Huckleberry Quim & Ursula Cuntrouble by Paul Tristram

Huckleberry Quim and Ursula Cuntrouble were half laying/half sitting upon the floor behind the antique money safe, which had been blown onto its side when Ursula had taken out that Security Guard-who had dared point his motherfucking gun at her dear Huckleberry-with a stick of dynamite she had lit off her Swisher Sweet cigarillo not five minutes previously.They had two female cashiers, hands tied and gagged, sat against the wall not quite 4ft away,as long as they had these cunts alive, they knew they were cool against any kind of grenade, or mortar pussy attack.
Huckleberry was checking his badly grazed left elbow and sharpening his Bowie knife upon the pile of jagged childhood memories he kept in a special pouch around his neck as Ursula was clicking shells into her shotgun whilst deep throating him voraciously, in between bobbing his sweaty war-torn cock and wretching, she would half mumble ‘God, I Love You!’ in a voice so full and strained with love and adoration that it brought a tear to the eye. After swallowing heartily, Ursula fell into quiet contemplation for a moment or two, thinking about how they had met-she had been a Prison Officer at the notorious ‘Wordsworth Scrubs’ and Huckleberry was in on a 6 month pimping and street hustling charge-she had known it was love the moment she had looked into his deep black eyes (which Micky the Fence had given him in a fight over B-Wing amphetamine, she had taken the law into her own hands later that night and fucked Micky up good and proper with the thick end of a pool cue and no lube, he wouldn’t be standing upright for a good week or two!)
And now, here they were, in the middle of their very own bank job, Huckleberry had already transferred the funds to two offshore accounts via computer, seconds after entering the bank, unfortunately Ursula had farted (Nerves!) rather loudly and with guts to it, sending her loose floral dress a quivering whilst simultaneously drawing everyone’s attention just as the bottom hem lifted slightly, revealing the tip of her shotgun barrel.
From there, it was ‘On Fucking Top’ big time, wasn’t it! They sprung into action immediately, Huckleberry reached both hands forward with lightning speed, ripping out the cashier’s tongue and eyeballs in one fluid motion, preventing her from ever revealing the offshore transaction details.
Just to make sure (suffering from OCD he liked to do things thoroughly and properly!) he leapt the counter like a violent ballerina, picked up the fire extinguisher and beat her exactly thirteen times over the head and breasts, only stopping for a second once whilst slipping upon his own pre-cum.
Whilst this was going on Ursula did the nearest Security Guard with martial arts, she was on it like a teenage slut on a car bonnet, she wasn’t a delicate woman and had shoulders like an American Football Player and she charged and rammed one of those shoulders right into his throat, slamming him into a filing cabinet, whilst the crush was vibrating through his-to use a technical term here ‘fucked-up body’-she reached down (Swift as the shits!) and ripped his scrotum sack open from back to front, sending both testicles rolling down and out of his trousers legs and across the marbled floor.
This stopped the second Security Guard who was running towards her with his baton raised in one hand and his revolver pointed in the other (Waiting for a clear shot!) immediately, upon seeing the rolling testicle he shit his pants (literally!) murmured “Fuck That!”, fell to his knees and shot himself through the temple.
The third Security Guard was taken out with the stick of dynamite, and here they now were, the next step was to get to Hawaii, get married and make motherfucking babies, she was nearing forty and didn’t have much time (She’d put everything into her career before meeting Huckleberry, bless him but he’d really brought the woman out in her!) but firstly, they had to get the ‘Fuck Outta Dodge’
She was interrupted from her reverie by a voice over a mega phone
“We have nine police cars outside, there are more on route and the SAS are on their way… Release the hostages, put down your weapons… and exit the building, slowly and with your hands raised up in the air, palms open and fingers outstretched!”
“You’ll never take us alive Pig Cunts!” Yelled a homeless man with mental health issues running through him like the marbling on a steak, who was sat in the doorway of the bakery next door.
A fraction of a second later a helicopter arose on the horizon, an order was given, there was a Whoosh! and a rocket took out both homeless man and the front of the bakery.
Even before the dust had settled Huckleberry had quickly put his cock away (he liked to let it drip-dry slowly instead of wiping it!) looked deep into Ursula’s loving eyes and said.
“Here’s our window of opportunity, my Lover, they’ve got a fucking ‘copter out there, we need to get to that motherfucking ‘copter, quickly, let’s grab the bitches and burst outta them front doors like Ninja Assassin, Knights Of The Roundtable, Charles Bronson, Hard-core Bastards… and remember, anyone in sight not in a stinking uniform is probably detective, their ass is grass and we’re the motherfucking lawnmowers!”
As they burst out into the Summer afternoon, an hostage each held before them, the sunshine bounced off Ursula’s spittle as she yelled the immortal words
“Hold your fire, or I’m a barrel-fuck each of these bitches right in front of ya, cocksuckers!”
Everything turned to slow motion, Huckleberry was firing his Uzi into a group of Salvation Army fuckers with trumpets and trombones to his right whilst Ursula (Keeping her bullets for them Pigs!) was rapidly flinging Chinese throwing stars from various garter belts, with deadly accuracy into the faces of a gang of Nuns huddled in prayer off to the left.
They sidestepped to the right, trying to escape from the Police, who to be honest were just waiting for a clear shot, and saw in the traffic jam there, a flat back lorry with a massive ship harpoon strapped to it as cargo, they headed for that, obviously.
Just as they mounted the lorry, two helicopters arose above the buildings opposite, Huckleberry noticed that there was an harpoon strapped to each side of the casing, he ripped one out, loaded it, aimed and fired straight into the furthest helicopter on the left of them, blowing the fucker to smithereens.
The Police Captain screamed to the second helicopter through his megaphone,
“For fuck sake matey, land on that roof and stay there until the SAS get here, these Bastards ain’t fucking about here!”
While this was going on and Ursula was busy fanning the perspiration from her ample cleavage whilst admiring her ‘Cute As Fuck’ man, killing people and blowing shit up, the hostages bolted, straight off the back of the lorry and over towards the Police car barricade.
Ursula screamed
“Fucking Whores!”
and swinging her shotgun from the motherfucking hip, put a hole in the back of each of those ‘Bitches’ big enough to ram King Kong’s dick through.
With their human shields now horsemeat, it was time to get things on a bit sharpish like, the helicopter had landed on the roof of the building right in front of them and behind the harpoon carrying lorry was a fire engine.
With her right hand Ursula swung the Harpoon upwards and pointed it at the fucker and yelled,
“Get out the ‘copter and scram motherfuckers or I’m staking your Pig asses!”
whilst simultaneously firing one of the Uzi’s she had strapped to the bottom of her back over at the Police cars with her brass knuckled left hand.
As this was going on, Huckleberry had jumped ship and was now on top of the fire engine, directing the ladders upwards to the now empty ‘copter, as he scaled the rungs, Ursula removed the two grenades she’d plugged in orifices earlier (In case they needed to suicide, quickly?) and lobbed them at the restless mass of Police activity going on behind the line of Police cars, giving them cocksuckers something else to worry and think about whilst her beloved Mr Quim attended to the necessary job at hand, namely getting their motherfucking sky-chariot ready.
After dispatching a ‘copter cop hiding in the back of the ‘copter with a fireman’s axe, Huckleberry started up the engine and turned the fucker sideways so the machine guns were now facing the street, then looking over and seeing a rocket launcher on the passenger seat, he leapt out and fired it into the Police below, yelling,
“Ursula, get your fine ass up that motherfucking ladder now, girl!”
She stopped to wipe a small tear from her eye and draw a little heart in front of herself whilst silently mouthing the words ‘I Love You’
Then she took off at a gallop, striding three rungs at a time, whilst Huckleberry jumped into the ‘copter and was busy firing the machine gun at every motherfucking thing that moved down below, from pigeon to Police horse (The reinforcement’s were arriving with every passing second).
As Ursula reached the top of the ladder she took one in the thigh from a marksman who had just joined the ruckus, and winged, she fell off the ladder onto the roof, luckily only feet away from the ‘copter, she hobbled over and climbed in.
Quick as a flash Huckleberry was in the drivers seat and they were off in a eastwardly direction over the rooftops and out of shot range in seconds, the motherfucking Police Captain punched his Lieutenant out of sheer frustration and quit his job on the spot.
The SAS arrived on the scene in balaclavas just over a minute later and after a quick briefing, were off after the fleeing, stolen ‘copter.
Did the SAS catch up with them? Did Huckleberry Quim and Ursula Cuntrouble finally make it to Hawaii and change Ursula’s name to Quim.
Or did she get gangrene from the bullet hole and die painfully in Huckleberry’s arms, leaving him bitter, destitute and a raving, suicidal, homeless alcoholic?
Stay tuned Folks… and all will be revealed (Well, maybe… if I can get the God Damned top off this motherfucking bottle!)

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036  And also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036
And also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s