Lorelei, The German Bruised Vulva Sky & Pete Postlethwaite (Not The Highly Talented Dead Actor!) by Paul Tristram

It was November 16th, in the year of our Lord 1899, that we anchored in the middle of The Rhine and rowed ashore to The Broken Clog Tavern, which is of course, as any well travelled folk do know, upon the right-hand bank of the afore mentioned river.
After two wooden mugs a-piece, ¾ beer and ¼ rum, I settled in to playfully elbow-  titting one of the several young, blonde barmaids working the arse-end of the establishment, until, fed-up with my enthusiastic advancements, she lifted the helms of her skirt and petticoat chin-high and threatened me with a dose of the gonorrhoea, now evidentially on display and hungrily eating away at her ‘Hatchet-Wound’.
I about-turned, quick-as-the-shits, and vomited half a sardine sandwich into the pocket of Gripe, our first Lieutenant, whilst he was busy a-pickpocketing a wandering Magistrate who had just strolled in looking for some rough trade.
A fist-fight broke out and I leapt for the chandelier, slightly missing the stride of my normally impeccable (I’ll say that once again!) normally impeccable style, swagger and fantastic greatness.
I skidded clumsily downwards to the left when I was aiming to go upwards and slightly right and with much uncontrollable momentum. My feet stuttered (So to speak) and my right boot got jammed into a spittoon/chamber pot (I felt like a giraffe wearing only one high heel shoe for the first time and trying to skate across a marble floor- you really have to feel this in your mind’s eye as well as see it, for the full effect to roost home!) whilst at the very same time losing my balance and head-butting the disease-ridden barmaid smack, bang, square in the mound (I still have ‘The Horrors’ to this day, it made a sound- excuse me whilst I chew on my own elbow aarrrggghhh –of a pig intestine cock-sheath full of diarrhoea and ashtray scum being stamped upon).
Anyway, to cut a long story short, the Magistrate was turfed-out backwards and with much unfriendly clouting after he was caught red-handed grabbing and squeezing the Tavern Owner’s ‘meat & 2 veg’ whilst in amongst all the fist-flying and scuffling.
Soon after, when we had finished righting ourselves and cracked the tops off our next drinks, in sauntered One-Eyed Pentonville, the very man we had come ashore to parley with, picking motherfucking mermaid (I shit you not!) scales out of his crooked teeth with, what looked to be, a small sliver of a 1843 pianoforte E minor key.
Naturally, we bade the cunt sit down and he did, with a theatrical flourish quite startling and unnecessary (I’m glad I used the word ‘cunt’ at the beginning of this sentence because he deserves it… I’m the only one who shines in my general vicinity and when I’m in the bog or off to the bar Jimmy ‘Donkey-Knob’ Screech fills in for me!).
So, he didn’t have ‘The Tattered Map’ we were after about his personage (I was bet 15 guineas and a Janet Street-Porter cock-sucking off Bendable-Wendy the best C-section Stripper in Caerphilly two shore leaves ago, if I use the word ‘personage’ three times in my next story!).
I was more than ready to break all his fingers, toes and bugger-him-bloody with Sidewinder Stevie’s jagged ivory leg, but the Admiral was having none of it. Instead they got down to a little bit of ye olde bartering nonsense and I fucked off out the back for a roll-up and arse-scratch.
When I returned, the deed had been settled. There was a bird named Lorelei, who sits about on some rock way on high, a little further up the riverbank, of an evening, combing her copper-coloured barnet and singing poor, unwitting sailors to their death. A bit like the Sirens of Folklore, in fact exactly like the Sirens because that’s what the bitch was, except she had a name and ain’t all plural by herself, it being just her and her personage (Eh!) up high over yonder, but I digress….
Apparently, there was just no protection or defence against this beautiful-looking fucker with the voice of a nightingale ejaculating whilst buzzing on Ecstasy and Amyl Nitrite, apart from having a vagina in place of the ‘crown jewels’. Every poor bastard who had tried so far had been found at waters edge the next morning after a night of getting rimmed-out by Neptune himself.
“Well, That’s that well and truly fucked then!” I declared wisely.
But the Admiral just winked, the clever swine had a plan (This is why he’s the Admiral and I’m just his handsome side-kick!).
We were going to send Pete Postlethwaite (Not The Highly Talented Dead Actor!) our ships cook up alone to have a little natter in her fucking shell-like, innit. Genius really!
Old Pete’s as deaf as a fucking post and as impotent as a wellie full of nettles, after a 10 year stretch being landlocked and married to Helen The Grot from Aberavon (Poor cunt!). He’s alright in the company of women, but anything sexual mentioned or hinted at and his bollocks fly back up inside him and hide in his armpits quicker than you can say ‘chicken-fucking-fried rice!’
His job, pure and simple, was to get her to keep her trap shut of an evening, un-focus from the harvesting of men and leave the poor smugglers and poachers be… by any means necessary.
In return, we would receive our highly coveted ‘The Tattered Map’ at third bell on the following morrow, delivered by a trained magpie from the sect of ‘Hooded Shadows’, who’s head-honcho ‘Slinky Danger’ owed One-Eyed Pentonville a crust or three, from saving his neck in a ‘Landing Riot’ on the 3’s in Swansea Prison a couple of years back.
Within half-hour Pete Postlethwaite (Not The Highly Talented Dead Actor!) was ready to trot off up the slope, I grabbed a-hold of his ear trumpet and yelled “Seeing as she’s a looker… ask her if she’s got any Welsh in her personage (Yes! I’m Good!) and when she replies no… ask her if she wants some?”

He stumbled back down the slope around three hours later, I was out in the beer garden, smoking sensimilla and black tar heroin with the Roy ‘3 Bones’ Taylor, whilst trying to find out from the herb woman the best local remedy for gonorrhoea (For I just happened to have picked a bit up somewhere in the passing interval?). Who to be blunt and fucking honest, was just pissing herself laughing- at my expense- and kept rambling on annoyingly something along the lines of
“You mean she showed you her poxy minge first and you still barrelled it?”
Like I said, annoying as fuck, and it was a good job that Pete Postlethwaite (Not The Highly Talented Dead Actor!) turned up back on the scene… because, I was about to shank her right in the fucking face half-a-dozen times and piss on the stingy bits.

He sat himself down upon an upturned cider barrel, he looked as rough as rats, he’d aged a year or two in mere hours and he was an old bastard to start with. He had a small red, velvet drawstring bag in one hand, which was dripping claret everywhere and his ear trumpet in the other, only it took me a moment or two to recognise it… it was all battered and dented to fuck.
“How was it?” I screamed, scratching myself where I shouldn’t need to be scratching.
“Aye, she was beautiful ‘til I caved her head in with me fucking ear trumpet” he sighed nostalgically.
“If I hadn’t have become so bitter and twisted these past few years, I’d have fallen for her.
Thank fuck I couldn’t hear what she was nattering ‘bout for just the spectacle was bad enough, she’d make you tremble and turn child-happy again just by smiling and a-fluttering them fucking eyelashes.
Twice I had to stop myself from falling for her and then when she realized that her voice wasn’t working on me coz I’m mutt and jeff, she held her pretty little wanking hand up to her mouth and did a blowjob movement… you know me, when things get sexual with a woman? I went ballistic and that’s that. She won’t be bothering any more sailors, that’s for sure.”
“What’s in the velvet fanny-pack?”  I asked really slowly so he could lip-read.
“Funny you should call it that? It’s her womb. Legend has it that a Siren’s womb will produce 5 silver coins on the three consecutive nights of a full moon, now I don’t know if that’s a load of old codswallop or not? but I figured, there’s no harm in finding out, you can’t ever have enough ‘beer money’ as my dear old Grandmother used to say.”

The Magpie flew in at exactly three bells the next day with ‘The Tattered Map’ strapped to it’s thieving fucking back, took us a good twenty odd minutes to catch the cunt when we finally got it in the Admiral’s cabin. It kept going for my profusely sweating crotch (Which was now constantly on fire and giving off a foul aroma the like of frying marzipan, almonds and beggar’s socks)… and with that image planted firmly in your noggins, we up-anchored and sailed off, not quite into the sunset because we weren’t fucking going that way, it was more, you know that way, over there, mun… aye, that’s it, tidy.


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 books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096 ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036 And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326415204 You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/


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