random poem samples from LIZARD SNAIL 124K Nick Armbrister and other writers

The first quarter mile was passed in less than 3 seconds. A support vehicle acted chase. It caught up with Mike and he gave a thumbs-up. They turned his car around and refuelled it. Then he came back again in a roar of noise.

“Nothing to it,” he said, after unstrapping the seven point safety harness and leaving the vehicle. “That was fun. Now which of you will go first?”

“He will,” the Marines said each pointing at the other.

Mike laughed and asked one for a coin. Stan gave him a nickel. Mike said you’re heads and he’s tails. He tossed the coin onto the dry sand salt and looked at it.

“It’s heads. That means you are first to go Stan. Go into the support trailer and get changed. Next to your Aurora flight, this will be the ride of your life. Good luck son.”

“Go bro, I’m next,” Danny shouted, giving his mate a high five. Their bravado hid their nerves.

Choo choo train steaming on to where faster than a diesel

Going twice as fast metal machine on a mission go go go!

Unmanned freight train a hundred years old plus ten

In no way ready for the breakers yard and scrap auction

This one escaped and is going full blast one way to where

Will take air strikes and army bridge demolition to halt it

And the mechanic who fucked a Mig jet in the hot desert air

Get nautical with Seaman Staines and Master Bates on Fucked Ferry

How about an Anorak who bonked his steam train on the Lickey Incline

Sex with a helicopter was the most lethal the pilot almost lost his chopper!

Most boring and humble was the bicycle shagger he love a Penny Farthing

How different than big rig man who pumped away with his 60 ton truck

The wanker says this in the morning and expects an instant yes

No is not an option if you want to keep your job

There goes your soccer game with the lads

No trip to the cinema with your girlfriend

Bang goes your quiz night in the pub

You gotta pull a double of 18 long fucking hours

This includes two one hour breaks and coffee time while you work

We are treated like machines and the rival factory uses them

Replacing the complaining workers with robots

Robots just need a can of oil and a power supply

This story is dedicated to the lady of my dream, my friend, lover, wife, my opposite. We will make love and meet again. Always together.

 

Back to the band. The band had a good Myspace profile. It was done the old skool way and had a 70s/80s rock look that was both UK and USA classic rock.

 

Brit music was Lead Zepplin, Rainbow, Deep Purple, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest and most others from that time. The band also did many 80s requests and hard rock versions of New Romantic synth tracks were unique.

 

Cock rock was a big part of their music catalogue with bands like Firehouse, Warrant, Motley Crue, Skid Row, Guns n Roses and many more. 

His anal rocket whistled Dixie and wow!

It was as cool as a moon shot and safer

He described an apogee in the air

Visible by a blue smoke trail and flame

 

Which slowly faded and died out

The call centre worker lost height

Going into free fall he tried to flap

But you’re not a bird nor have wings

 

So fuck this for a splatter dead laugh

He popped a small back parachute

It was white with a big purple cock on it

He drifted down to the plaza

 

Twenty five floors below him

Nude call centre worker and his tools

A spent anal rocket and computer chair

His office mates filmed and shouted

 

FINAL FLIGHT

Jimmy Boom Semtex

 

This ebook, including all its parts, is protected by copyright and must not be copied, resold or shared without the permission of the author.

 

Copyright 2009-11 Jimmy Boom Semtex. All rights reserved. This version 2021.

 

No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without listing Jimmy Boom Semtex as the author. The only exception is using a single paragraph for reviewing purposes where the author, Jimmy Boom Semtex, must be quoted as author and holder of the copyright.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 

 

 

 

FINAL FLIGHT

Harriers hit us at dawn. Did their job pretty well. Bombed our runway, cratering the tarmac in a dozen places, killing six ground crew, two aircrew and two officers. Our fuel truck went-up, too, as did three planes. We can use the grass to fly; we’ll miss our ground crew, but we can service our own jets. Sacha and his WSO never got to the shelter. A sad loss, we’ll fight back even harder. Officers, screw them. Fuelling by hand from 55-gallon drums and hand pump is hard, but what we train for. Our planes can’t be replaced. Scorched and blasted to bits, like our lost men. Gone. Time to fly, to hit back against NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organisation). Yes, we’ll really screw them over. Everyone to the briefing tent, including my Annie. She’s my co-pilot, navigator, Weapon System Operator, and sensor operator. She’s good, that’s why I chose her to be with me in battle. She is second-to-none – and I’m in love with her, completely. If our officers knew of our affair, I’d be grounded – she would be transferred at the least. But, this is war – World War III, to be exact.

We receive a full briefing considering our field conditions. Our officers are jerks, but good at their job. Everyone listened, wanting to miss nothing. We all knew some would die.

---

To our warplanes! Take the netting off – annoying as it always snags on the eight-blade prop. Open the cockpit canopy. Annie climbs into her front cockpit to do the pre-flight check and bring the systems up. I do the walk round checking to see if anything isn’t as it should be. I get to the weapons and remove the arming pins. Our loadout is two Brightstar IR (Infra-Red) air-to-air missiles on each outer wing pylon, two Saffron anti-tank missiles inboard, two Medusa anti-radar missiles on the inner wing pylons and, to enhance our range, three drop-tanks: two inboard of the Medusas and a centre line one behind the semi-recessed twin 23mm cannon pack. This Annie armed when I was in the cockpit. Nothing amiss, I climbed aboard and did my own pre-flight, checked with Annie that everything was green, then closed the canopy.

Signalling to the ground crew to remove the power lead, I initiated start-up procedure: six steps to get our eight-blade prop spinning. Hear the APU (Auxiliary Power Unit) whine and turn the turboprop over. Noise building, even in my earphones. All okay on the MFD (Multi-Function Display) showing engine parameters. Move the single throttle from idle to minimum to max power. Feel our bird come alive. See Annie busy with her screens. Check to see if she is okay and that our plane is; switch to encrypted channel and quick clearance to go. Yes! We roll out of our earth revetment to the grass take-off strip. Why didn’t the Harriers sow denial weapons? We’d have lost more jets. Full power, away we go, bumping over the grass past burnt-out planes, to the sky. We are airborne! Climb out at shallow angle to stay below NATO radar (we don’t believe it, radar has moved on) and give us maximum surprise.

Our fuel burn is higher but we are so near the front... I scan my three MFD screens, see we’re being picked up by NATO radar, so I drop us lower – our radar-absorbing paint and carbon fibre helps, but death is death. My tension increases.

I see Annie before me, her head moving from display to display, to her HUD (Heads Up Display), to look outside and back again. I feel the urge to tell her what she means to me, that the songs are true. I don’t. I order a new course to our target. We all fly alone. Good or bad tactics? Historians will discuss this later, if anyone survives this.

Suddenly, our RWR (Radar Warning Receiver) comes alive – NATO fighter! I turn into the threat that my display shows is to my port. I order Annie to turn our ECM (Electronic Counter Measures) jammer to manual then to auto. Should’ve done it before! Could be our death! I switch my HUD to dog fight mode and do a series of turns to check our tail. Clear. There! Sun glinting on a canopy, a flare of flame as a missile is launched. Heat-seeker this close; dropping chaff to break his lock, flares to blind his missile. Come on, Annie, jam his radar, be my eyes. G-force crushes me, my turn takes us to a wing above the ground. Be careful! Climb, full combat power. Turn, roll, face him. His Sidewinder misses as my turn is too tight and the missile cannot follow us. BANG! As it detonates twenty metres away, shockwave from 25 pounds of iron filled with explosives shakes my plane. A Devil slap, white-hot shrapnel cuts into the right wing, two neat holes in the carbon fibre skin. I glance at the holes, at my MFD showing minor damage only, nothing bad, and at the holes again, then at the enemy. I recognise him as an F-20 Tigershark as she shoots past. NATO’s best fighter means trouble.

Annie turns our radar to air-to-air, gives me control of it and our two Brightstar missiles and wishes me luck as I turn and follow him. Almost out of sight, he arcs around in a high g-turn to re-attack. My Topaz radar acquires him, I lock him up with my HOTAS (Hands On Throttle And Stick) controls and I grunt as a green box appears on my HUD. His coffin, should he enter it. My helmet sights back it up, gives overkill when my enemy is outside my HUD. I bring our nose up, roll wings level and speed towards him. Several hundred feet up and climbing, visible to AWACS (Airborne Warning And Control System) and everyone else scanning heavenwards. Growl in my ear. Lock-on! F-20 in my helmet sights, just above my HUD. Press the tit, port Brightstar ignites on a tail of fire, spears away so fast. I half roll, turn and dive away for the deck. I punch out half-a-dozen flares and chaff, ignoring the centre MFD and HUD repeater saying that Annie is dispensing the same damn countermeasures. Close in, our jammers struggle due to his high power agile radar. The RWR gives bearings on two search radar. SAMs (Surface to Air Missile). More dangerous than any F-20 – hidden death from below. Cutting it fine, I dive us below tree level, roll into a valley and safety. Our RWR goes black. Glancing around and above, I see a brief explosion over a hill. Did we get him or did he evade our missiles, like we did his – just? Ground warning horn blaring – ten feet limit! I pull-up around fallen boulders, turn around valley sides, follow a winding path. In my element, I lift my wing as the horn goes off again. Annie shouts her curses at me, the war...

Recklessly, I scream at her, my Annie who’d die if I push instead of pull the stick. Who I’d never let anyone else have – like my plane. I killed the damn horn, pushed my control stick and we headed lower. Five feet above level ground, she screams in terror, startling me. I pull-up over a boulder as big as a tank. Glancing at my mirror, I see dust kicked up by my prop-wash. I let our nose rise, kick full right rudder and snap-roll in the valley. Scream my love for Annie, who turns to look at me in terror, some loose black hair twirling with the g-force. She sees my wicked grin and returns it, briefly. I level off as the valley dies out. Annie curses me, says she loves me for always, that I’m the best pilot. I smile. This is as close to marriage as we could get.

---

Hell! Armoured column! Tanks passing under us. No radar. I line-up to fire my 23mm cannon, see shells strike a tank without harm. Another. Too much top-armour. Troop carrier. Quick correction – got him! Light armour smashed by my explosive and armour piercing shells. I smile at the thought of NATO troops being blown to bits, burned alive and killed. Annie brings up ground scan on the radar, tells me what I can already see: thirty-plus vehicles on one narrow road; now SAM or anti­aircraft defence as the RWR was blank. I fire at another APC (Armoured Personnel Carrier). Ordered Annie to lock-up a tank with a Saffron missile on our next pass. At full throttle, I open the air-breaks, turn on a wing and shoot back down the line. Annie smoothly talks herself through her act, launches. I felt the kick back as our port anti-tank missile left the rail. Down it went to kill a Challenger tank in one go. Soon, our other Saffron did the same, another tank and crew dead. What a run! Better than any training exercise, any day! Around again with guns blazing, searching-out troop carriers that stop to try and save their men. I get one kill, another damaged before my ammo runs out. Annie calls up the squadron and army tank-killing choppers to come to the party. We head-back to base.

---

Mission almost over, quick exhilaration of battle leaves me tired. Annie snaps me out of my reverie as we change course. My IFF (Identification Friend or Foe) gives off friendly signals as Annie tells me Major Topol, our CO (Commanding Officer), has congratulated us on the tank find. He is inbound to attack, co­ordinating with two other of our planes. Two others had used all their ammo on pre-set targets, they RTB (Return To Base). We had already lost one jet with crew missing. Annie made it clear that it was so nearly us, I stopped her. I am a better pilot than what-was-his-name? The new guy from Kirov. Newbies die first. Still, my two years on Sukhoi Su-25s in Afghanistan had taught me well. I was hit by small arms fire nine times, lost an engine to a Stinger and struggled back in a dying jet. There weren’t many 25s then, I was honoured by my CO but that meant little when I saw my comrades die every week. Then I learnt to hate officers, transferred out of the war to the new Aeroprogress training centre on the new Sukhoi T.720B attack fighter. My combat experience was needed due to their new design being ready to be shipped to the war. We spent two years deciding what worked, what didn’t. A guerrilla war was nothing for what we planned for: the full takeover of Western Europe by force. I was shocked when I learnt the truth, but I had expected it. NATO had sabre-rattled against our front line re-equipment. Our new T.720B was just such a weapon, along with attack choppers like our Mil 28 and Kamov 52, our MiG 29 and Sukhoi 27 multirole fighters, our Tupelov 22M3 and Tupelov 160 nuclear bombers. Not to mention the nuclear missiles for if – and when – NATO responded. We had new tanks, APCs and all the other equipment we would need. As the T.720B was a two-seater, I was crewed with Annie to show her what tactical fighting was all about. Falling in-love wasn’t part of the plan, our secret and ours alone. Now we needed one another like never before. It was total war.

---

Suddenly, our RWR came alive with three ground radars searching for us. Immediately one locked-on to us, warning tone changing from a mesmerising sound like a bird to an evil report that I turned down. A second had got intermittent lock. We, me and Annie, talked, planned. Climbing so we popped-up permanently on their scopes, we turned our jammer to manual. Annie gently found their frequency, told the computer to follow any shifts and jammed them every three seconds, on a low power setting. We didn’t have long before a Roland SAM came after us. Now! Annie ordered. She launched our port Medusa in hunter-killer mode, down the NATO radar beam. He would be hit, even if silent. He emitted and died, data linked to us before impact confirmed a hard-kill. Annie launched our last offensive weapon at another site; this was further and launched two Roland SAMs on our tail. I got us in the weeds; Annie dumped countermeasures and jammed them. Rolling and turning over flat fields at 500 knots was fast but not Mach 3 like a Roland. I checked my fuel on my MFD; time to drop our wing tanks. Jolt as they fell free, our centre one will follow when empty. Speed 550 now, no indication of a hard-kill. Both Rolands go whizzing off our track, ballistic. We got past them! Just one IR missile left, better take no chances. Got our map up on my centre MFD, check with Annie for best course. Fuel is okay but combat must be avoided.

On our encrypted radio something comes through. NATO just went tactical with nukes! Annie swears. This is it – they did it, pushed the button. More orders, Annie patches them to me. In code. I go white. All planes RTB to re-fuel and re-arm with tactical nuclear weapons. No words said, just a code sequence unique to each surviving plane. Target data discs would be given when we landed, our bombs loaded with engine running. Hot refuelling. Annie already gave me the two best ways back. I take the fastest. NATO troops fire small arms at us, red tracer arcs past us, missing. Jinking around trees and low hills we come to base. I send our code word and slow to land. A fast blur distracts me. No! Annie!

Whiteness.

---

 

 

 

 

Bio

Jimmy Boom Semtex is into many things. Writing is one. His varied work includes poetry, prose and stories on a variety of topics. Erotica like his Fire Extinguisher Man series, poetry on current world events, horror stories and more besides. Jimmy loves getting tattooed, listening to alternative music, drinking beer and living a simple but fulfilling life. Check his blogs out. He's working on new erotic stories and a poetry collection. His writing career is diverse and so are the authors/poets/writers he’s collaborated with.

 

https://nickgoth555.wixsite.com/website

https://jimmyboomsemtex.blogspot.com/

 

 

Angry Kitten/Japanese Training Biplane

Angry Kitten/Japanese Training Biplane

See the enemy Jap in his plane loop round to get me

His crap white painted Aichi biplane as old as me

20 years and a piece of junk wait till I get him

My big hungry Hellcat will grease your ass 50 cals!

Come here stop dancing all over the sky you’re mine

There we go I can see you as do my large bullets

Listen to the rattle of my six guns gonna do you

You get the full fucking serenade open cockpit style

But but but bullet but you dodged my fire like a gnat

Rolling here and there impossible to miss damn you

I’ll cut off your escape here we go get ready dirty Nip

My second burst will shred that rip off biplane to bits

Yet how can this be you climbed dove rolled lived

My bullets missed you and you dare to face me

Whack a Yankee time your little bullets ping me

I see your single gun fire pitter patter biplane style

I dive and increase the distance to re-attack

Full power 2000 horses scream for release

400 miles per hour eat you alive enemy of mine!

See look observe I fire in front of you then at you

But you flippin’ well dodged my fire by rolling

And come at me an angry kitten with no milk!

More of your bullets hit me and now I see

I see the truth that I am facing a Master here

You train the other pilots this exact way

In your Aichi Nakajima Kawasaki biplane

Goodbye Japanese Grand Master I have to go

I’m off back to safety and the carrier…

This is my SMASHWORDS page where my varied books are on sale. Some are free some 99 cents and others different prices. A great variety of different ones...

 This is my SMASHWORDS page where my varied books are on sale. Some are free some 99 cents and others different prices. A great variety of different ones...

The link:

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/jimmyboomsemtex

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/nickarmbrister66613

Utterly Forgotten

 

 

 

Utterly Forgotten

They set out to make a man like you make a car in a factory

It was a production process starting at step one till the end

When you’re left with the finished product and the job is done

Step by step following instructions and designs and plans

Not missing a single bit or doing it in the wrong order

To look at the completed man you would be amazed

That he was made in a factory by human hands and minds

And not from some mother’s belly like normal humans

With the right tools factory and plans you can build anything

Including a human as this example shows standing before us

He can walk talk speak run jump dance clap eat drink shit and piss

Just like we can in whatever order is needed maybe even all together

But the man isn’t perfect just like we are flawed and imprecise creatures

He’s moody for no reason destructive for the Hell of it and stupidly fights

His bad language is terrible every third word a swear or curse

If he doesn’t get his own way he spits his dummy out and tantrums

He tells lies to everybody and some seem like the truth till revealed

Did we make this man this way on purpose to be an arsehole?

Just like your brother or friend or wife is the same type jerk

Not caring about our feelings or his respect or where he is

Ridiculing all and everything even those who made him

Did we break the mould producing this individual human?

Do we eradicate him and start anew to lose the bad point

So we have an ideal male with no urge to swear fight lie

Or kill hurt injure burn smash crush ruin destroy till all is gone

We want one who smiles laughs loves jokes cares helps

I think we must start again and make an improved model

The physical body is fine but what’s inside is very suspect

Something important is broken and need completely replacing

If the next model fails and is broken we’ll make a dog instead

The first one will be killed and recycled then utterly forgotten

A flawed human male made in a secret factory plausible deniability

 

USE ME LIKE A BITCH

In the saloon bar called Den of Evil Bitches a party was going down.  Located in the centre of a frontier town called Donkey’s Tail, where anything went and you could get away with murder, the bar was a right dive with sawdust on the floor, bullet holes in the walls and a hangman’s noose in the corner. This occasion was to celebrate Big Gun’s blowing away of his twenty first Native American Indian with his Colt 45 Peacemaker revolver pistol.

Signs of debauchery were everywhere: a whore from the Top Titty whorehouse was sucking the cock of a grizzled old miner who was almost comatose (was he feeling any tongue action?), a bent cabaret singer called Marly was licking the balls of another equally gay piano player while he played a drunken out of tune waltz. After a few minutes they swapped positions. Everywhere you looked, something was happening. Upstairs in the private rooms, mattresses were being pounded by sweaty cowboys fucking two bit whores. Where was the man himself? He was arguing with a holy man.

“I tell you, General Custer is a pussy!” shouted the voice, way too loud, at the person not a metre in front of him.

“No, no. Custer is a military God. He was meant to die so he could direct his fight from Hell! This I know, after all I am a man of God,” retorted the other, equally drunk and unstable.

“You’re wrong holy man. The only god is this, the barrel of a gun. Custer fucked up, pure and fucking simple. Custer is a worm eaten corpse. What, you disagree do you?” whispered the cowboy, now in perfect control.

“Yes I do, has it occurred to you, you’re wrong? Power comes from the good book, the bible. I talk to Custer’s spirit every morning,” replied the Preacher, placing his book on the small two seat table, next to the large pistol. They complimented each other disturbingly.

“Not many men have dared to disagree with me Preacher man. I shot the last one in the back only yesterday, he’s now being measured up for a coffin by Tom the cabinet maker over yonder,” nodded Big Gun, pointing to his cocked Colt that was a foot from him. He could reach it immediately and blow the man of God to hell, if he saw fit.

“I know. I heard about that, I blessed his corpse before Tom took it to measure it up for a coffin. Even evil men need the last rights before they descend to hell. I’m not scared of you or any man, my God protects me.”

“Your blessings won’t do him any good where Small Harry has ended up. He dared put me down in front of the towns’ folk so I sorted him out, permanently. With this gun, I am God!” shouted Big Gun, picking up his big gun off the small wobbly table. He glared menacingly at the bible basher.

“Every man has the right to the hand of God and his blessing, even you Big Gun. Even you!” preached Preacher man. He visibly cowered from the bigger man and grasped his bible to his chest, as if it would save him from a .45 calibre bullet at point blank range.

Big Gun stood up and towered over the terrified little holy man, bellowed, “Open your mouth Preach and suck my pistol. Do it now mother fucker! Now!”

“Aargh! No, no, I won’t. You’re gun belongs to the Devil and his evil actions, as you do. I won’t do it!”

“Yes, I work for the Devil. Now take the barrel in your mouth and suck it,” ordered the angry killer.

“No!” shouted Preacher man. His defiance was stopped by a single bullet fired into the table top straight in front of him. The bang deafened him and the table split clean in two and toppled to the floor; the bullet missed a pair of holy bollocks by two inches. A single empty glass rolled out of sight.

“Okay, okay, you and the Devil win. I’ll suck the barrel of your evil gun.”

“Good boy. I always get my way. Now suck it. Suck my pistol.”

Preacher took hold of the large gun metal tube that was the barrel of Big Gun’s pistol and placed it carefully in his mouth with a shaking hand. His other still clutched his bible. With wide eyes, the holy man sucked the barrel. It was still warm from the shot. He would be holy in more ways than one, if he screwed this up.

“That’s right, just like you’re sucking a cock. It looks like you’ve done this before. Have you?” asked Big Gun, holding the gun in his trigger hand and watching Preacher man suck the barrel with interest.

Preacher man tried to shake his head and speak.

“Ah ah, don’t do that. Just keep sucking the gun barrel; when you’ve done that, you can suck my sweaty cheesy cock too,” laughed Big Gun, almost blowing Preacher’s head off when he laughed.

My Lord will protect me and save me from all evil and the Devil’s actions. May Sweet Lord Jesus watch over me and deliver me from evil and not let me get my head blown off. Also bring Big Gun away from evil and show him the way to the light, amen! prayed Preacher man. He continued sucking, hating the taste of gun oil and gun powder residue. What choice did he have? His God seemed a long way off from this awful scene.

“Right, that’ll do. Now you can suck my cock while I drink a new whiskey,” said the gunman, before addressing the barman, “Hey, barman! Bring me a new whiskey and fill the glass to the top. Do it now!”

“Yes Big Gun, on my way,” shouted the barman. He filled the glass up as he ran over to the corner where Big Gun was tormenting the holy man. The barman noticed the broken table but kept his mouth shut. He knew what Big Gun was capable of.

“Put it on the floor and leave the bottle,” shouted the cowboy. With his free hand he pointed his instruction, in case the scared barman didn’t understand, due to fear.

“Now where were we?” asked Big Gun, to Preacher.

When no answer was forthcoming, he rapped him on the head with the pistol barrel which was wet with spit.

“Erm... you wanted me to suck your cock,” whispered the victim, looking at the floor.

“That’s right. I want you to suck my cock,” shouted Big Gun, red in the face from whiskey and an abuse of power. “Get on with it then. Do it was God would.”

Preacher man got off his small chair and knelt in front of Big Gun, who was still seated. Preacher went into slave mode; he passed his tormentor his whiskey glass, being careful not to spill any. Hell would be unleashed if he did!

“Good boy, you’re learning. Now undo my trousers and get my cock out. Make sure you don’t undo my gun belt by mistake or I’ll blow your fucking head off. Get on with it.”

“Yes, Big Gun. Anything so you don’t shoot me, even sucking your cock.”

“Right then. Make sure you do it right and no teeth or I’ll shoot.”

Preacher man put down his bible and tried to undo the buttons on Big Gun’s dirty sweaty trousers. It was hard because the gun belt hung low over the buttons. Please dear Lord let me undo the buttons and get this over with so I can live and continue doing God’s work. Quite easily the six buttons opened allowing the holy man to draw the trousers open and reach in to get Big Gun’s cock out. It was like a small shrunken sausage with grey hairs all over it and blue ruddy veins all over it. A smell like old sweaty socks filled the air, making Preacher man gag. I’ve got to do this; I sucked his pistol barrel and never got my head blown off. My Lord protected me from the Devil then, he will do now.

“You undid my trousers easily enough. Now suck my dick, what the fuck are you waiting for? Instructions from God? Remember, no teeth!” Big Gun shouted, annoyed.

“I’m doing it now,” came his reply.

Preacher took the stinking maggot sized penis into his mouth, almost gagging on the acrid taste. He started sucking it, licking the bell end, taking the foreskin back and wanking the cock at the same time. He thought of holy cherubs to take his mind off this evil desecrating Devilish act. I’ll do anything to survive the attention of Big Gun and his evil actions that will stop me doing God’s work. My heart is pure and my faith is strong, protect me from evil my Lord!

Slowly the small cowboy’s cock became hard and grew to four times its size, a length of eight inches! The holy man was doing something right.

“This is good whiskey,” commented Big Gun, downing the contents of his glass. Carefully he reached over and picked up the bottle, refilling his glass. “Keep sucking just like that. You’re doing fine,” he told the bible basher.

What I’m doing is saving my soul from you, you evil killer who does the work of Satan! replied Preacher man, in his own mind. With swift head movements taking the dick all of the way into his mouth, Preacher made the killer cum. It didn’t take long.

“Oh my fucking god, that feels so fucking good. Hey everyone, look at this! I’m coming!” screamed the cowboy, getting the saloon’s attention. It was his party, after all! A hundred pairs of scared humble submissive eyes looked over.

Then he came. His back arched and he bucked his hips so Preacher man could suck even deeper. Amongst all this, a welter of white spunk made him choke even more. He bit down once more.

Preacher man wasn’t ready for the deep thrust and gagged when the cock hit the back of his throat, he bit down accidentally.

“Ah! You cunt, you bit me twice!” screamed Big Gun. He poured half a glass of whiskey over Preacher’s head and drunkenly fired a shot from his huge Colt 45.

Preacher man closed his eyes and raised his hand to wipe the stinging spirit from them. He was about to remove Big Gun’s cock out of his mouth so he could breath and spit the cum out, when the big fat bullet blew half his head off. A welter of blood, brains and bone spattered all over the place. One eye hung on its optic nerve, staring lifelessly. The other rolled over the floor like a billiard ball, dead to the world. Preacher man fell forwards off his chair, dead.

“Damn, look at what he made me do! Look at this bloody mess! Anyhow, who gives a fuck about Custer or a dead holy man? Not me!” screamed Big Gun, losing control. He took a swig from the bottle, downing half the whiskey and looking down his nose at people in the saloon.

“Hey, get me a whore to give me a REAL blowjob!” he shouted, looking to the bar with wild unfocused eyes. “Now I said!” Spying Preacher’s bible on the floor the killer kicked it next to its owner. He fired two shot into the ceiling to make his point. “NOW! Get me a whore now. I want a real blowjob!”

A whore dressed like a real madam rushed over. “Why, Mr Big Gun, I’ll suck your cock. It looks a nice cock, it really does.”

“Get on with it, bitch!” screamed the killer, alive and in his element of psychosis and violence.

“Please sit down and I’ll do it,” quietly replied the whore, not wanting her head blown off.

“Yes, I will sit down, right now,” replied Big Gun. He sat down on his still warm seat, so he could have his second blow job, this time by a well-dressed whore.

Her name was Emily and she was the best in her business, like Big Gun was the best cowboy and killer. She wore a classy outfit, a red basque and purple flowing skirt. Her feet were barefoot.

“I need to move the body first coz it’s in my way,” said the whore, looking into Big Gun’s soulless green killer eyes.

“Move it now then and hurry up!” he replied.

She inwardly grimaced as she grabbed hold of the Preacher’s blood stained jacket and heaved his still warm body to one side. He was heavier than he looked. Though she was careful, she got some blood on her hands. It reminded her not to fuck this blow job up, I could be blown away next!

“Okay, I’m ready,” she confirmed.

Sat on the chair, she leaned forward and held Big Gun’s cock, which was still erect. Was he turned on by the violence? Grimacing to herself again she put it into her mouth. It tasted like a dead slug and gave her no sexual pleasure at all. She started sucking the piece of gristle best she could, working the tip, licking the shaft, feeling his balls and wanking him every now and again.

“Not bad bitch, not bad at all!” complimented the killer, actually enjoying his second cock suck.

The whore mumbled a reply and kept her eyes on the job. I’m in the same position Preacher man was before he was gunned down dead. I thought I’d be shocked seeing a man of the cloth being queer but I’m not, it’s seeing him murdered like a worthless lame dog.

Big Gun took a swig from his whiskey bottle emptying it; he threw the bottle over towards the piano where Marly was still playing out of key music and having his cock sucked by his accomplice. It seemed their blowjobs went on all night. Their action was interrupted when the empty bottle clanged off the piano and smashed into a hundred pieces.

“Hey Marly you faggot, get me a fresh bottle of whiskey. I’m all out of booze. Hurry up now!” demanded Big Gun.

Marly knew better than to argue and left his place at the piano and his gay lover. He reached behind the bar and got a new bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “There you go big man, enjoy your whiskey,” Marly said, smiling at the gun man.

Big Gun took the full bottle and said thank you! Everyone in the bar stopped what they were doing and looked over, shocked! It was the first time that Big Gun had ever shown any courtesy.

“No problem,” grinned Marly, uneasily. Big Gun must be losing his mind, saying thanks like that. Better leave him to his blow job. He went back to his knackered piano and gay friend. Music soon filled the bar again.

Cracking open the bottle with his teeth, he took a big swig of the golden liquor. Followed by another. “This is good fucking booze. And it’s all mine, bitch!”

The whore ignored this slight at her and continued sucking cock. She never liked whiskey, cowboys or guns for that matter; they were a bad combination and things like this happened. Flicking her tongue on his bell end and wanking him faster, she brought him to orgasm now. Aware of his moaning, she speeded up and licked his cock like it was an ice cream cone.

“Oh you filthy whore, that feels good! Better than the Christian faggot, he couldn’t suck cock to save his life. Now he’s dead,” commented the cowboy, looking at the whore and over to the dead holy man. Mad laughter came from Big Gun’s drunken form, his chest heaved and tears came into his eyes. He took another gulp of whiskey and laughed some more.

Definitely certifiable. But most of the frontier men and cowboys around here are, thought the whore.

Big Gun came a second time, with one hand he gripped the whore’s clean blond hair and forced her to take his cock all the way into her mouth. His spunk jetted down her throat making her gag and cough. His orgasm flowed through him, overcoming his drunkenness and making him feel alive. Every bit of his body pulsed with raw primeval energy. He screamed and shouted, took a huge draft of booze to empty the bottle. Tossing it blindly aside, he picked his gun and emptied the three rounds into the crowd by the bar.

When people started screaming and the music stopped, he pointed the huge pistol at the whore and pulled the trigger. The last bullet caught the pretty blue eyed lady of the night named Emily right between her eyes, like an egg shell the back of her head exploded. Before the force of the gunshot kicked her backwards, a reflex action forced her mouth shut. Two of her teeth shattered in this involuntarily act and the piece of gristle in her mouth stood no chance. She bit it completely off and then fell backwards, landing near the dead Preacher. Two sides of the coin, holy and the whore. Both murdered by a now dickless cowboy called Big Gun. Was this divine justice?

“Oh fuck, oh fuck! She bit my fucking cock off! She bit my cock off!” shouted Big Gun, hysterically. “The whore bit my cock off!”

No one was bothered. By the bar two people were lay on the sawdust covered wooden floor, dead. Blood pooled from big bullet holes. A third person, a pretty eighteen year old whore lay crying, propped up against the bar. Her side was weeping blood, this pooled onto the floor joining the dead peoples’ bloody mess. Soon she would bleed to death. Upstairs there was commotion in the private rooms. They heard the shots and screams.

Marly legged it outside to go get the Sheriff. Three dozen people stood rooted to the spot in the saloon, not believing what had happened. Some drank, others stood whispering or shouting for more booze. It was self-service, the barman did a runner. It was too much for him to take; he never wanted to see anymore lawlessness or killing again. Strangely only a few sober drinkers left the saloon before the law arrived.

Big Gun was bleeding to death, his pain shot through him wiping away his drunken stupor and sobering him up. He fell to the floor and doubled over, lying next to the two corpses. He whimpered like a lame dog, begging God and his mother to save him and heal his pain. It was way too late for that. The Devil, guns and booze were a bad mix.

The Sheriff arrived in a commotion and joined the other disbelieving witnesses. With six strong men who were aspiring lawmen, order was soon restored. Big Gun was unceremoniously dragged to jail to hang in the morning. If he was still alive and hadn’t bled to death. Such was old town justice...

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details of my own publisher NICK'S POETRY BOOKS that i finally set up

 https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/nickarmbristerofficial

Hi, this is the official publishing profile for Nick Armbrister/Jimmy Boom Semtex, an author and publisher from Manchester, England. His work includes varied poetry and stories, including short and novel length. Topics include history, erotica, aviation, current affairs and much more. Nick has been writing since 1996 and published in the 'small press' (poetry scene) and in books for many years. He does open mic, attends writing work shops and is always working on a writing project. He has writing online and in real world books. Follow Nick's writing, news updates and more on his varied blogs links. Enjoy his writing, something different and creative. Nick has also worked with several international writers/authors/poets.

Nick's other interests are gothic/alternative music, gigs, tattoos, aircraft, reading, outdoors, paganism, hiking and life. He was born in 1971.