Micky
Disaster area
- Joined
- Nov 5, 2010
- Messages
- 101
- Location
- No man's land.
Micky was a good kid. Sure, he was a horny little fucker - had been since he was twelve. And he was a raving schizo too. But he was a good kid.
When he was fourteen he developed viral pneumonia while he was on holiday. Within hours his lungs had filled up with fluid and his blood sats had fallen below 70. He remembered kicking and squirming and fighting for breath in the helicopter taking him to Preston Royal, one paramedic holding an oxygen mask clamped over his face, the other gripping his hand and shouting above the racket of the rotor blades, 'Easy, kid, easy, we're nearly there... you're doing great, kid, just hold on, nearly there...' But he passed out before the helicopter landed.
After that Micky took to putting plastic bags over his head and gasping for air like he had done in the helicopter. He also used to float face down in the swimming pool for up to a minute.
When he was seventeen his Dad died. That fucked him up - it fucked him up big style. On the second anniversary of his Dad's death he visted his grave with a letter he'd written him. When it was time for the cemetery to be locked for the night he refused to leave. He said he was going to pour petrol over himself and set himself on fire. He ended up being sectioned.
At the beginning of June his section ran out and he was moved off the intensive care psychiatric ward to a half way house to live with other messed up young lads in a safe environment... but the environment turned out not to be safe at all. Because, as was pointed out at the beginning of this cautionary tale, Micky was a horny little fucker. He used to go online at night flirting with guys he'd met on the net like a complete tart. He only went and sent one of them a pic of himself with his dick out! Talk about asking for it... One guy in particular started to show an interest, an American from NYC who was heavily into abduction and chloroform. He began sending Micky messages like 'i want to jump and chloro u hot fukker' and Micky was so turned on by the idea of being taken by force by a hard, mean, murderous Yank that he used to jerk after he'd read these messages and he couldn't think of anything else. But it was only a fantasy. He'd no idea that one day it would actually happen.
Then the whole situation just blew up in his face. He'd shared altogether too much personal info with his dangerous online buddy. He got a new message from him: 'cummin for u lil mickers. landing ringway tonite. hopin u put up a hot fight for me boy.' Well, he just freaked. He rang Dave, a mate of his from his days of going down by the ship canal, begging him to come and protect him, almost crying while he was talking to him, and Dave said he'd be right over.
Come ten o'clock at night the pair of them were down in the cellar in the unit where Micky lived, making final plans. The flight from New York had been scheduled to touch down at 8:30. The Yank would have to clear customs, then board the metrolink into Manchester, then catch a bus into Salford. It wasn't going to be long...
'You stay down here and lock the door, kidder,' said Dave. 'I'll wait outside for this Yank of yours.' And that is what he did. After about half an hour he saw a man walking up the drive carrying a shoulder bag. Just one look at him told Dave he'd have no chance tackling a guy like that, but he was a brave little fucker was Dave, so he blocked his way, to defend Micky. It was over in seconds. A quick chop to the throat, a knee to the bollocks, and Dave was down.
Down in the cellar Micky heard footsteps on the stairs. 'Is that you, Dave?' he called anxiously and a low voice answered 'Uh huh,' so he unlocked the door, and before he could even think of defending himself the Yank had gripped him under the arms and flung him across the full length of the cellar. He scrambled to his feet and watched in disbelief as the guy calmly set down his bag and took out a bottle and a clean white rag. When he unstoppered the bottle Micky gave an involuntary moan of fear, but at the same time he clenched his fists, and his dick began to grow hard. His body was preparing itself for a fight. For about thirty seconds they faced each other, neither of them speaking, in the classic confrontation of hunter and prey, the only truth in a cruel and heartless universe.
Then the Yank made his move. He sprang at Micky without warning - Micky darted to one side hoping to get round him and reach the door, only to get caught by the arm. But as his arm was twisted up behind his back, it wasn't 'No mister, please don't hurt me,' from Micky. No, it was 'Get off me, you fucking horrible cunt!' And he continued cursing and yelling and telling his attacker the lads would come piling in any second and rip his fucking head off until the rag was clamped over his nose and mouth.
He was going to go down, there was no doubt of it, the Yank was just too strong for him, but he wasn't going to go down without a fight. He was cunning, he was wiry, he was the boy who could hold his breath for sixty seconds... So he relaxed, went almost limp, moved his head gently and slowly from one side to the other as though he was in the grip of intense sexual pleasure... and then suddenly, after about half a minute of this, he lunged forward and down with all his strength, and he almost succeeded in breaking free. But his attacker gave a savage twist to his arm, and an almost unbearable pain hit Micky in the side of the neck - the bastard had wrenched his arm out of its shoulder socket! He gave an agonised yowl and the chloroform got into his lungs.
And that was it for young Micky. His eyes rolled back in his head, his chest heaved, his body began to shudder convulsively. A dark halo spread out from the cellar light, engulfing the whole cellar in darkness. He heard a strange rushing sound in his ears, as though a dark wind had started to blow right through him. And his last thought was of his poor dead Dad who he knew, he just knew, was reaching out of his own darkness into his son's, trying despairingly to rescue him.
Poor Micky Fudge, eh? He didn't deserve it - he really didn't. He was a good kid...
When he was fourteen he developed viral pneumonia while he was on holiday. Within hours his lungs had filled up with fluid and his blood sats had fallen below 70. He remembered kicking and squirming and fighting for breath in the helicopter taking him to Preston Royal, one paramedic holding an oxygen mask clamped over his face, the other gripping his hand and shouting above the racket of the rotor blades, 'Easy, kid, easy, we're nearly there... you're doing great, kid, just hold on, nearly there...' But he passed out before the helicopter landed.
After that Micky took to putting plastic bags over his head and gasping for air like he had done in the helicopter. He also used to float face down in the swimming pool for up to a minute.
When he was seventeen his Dad died. That fucked him up - it fucked him up big style. On the second anniversary of his Dad's death he visted his grave with a letter he'd written him. When it was time for the cemetery to be locked for the night he refused to leave. He said he was going to pour petrol over himself and set himself on fire. He ended up being sectioned.
At the beginning of June his section ran out and he was moved off the intensive care psychiatric ward to a half way house to live with other messed up young lads in a safe environment... but the environment turned out not to be safe at all. Because, as was pointed out at the beginning of this cautionary tale, Micky was a horny little fucker. He used to go online at night flirting with guys he'd met on the net like a complete tart. He only went and sent one of them a pic of himself with his dick out! Talk about asking for it... One guy in particular started to show an interest, an American from NYC who was heavily into abduction and chloroform. He began sending Micky messages like 'i want to jump and chloro u hot fukker' and Micky was so turned on by the idea of being taken by force by a hard, mean, murderous Yank that he used to jerk after he'd read these messages and he couldn't think of anything else. But it was only a fantasy. He'd no idea that one day it would actually happen.
Then the whole situation just blew up in his face. He'd shared altogether too much personal info with his dangerous online buddy. He got a new message from him: 'cummin for u lil mickers. landing ringway tonite. hopin u put up a hot fight for me boy.' Well, he just freaked. He rang Dave, a mate of his from his days of going down by the ship canal, begging him to come and protect him, almost crying while he was talking to him, and Dave said he'd be right over.
Come ten o'clock at night the pair of them were down in the cellar in the unit where Micky lived, making final plans. The flight from New York had been scheduled to touch down at 8:30. The Yank would have to clear customs, then board the metrolink into Manchester, then catch a bus into Salford. It wasn't going to be long...
'You stay down here and lock the door, kidder,' said Dave. 'I'll wait outside for this Yank of yours.' And that is what he did. After about half an hour he saw a man walking up the drive carrying a shoulder bag. Just one look at him told Dave he'd have no chance tackling a guy like that, but he was a brave little fucker was Dave, so he blocked his way, to defend Micky. It was over in seconds. A quick chop to the throat, a knee to the bollocks, and Dave was down.
Down in the cellar Micky heard footsteps on the stairs. 'Is that you, Dave?' he called anxiously and a low voice answered 'Uh huh,' so he unlocked the door, and before he could even think of defending himself the Yank had gripped him under the arms and flung him across the full length of the cellar. He scrambled to his feet and watched in disbelief as the guy calmly set down his bag and took out a bottle and a clean white rag. When he unstoppered the bottle Micky gave an involuntary moan of fear, but at the same time he clenched his fists, and his dick began to grow hard. His body was preparing itself for a fight. For about thirty seconds they faced each other, neither of them speaking, in the classic confrontation of hunter and prey, the only truth in a cruel and heartless universe.
Then the Yank made his move. He sprang at Micky without warning - Micky darted to one side hoping to get round him and reach the door, only to get caught by the arm. But as his arm was twisted up behind his back, it wasn't 'No mister, please don't hurt me,' from Micky. No, it was 'Get off me, you fucking horrible cunt!' And he continued cursing and yelling and telling his attacker the lads would come piling in any second and rip his fucking head off until the rag was clamped over his nose and mouth.
He was going to go down, there was no doubt of it, the Yank was just too strong for him, but he wasn't going to go down without a fight. He was cunning, he was wiry, he was the boy who could hold his breath for sixty seconds... So he relaxed, went almost limp, moved his head gently and slowly from one side to the other as though he was in the grip of intense sexual pleasure... and then suddenly, after about half a minute of this, he lunged forward and down with all his strength, and he almost succeeded in breaking free. But his attacker gave a savage twist to his arm, and an almost unbearable pain hit Micky in the side of the neck - the bastard had wrenched his arm out of its shoulder socket! He gave an agonised yowl and the chloroform got into his lungs.
And that was it for young Micky. His eyes rolled back in his head, his chest heaved, his body began to shudder convulsively. A dark halo spread out from the cellar light, engulfing the whole cellar in darkness. He heard a strange rushing sound in his ears, as though a dark wind had started to blow right through him. And his last thought was of his poor dead Dad who he knew, he just knew, was reaching out of his own darkness into his son's, trying despairingly to rescue him.
Poor Micky Fudge, eh? He didn't deserve it - he really didn't. He was a good kid...
