Moulin Bruges (400th Post Story)

Hello my fellow maniacs.  A few days ago, I asked for a little help on a collaborative story.  A few of you kindly submitted a sentence that I had to include in a short story.  Well, I have weaved a tale around your words which is hopefully to your liking.  All highlighted text has been submitted by you guys so you can easily identify it.  Please enjoy:

Following last night's passionate lovemaking, Karen was spending another morning washing yogurt, swarfega and blood stains from her pillow. Being the Madame of an opium den and brothel was hard work, especially since such places don’t really exist in the 21^st century anymore.  In fact, this was the only known opium den left in London; a relic from a bygone Victorian era.  Karen’s mum, her mum’s mum, and her mum’s mum’s mum had successfully managed the establishment and ownership had been passed down the family line.  Before that, the family had bought it from guy in a pub by shoving a quid up his pisspipe, gulping down a glass of gin, and having a good, old fashioned knees up.

History aside, it was upon this very ordinary day that I first met Karen and her harem of scintillating ladies.  Being an opium addict, I had spent the entire morning ransacking my house in search of a score.  Feeling the shakes of withdrawal manifesting themselves in my body, I reached into my prosthetic leg in search of my supply.  Unfortunately, I realised that my prosthetic leg was stolen in an unfortunate robbery from the previous day.  I tend to get robbed on a near constant basis.  Being a raving addict makes me somewhat susceptible and pliant when it comes to being mugged.  Regardless, I resolved to find some sweet, sweet opiates at my local den of vice.

Upon entry I was immediately greeted by a vast clean-up operation that was unfolding in front of me.  Soiled sheets, torn pillows and wilted spoons were being carried hither and thither throughout the halls, giving the impression that I was walking through an orgy of parachutes.  As I marveled at the hordes of whores who were desperately trying to clean this place up before their usual evening customers arrived, I rounded a corner and stopped dead in my tracks.   That's when I saw the goat, and the goat saw me.  It fixed me with a steely stare as Madame Karen ushered it out of the sordid mess that once constituted her best room.  The goat probably blamed me for its ejection from the room, and for being deprived of that delicious puddle of puke it was eyeing up.  Never mind, I had far worse enemies than a cantankerous goat.

“Hello!  Welcome to the Moulin Bruges!” Exclaimed Karen with a mixture of surprise and exasperation.  “Forgive the mess, it’s just that we don’t usually have any customers at 11AM”

She was right.  Most deviants don’t usually leave the house before dark.

“Well I’m not your usual deviant” I uttered, letting my train of thought leave my mouth.

Karen was still manically trying to clean up.  She was whipping off bed sheets like a whirling dervish, like a Tasmanian devil in a tornado.  I could have waited until she’d finished, but I was starting to shake like a newly born bush baby hanging over a pit of snakes.

“I’ll take seven measures of your finest opium please!” I proclaimed, then leaned in closer “and two of your sultriest ladies.  If you can make sure they are both named Barbara, that’d be fantastic.”

“Of course sir, we’ll work out your bill afterwards.”

That reminded me.  Since having my leg stolen, the secret supply of drug money I kept in there had also been removed from my ownership.  I didn’t have any money, but I was desperate.

“Yeah, about that, is there another way to pay for these services without money?”

Shortly afterwards, I found myself on stage as the first male act they’d ever featured at the Moulin Bruges.  It seemed that if I was to use their services, I would have to work for them.  So as I gyrated in a loosely fitting basque for the entertainment of mafia bosses and one-eyed smack addicts, I realised that I was the first gainful employment I’d ever been in.

Alas, it seemed that my new fledgling career was not meant to be.   I think on reflection, trying to play Stairway to Heaven while juggling chainsaws was not a good idea, but it was going perfectly until that naked tattooed snake dancer threw the Hedgehog at me. I was promptly booed offstage in a flood of tears and blood, both of which were not unusual substance to find upon the walls and floors of the Moulin Bruges.

I ran into the dressing room and began hysterically trying to clean myself up for the encore.  One of the other gogo dancers, Penelope, approached me.

“First time?”

I nodded and tried to snort up a gangly trail of mucus that was emanating from my nostril.

“Don’t worry.  The first time’s always the toughest.  The crowd will warm up to you.” She said with kind hand on my shoulder.  I looked up with thankful, bloodshot eyes.  She was beautiful.  She smelled the way angels oughta smell; of warm Bovril.  I was instantly in love.  She must have felt the same way because, before we knew what was happening, we found ourselves in an upstairs room exploring each other.

It was wild and frantic and unlike anything that I had ever experienced before. And as we basked in the afterglow of our loving making, I sighed a contented sigh and turned to my new love, Shaun the Sheep. Of course, the sheep costume was just one of many outfits that are available to hire in this particular establishment, and the white wool complemented Penelope’s blue highlights perfectly.

“Let’s run away together” she suggested.  I was hesitant at first.  After all, this is where the opium was.  However, one passionate night with Penelope later, and I was hooked on a new drug.  Heroin.  And she had it in spades!  I agreed, so we packed our things and headed out.

Before we left, we took a wrong turn and ended up in another private room.  Both occupants were dressed rather disturbingly. "Holy whale tits," exclaimed Penelope upon rounding the corner to see Queen Elizabeth engaged in a clitoral sword fight with Dame Judi Dench. We vowed never to mention this again as we backed out of the room and headed for the exit.

Leaving employment without informing your employer is something that you cannot do without ramifications.  Madame Karen had lost two valuable assets that evening and she wasn’t about to let them disappear into the sunset so easily.

“Fly my pretties!” She screeched, as she flung open a window and gestured with her arms.  Unfortunately, the police officers who were there refused to leap out of the window for two reasons.  Firstly, they were not winged beasts that were assigned to do her bidding.  Secondly, they were there to shut the place down, not to chase escapees.  Karen was promptly thrown in prison for drug and human trafficking.

Not realising this chain of events, Penelope and myself assumed that we would be hunted down like dogs by Madame Karen and her minions, so we paid due care into staying out of sight.  As the night drew on, we knew that we’d have to find somewhere to sleep.  An abandoned barn seemed like the perfect place.

We found a soft pile of straw that would make a great bed for the night.  As we began to settle down, something started rustling beneath us.  Instinctively, I reached for a pitchfork and began stabbing around in the deep straw.  It struck something.  I pulled it out to reveal a miniature Shetland pony that I had unceremoniously stabbed to death.  As Penelope sat in the barn, fondling the stinking corpse of the quadruped, she recalled the words of Grandma Mae, "When consumed in conversation, never beat-off a dead horse."  No doubt this was good advice, if somewhat irrelevant to the situation.

At this point I was alerted to a sudden bleating noise behind me.  As I swung around on the spot, I was confronted by a familiar goat, who seemed rather perturbed at the death of his barnyard friend.  He flew across the barn and head-butted me in the knackers.  I began to slide out of consciousness.

I awoke to a bright light shining in my face.  I could make out humanoid figures stood over me.

“Sir, are you awake sir?”

I winced in the pale, intense light, trying to shield my eyes as I tried to register my affirmation.

“You’re in hospital, sir.  However, I have some bad news.”

“Bad news?”

"The juxtaposition of incompetency within the entirety of the encompassing confusion has led to nothing short of a misunderstanding and I must apologise at the premature loss of your testes.....um... madam."

I took me a few moments to process this.

“You mean..?”

“Yes, I’m afraid that we removed your testicles.  Frankly, we weren’t sure that they were supposed to be there, what with you wearing a basque and everything, so we didn’t try to save them.”

“You bastards!”

“Now, there’s no need for bad language”

“Yes there fucking is!  You’ve fucking taken my bollocks you shower of cu-!”

One of the attending nurses slipped a syringe into my arm and I promptly lost consciousness again.

Being a eunuch isn’t so bad.  When I sit down, I don’t accidentally sit on my ballsack anymore.  It also means that I have less to clean down there.  However, it has put a bit of a crimp on my sex life, and Penelope has left me as a result.  Also, a goat keeps coming round to my house, peering through my windows, and making threatening gestures.  It seems that the goat is now my arch nemesis and will not rest until he finishes the job. If someone could get me the number for Goatbusters, I’d be rather appreciative.