11-26-2020, 09:43 PM
(This post was last modified: 11-26-2020, 10:35 PM by HawkingsHalfpint.)
The ‘GWAAAAAAAAAAAAARRR!’ sound of Deicide’s Greatest Hits album blared at near-747 take-off volume through the tinny speakers of his ill-fated Throstle alarm clock, before being smashed into a billion pieces by his West Ham-branded lumphammer (one of a pair gifted to Slaven by the Blowing Bubbles faithful; and part of an equally much-treasured morning ritual). “Fuck the morning” he bellowed as he threw back the covers of his Lordi duvet cover, much to the chagrin of his beautiful, semi-naked girlfriend. “I wish I was in love with the morning as much as I was in love with your tits, baby. Why the fuck do they make me go to training at 8:30?”. The sultry maiden shivered as she replied, “Er, because you agreed to it, Slavy baby? Just like you agreed to Heganeesy leaving for the sandbox?” Slaven’s furrowed brow and yellow eyes grew more furrowed and jaundiced, as his sombre morning mood did little to improve upon hearing this comment. “I don’t wanna talk about this!” he snapped. “We are not to talk about this. It is talking about this that got Sam Field a broken nose and some ribs. Can not we not talk about your tits instead? I mean they are so lovely when they are this cold. Why can’t I go training in your tits?" She giggled as she pulled up the covers, as Slaven continued his rant, with an improving mood and tone. "Andrijana never let me used to do that, in fact all she did when I spoke of her tits was say ‘mind the cones’ in a Colin McRae accent, the stupid legal bitch. Anyway up I must get. Can you clean up this Throstle for me? I don’t want to be late again, or Kieron Gibbs will grass me up again, and I’ll have to freeze him out again; just after he’s learned to do a toilet on his own again.”
The lush blonde rolled her eyes and smiled. “OK, Slavy, as long as you feed the chickens before you go out. Sure thing I will baby.” Slav’s eyes paused for a second as he looked upwards and held his stubbly chin in one hand. “Thanks bitch. But you know, feeding the chickens, Jeremina, I don’t be having to do that now; I can do that when they break for lunch at 12:15, in the club canteen. Aha! Aha ha! Ahahaha hahaha! Ha.”
Following a brief brush of the ivories with his favourite Jack Daniels and Coke flavoured toothpaste (and a quick rub of Regaine into his neatly transplanted temples), he dreamed for a brief period of managing a side of warmer, more temperate climate; a side where his nutcaseism would be valued rather than frowned-upon by the board, and where turning up late to training was almost customary. “Yeeeeeeees”, he gargled to himself with his CBD mouthwash – a gift from a hopeful Saido Berahino as it happens – “if only I did not have to work for that lard-faced wanker Puke Dowling”. He spat out his mouthwash in disdain at his unenviable plight, before drying his face with a nearby bar towel. “Why could I not be in management of a slightly crazier club, like Trabzonspor, or maybe Newcastle. I hear that they do not test for the Class A's there unless they are suspected of being stepped on. Maybe one day!” he muttered in Croatian, before wishing his beauty goodbye with a cute little blown kiss, and marched down the small stairway from the west to the central wing of his sumptuous, Little Aston Park interior-tailored bungaplex.
Slaven glanced at the letterbox and saw that the newspaper had been delivered. “Fuck, I better get a move on, I am slower than a crowded Livermore facing backwards this morning”. He hurried past a giant Hindu elephant wearing a poncho; pausing only to bow rather than kneel and pray for 2 minutes. “Not today, Davor, I pray to you for chaos later, double time, but right now I am sweating and panting like a Matthew P on his way to the hot dogs.” The elephant glared back, and Slaven could almost feel its burning, spiritual scowl. “I promise Mr Davor, I pray later”.
Just as he pondered how he would find the time to do this, he remembered the chickens. “Fuck!” he exclaimed, as he remembered his promise to the beautiful lady upstairs. Things were going well with Jeremina, and he didn’t want to fuck this one up like a substitution. At that precise moment, his phone began to beep the sound of Slayer and Machine Head’s ‘Witching Hour’. He pulled the phone (among a bundle of Rizlas) from his tracksuit pocket, and glared downward. A picture of a giant lump of meat on the bone glared back at him, above the words ‘HAM FACE calling’. “Fuck, fuck, fuck the little pig and the houses it built, even the brick one”.
What should Slaven do?
The lush blonde rolled her eyes and smiled. “OK, Slavy, as long as you feed the chickens before you go out. Sure thing I will baby.” Slav’s eyes paused for a second as he looked upwards and held his stubbly chin in one hand. “Thanks bitch. But you know, feeding the chickens, Jeremina, I don’t be having to do that now; I can do that when they break for lunch at 12:15, in the club canteen. Aha! Aha ha! Ahahaha hahaha! Ha.”
Following a brief brush of the ivories with his favourite Jack Daniels and Coke flavoured toothpaste (and a quick rub of Regaine into his neatly transplanted temples), he dreamed for a brief period of managing a side of warmer, more temperate climate; a side where his nutcaseism would be valued rather than frowned-upon by the board, and where turning up late to training was almost customary. “Yeeeeeeees”, he gargled to himself with his CBD mouthwash – a gift from a hopeful Saido Berahino as it happens – “if only I did not have to work for that lard-faced wanker Puke Dowling”. He spat out his mouthwash in disdain at his unenviable plight, before drying his face with a nearby bar towel. “Why could I not be in management of a slightly crazier club, like Trabzonspor, or maybe Newcastle. I hear that they do not test for the Class A's there unless they are suspected of being stepped on. Maybe one day!” he muttered in Croatian, before wishing his beauty goodbye with a cute little blown kiss, and marched down the small stairway from the west to the central wing of his sumptuous, Little Aston Park interior-tailored bungaplex.
Slaven glanced at the letterbox and saw that the newspaper had been delivered. “Fuck, I better get a move on, I am slower than a crowded Livermore facing backwards this morning”. He hurried past a giant Hindu elephant wearing a poncho; pausing only to bow rather than kneel and pray for 2 minutes. “Not today, Davor, I pray to you for chaos later, double time, but right now I am sweating and panting like a Matthew P on his way to the hot dogs.” The elephant glared back, and Slaven could almost feel its burning, spiritual scowl. “I promise Mr Davor, I pray later”.
Just as he pondered how he would find the time to do this, he remembered the chickens. “Fuck!” he exclaimed, as he remembered his promise to the beautiful lady upstairs. Things were going well with Jeremina, and he didn’t want to fuck this one up like a substitution. At that precise moment, his phone began to beep the sound of Slayer and Machine Head’s ‘Witching Hour’. He pulled the phone (among a bundle of Rizlas) from his tracksuit pocket, and glared downward. A picture of a giant lump of meat on the bone glared back at him, above the words ‘HAM FACE calling’. “Fuck, fuck, fuck the little pig and the houses it built, even the brick one”.
What should Slaven do?
