seahorse, acquired on his travels through darkest Dagenham from a gold toothed gipsy-like gentleman with a barrow and stiff leg, pondered.

He gave a dashing image dressed in his purple quilted smoking jacket of finest Malaysian silk, King George silver buttons and stuffed with Manx Cats hairs from the tail, he pondered once more.

Resembling Sir Arthur Conan Doyle writing Sherlock without Jeeves (?) chasing the Baskerville hounds (extinct now but never to be forgotten) blowing rings of subtle, perfect blue smoke space-wards, he pondered again, to Spoof or not to Spoof, a question yes, an answer no.

Shakespearean shadows knotted the grey matter like a tarantula waiting for its prey to become breathless then striking those who dared enter his honeycombed shaped octagon cells filled with pleasure, darkness, romance, death, Satan, sex, debauchery and Le Spoof.

"A slight dilemma," he chuckled silently as evening approached enhancing the imagination of this epic journey which, was about to unfold before his eyes and before letting the "pussy" off of his lap and out of her flap.

"I must proceed" he sighed as the fading light of an ancient 40 watt Osram bulb deluded and mystified his thoughts, Le Spoof awaits: "My honourable colleagues, my dedicated worshippers, patience," he sighed as the scratching of E.Q's ivory feathered pen and ink disturbed the silence once given to him by the Maestro, the Scarlet Pimpernel, the Casanova of the Tabloid Spoof, CJ.

EQ recollected:

Qui, we met alongside that secluded canal visited only by those who "methed" up their lives, dead pigeons and a damned JO with his Albino King giant red-eyed Rat and his immortal Chinese slave, WAN-KIN-DIK still throbbing, pushing and pulling his earthquake damaged rickshaw to and fro.

"Oh those were the days" a flashing thought passed from the left to the right ere with impunity, "I am ready."

The empty, blank yellow stained paper laid upon the scratched, worn-out leatherette desk aquired also in the darkest depths of down-town Dagenham.

"Oh that damn gypsy curse," EQ thought out loud and re-kindled his clay pipe with a Swan or two.

The moment had arrived for the TRUTH to begin, Nietzsche, Kafka, Schopenhauer, Skoob 99, Abel, Bureau, masters of their trade, Jack off, non (poker fans please refrain from ambiguous thoughts and pertaining flushes, royal) beware.

"Chapter 6 or 666, may the Devil take me forth to where no man has yet ventured, the oracle of intelllectualism, the Koran, Mein Kampf, the Holy Shrines of the Dead Sea scrolls, Jason and the Argonauts, Medusa's thousand serpents, nobody has ever travelled this intrepid path until now, I, E.Q. will lead and the rest will follow (hopefully)!"

By this time E.Q had returned from letting his "pussy" out, hoping later it would return unscathed from her nighthy prowl, richer by far, he then realised that a fata-morgana had visited and left a visiting card stating:

Le Spoof, Rue St.Denis, sur Le Pont, Davignon, in La Fayette Quartier Latin between St.Remy (Vincent, you left your ear, but you didn't Let it Bleed, Rolling Stones gather no 'Kate Moss' or fat either) and Amsterdam or "onder de Brug van Arnheim".

E.Q. left in a foggy notion that only Jack ze Ripper before him had ever experienced, weak at the knees he lowered himself gently down in his Chesterfield, lit a match in heaven and shivering with excitement divulged all to his awaiting publique, he pondered un otra vez:

"you may cut off my ear and extract my gold teeth without morphium, but I will track this dastardly Scarlet Pimp (no analogies with CJ please) Scoundrel down if it takes me to Timbuk-too, in fact I will commence my destiny tout sweet, "two sugars and a dash of finest Francais Cognac, damn it" as the hunchback servant disappeared through the pantry door, E.Q. pondered once more, "who is zis (EQ slipped into his famous Pink Panther accent), a bird, an aeroplane or an invisible ghostly Spook-fer?"

Chapter 7 will hopefully provide us with all of the answers, en garde et aurevoir!!!

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

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