Saturday, 14 May 2016


Smales and Swagger



Part 4

Warning: These continuing erotic explorations of elderly couple Penny Smales and Gerald Swagger are not intended for a younger audience. Please do not read if easily offended or aroused.

Recap for the slow of study:

Penny and Gerald are a wealthy, elderly couple. They have recently been told that an experimental and vigorous sex life will extend life in a fun and exciting way.

Gerald is still manacled to the bed.

Local TV celebrity doctor Hilary Portions has somehow managed to get WPC Clumpfoot killed via a tin bath, keys to handcuffs and an unexpected killer electric eel.

The constable’s body lies still in front of them on the hard parquet flooring. As for the electric eel? It retires malevolently to the bottom of the tin bath, ready to strike again.

Gerald: You’ve killed her, you stupid twat! What are we going to do now?

Both men stare into the tin bath, then to the prone constable in horror. Portions whips out his stethoscope and kneels down beside the prone body

Portions: I’d better check her chest, Swagger, just to be on the safe side, you know. Avert your eyes will you? Professionalism and all that.

Gerald: (rattling manacles): Avert my eyes? How am I supposed to do that?

Portions: Good point. I tell you what, have you got a blindfold?

Gerald: You are not blindfolding me. Stay away, you pervert.

Portions: And a camera? I may need to take some pictures. Just for the boys down the lab, nothing dirty, nothing sordid.

Portions begins to unbutton the WPC’s tunic in a manner that could suggest more than just a professional interest. However he soon looks up with a disappointed

Gerald: What’s the problem?

Portions: I’m having trouble undoing this bra, Swagger. It’s a devil of a job.

Gerald: Maybe it’s a police issue undergarment.

Portions: Of course. Extra security, police bra. That must be it. All sorts of fiendishly clever locks and clasps, designed to offer added protection from the unwanted attentions of the horny young station constables. It’s no good; I’ll have to use my surgeon’s scissors.

Gerald: (sceptically) Surgeon’s scissors?

He busies himself with scissors, a camera and stethoscope whilst Gerald rattles his chains in frustration and looks appalled.

Portions: Yes. Definitely dead.

Gerald: Are you sure? Why don’t you take another half an hour to be on the safe side?

Portions: Of course I’m sure. I’m a Doctor.

Gerald: Yes, so you say, but I’ll I ever see you do is talk on morning TV about hair loss, bikini lines and penile warts. Are you qualified in death?

Portions: How dare you impugn my reputation like that? I don’t have to work for ‘Sunshine’ you know, it’s my public duty. I’m issuing a death certificate.

Portions produces some paper, scribbles on it and waves it across the corpse waiting for the ink to dry.

Portions: There. You can’t get much deader than that, Swagger.

Gerald: What are we going to do now? Call the police?

Portions: No. I’m going to stuff this in her helmet and hide the body under that rug for now, whilst we figure out our next move.

Gerald: Our next move? Don’t involve me in your fuckery, Portions. Release me now!

Portions: Shut up, I think I can hear something.

Portions and Gerald listen intently. Nothing. Portions begins to drag the heavy female body upstage. Some of the loosened clothing snags itself on furniture, causing the job to be more difficult than it should be. Exasperated, Portions starts to unhitch clothing then stuffs cut up bra pieces up the corpse’s skirt and down the unbuttoned uniform.

At last, reaching the rug, he starts to conceal the body underneath it as best he can. From the doorway, stage right, a loud cough ostentatiously interrupts his activities. Portions immediately rises and stands in front of the lumpy carpet doing his best to conceal it.

Nitley: Mr Swagger! Mr Swagger! Goodness me, Mr Swagger what are you doing manacled to that bed?

Gerald: Oh, Mr Nitley. I had forgotten that Mrs Smales had arranged for you to pop in this morning. As you can see, she is not at home. She popped out for some bacon.

Nitley: Bacon?

Gerald: Yes, unfortunately the previous bacon had become soiled by my penis.

Nitley: Penis?

Gerald: Ah…yes. Somehow it had been tied to my penis with rubber bands at the instructions of Doctor Portions.

Nitley: Portions?

Gerald: Ah…Look perhaps you had better come back tomorrow.

Nitley: Can’t do that old chap, I’ve driven a considerable distance to be here. All the way from Parliament, don’t you know? Had to miss a vote. Whip and all that. I can’t think what the PM will say if all I come back with is a cock and bull story about soiled bacon portions.

Gerald: No, not bacon portions, Doctor Portions. Over there. Look.

Nitley looks over to where Portions stands, statuesque. He looks back to Gerald, then his gaze returns to Portions, who grins disarmingly and waves.

Portions: Hello!

Nitley frowns for a second, perhaps, then recognition floods his face and not in a good way.

Nitley: Aren’t you that celebrity doctor, Hilary Portions, on the telly? Boils, pimples, broken hearts and so on?

Gerald: That’s the one. It’s on account of his expertise that I find myself like some cut price Jesus with a cock that smells of scampi flavoured fries.

Nitley: Well don’t just stand there you medical imbecile, help me release Mr Swagger.

Gerald: (indicating the tin bath) He can’t, on account of the keys being at the bottom of that tin bath, guarded by an extremely jealous…

Nitley is now looking short-sightedly in the tin bath, which is still on the bed beside Gerald, and is putting his hand into it as if to get the keys.

Nitley: Seems to be full of dead fish.

Gerald: No! Don’t!

There is a loud bang, a flash and smoke as before. When it clears, Nitley is prone on the floor in pretty much the same place as WPC Clumpfoot before him.

Gerald: Oh fucking hell. You’ve killed another one, Portions.

Portions: And what’s even worse is that I don’t think he’ll fit under the rug.

Portion kneels once more beside the new corpse as Gerald  watches sardonically. There is less fussing with clothes this time. He produces another death certificate and his pen.

Gerald: No camera needed this time?

Portions: (ignoring him) Yes. Definitely deceased.

Nitley: (opening his eyes, confused and pointing) Fuckwit!

Gerald: I thought you said he’d snuffed it.

Nitley: (looking at Portions, shouting) Television twat!

Portions: I thought he had, Swagger.

Nitley: Panty sniffing, boil lancing, bastard!

Portions: I think he’s delirious.

Gerald: No. He seems to be making perfect sense.

Nitley: (getting to his feet and shredding the death certificate) Why didn’t you tell me the tin bath was wired to a live terminal, Portions?

Nitley doesn’t wait for a reply but pushes Portions in the chest. The doctor stumbles backwards, trips over the carpet shrouded body of WPC Clumpfoot and falls to the floor.

Portions: No need for that, is there?

Nitley: (noticing the body) What’s this? A body? Are you concealing a dead person, Portions?

Gerald: Yes he is, Minister, he is.

Nitley: You conniving devil.

Portions: Not actually concealing it, sir, just – ah, making it ready for transportation. In point of fact I was just about to call the police when you arrived.

Nitley: Were you. Well in that case, let’s both call them, in case of further misunderstandings. Come with me. We’ll be back in a jiffy, Mr Swagger.

Nitley marches Portions off stage through the door leading into the other rooms off the house. Gerald remains fastened and groans in despair, calling after them.

Gerald: (looking hopefully at the tin bath) Will somebody please release me? I’ve been here ages. I need a wee wee.

Portions reappears at the door, and hurries downstage, presses the remote control and Gerald’s bed swivels back into the dungeon.

Nitley: (offstage) Portions!

Portions: (to the swivelling bed and then in answer to the shout) Sorry old chap. Coming!

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