Friday, 5 February 2010


Akabusi was in the shower. Crying. And wanking. In fact there was liquid coming from every orifice. He hadn't felt this bad since he'd watched an hour and a half of Britain's Got Talent. It was that bad. He had travelled to Los Angeles for the funeral of international businessman Vincent MacMahon who had tragically and spectacularly exploded on an episode of some wrestling show.

Busi had done a lot of work for the WWF back in the day - once arranging a fight in a skip near Luton between Hulk Hogan, Sir William Regal and an endangered panda. The panda had shit moves and had taken a severe beating from Regal leaving it with two black eyes. Busi had withdrawn his support of the wrestling/animal charity not long after.

The funeral had been a sombre affair. Live on cable. Many of the wrestling world's best wrestlers had carried MacMahon's walnut effect coffin and then chucked it into the grave. Mourners then ceremoniously smashed a metal chair or bin onto the coffin as Journey played soft rock classic Don't Stop Belie-

Whilst eating a Powerade vol au vent at the wake at a titty bar Busi's agent had called him with the news that "Lotions 13" had been creating quite a buzz. Mainly because it was a big steaming pile of shit but also due to the fantastic tax dodging opportunities it offered. The producers of Hulk II were interested in speaking to Kriss about greening up to play Dr Krisstopher Banner. If the money and tax breaks were right Busi was in but he wanted to play it black and not green so the production company told him to stick it up his arsehole and offered it to John Regis or failing that Jonathan Edwards.

Black and Regis were out in LA with Busi and the entourage had been tearing up LA like Portugese coppers in brush land. Regis' rampant OCD was exactly 873 times better and out here in LA LA land Regis was considered a balanced individual. But a black one. Black had been hooking up with his crew from the Rollin 60 Neighbourhood Crips, although out here they called them chips Busi had learned. Black had put more caps in arses than George Michael on tour and the heat had forced the Busi posse to take refuge in the Mondrian.

So here Busi was in the hot stream of a Hans Grohe struggling to get blood into his ebony pussy pestle as his massive hands moved quicker than an Albanian at a Presidential walkabout. To make matters much much worse, his onyx boa inflictor hadn't felt the sweet touch of a lady's tight white clunge piece since he'd surprise sexed the Virgin Atlantic stewardess as she given him Reiki over Newfoundland. Busi had it all. But he wanted more. More pussy.

To cheer himself up and get Regis out of the wardrobe, Roger Black had arranged for Busi to deliver one of his magnificent and hugely expensive motivational speeches at a local prison. A woman's prison. As Regis towelled down the sleek, jet black chassis of Mr Krisstopher Akabusi, the thought of pumping his fist and shouting slogans at a room full of caged heat was too much to take and he had hit John in his eye with his inflated helmet. Just like Barcelona in 92. Maybe he would get some LA gear after all, Busi mused as he slipped into his Armani dungerees he snagged from TK Maxx.

As Busi, Black and poor demented Regis pulled up to the Century Regional Detention Centre in Lynwood in there hired convertible Corsa they could all smell the accrid stench of unpounded pussy and the sweet aroma of women slipping more fingers and tongues than a professional stamp sticker. Busi wanted to high ten but choose a five to appear cool.

They checked in, received some prison issue mirrored shades and waited in the back stage area whilst Busi ran through an arm pump, an Awooga and a Awwwwwiggght in front of Black's sunglasses. Regis had totally covered himself in a map of the prison but he was too scared to get a Schofield so he had transfers. In the LA heat he now looked like a panther who had rolled in a Hello Kitty collection.

The crowd were baying for Busi and when he emerged in his ermine dungs wearing his Olympic medal the place erupted like Palestine. He hadn't seen this many women with tats, piercings and buzzcuts since he went to the Melanie C comeback concert. There were "women" here rougher than Barrymore's chair leg and just as dangerous. Regis was sweating so much he was now standing in a pool of ink and Black kept his hand firmly on his ivory handled Glock.

Many of the deep C divers were touching themselves and others whilst Busi spun out his usual brand of David Coleman anecdotes and lispy bullshit. By the end of the 5 minute speech the gang of tail didn't even clap, they squelched. And that was enough for Busi. He let slip his dungs and felt the fabric slide past his smooth toned thighs. He stood there for a moment looking like a beautiful chocolate elephant with it's back legs and torso chopped off. Then the riot started.

With two women dead and fourteen guards severely raped the posse took refuge with the prison padre Father Ignatious O'Reilly. "Mr Akabumbum. Despite your naked torso causing the biggest riot since that Ikea opened in Edmonton I would like you to visit one of our poor prisoners on Death Row. I think she would appreciate your kind words...and your giant cock".

Prisoner 9818783 or Paris Hilton as she was know around here, cowered in her cell as the riot took off. Busi stood at the bars his grumbling fire hose twitching like Lubbock after a belly flop. Busi knew that beneath that Gucci orange jump suit was a pair of tits so small that her cell walls were jealous and a clunge as well thumbed as the lingerie section of a Freemans. Her stylist and PR let Busi into the cell and Paris dried her eyes with a silk do-rag. Kriss knew that The Hilt had seen more mileage than the McCann European Tour but he still wanted in. Up to his ginormous nuts.

Paris knew the drill. She peeled off her Gitmos and exposed a tanned torso that had seen more action on the internet than Pete Townsend and Leslie Grantham put together. Apart from the golden mane that topped her pin like head there wasn't a hair on her body. Busi thought he was looking at a shaved kitten and in a way he was.

Blood filled his plonker quicker than Simon Weston turning on the cold tap. He leapt on her like Hamas on Gazza and thrust his penal colony right up to her stapled stomach. Busi thought he heard a "prison break" somewhere down below but he liked a bit of blood with his pudding. Hilton was open for business and all her rooms were kingsize.

Within hours Krisstopher was on his violent vinegars and let fly with such a stream of knacker lava that Paris's spray tan was stripped from her boney body and for a brief moment the prison riot was quelled - a little in awe and a little in disgust.

Busi rolled up his heiress aerator and watched as the last of his giant spunks flipped and flapped around on the cold stone floor of Lynwood. Regis and Black had gotten a call from Robbie Williams to play football against Rod Stewart up in the Hills. Busi knew that the buffet at these things was always quality so they had no time to lose. And the prison was on fire.

"Good luck Hilt. You fucking idiot. Do your time with some dignity and don't bend over in the showers. Or the internet. Peace out" roared Akabusi with all the might of Brian Blessed with his nuts caught in the Complete Works of Shakespeare.

Busi looked down on the twisted pile of matted blonde hair, hotel reservations, dying tadpoles, rice and tiny tits, bent down on his powerful Olympian knee, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.


Akabusi thumped his hand on the walnut effect table. His brown hammer fist split the table and for a moment he was reminded of Ulrika Jonnsson's well thumbed clunge. This was shit. His rider for this gig had specifically specified specific things like 500 gram Tupperware container of Reggae Reggae Sauce mixed with blue peanut M&Ms. He could clearly see that the fucking M&Ms were fucking red and there was only 450 grammes of the fucking sauce. Promises had been made.

Busi had had a bad few weeks. Him, Regis and Black had accidently burnt down a building in Manchester after a pyrotechnics display for the opening of a new JJB Sports had gone spectacularly wrong. It would have to be the last time they let poor demented OCD riddled Regis buy pyros. Or indeed anything. In the rush to evacute two Make A Wish foundation kids had been left behind and their charred electronic wheelchairs and three British Knights trainers were all that remained. Black had "disappeared" the evidence before the fuzz and more importantly the deputy chief marketing officer for JJB Sports North arrived. They had some pretty major openings in the coming weeks.

Even more depressingly Kriss's ebony pussy plunger hadn't tasted the sweet sticky sauce of a pretty major or minor opening in a while and the grisly pulsating Kaa betwixt his toned thighs wouldn't let him fucking forget. It needed feeding or it would go elsewhere. It also needed bathing but that was another story.

As Busi keyed in his agent Harvey Goldenblum's number into his Raspberry he looked around the table at the most useless eleven counts since he saw West Ham play. Jury service was the last thing he needed and when the Old Bailey celebrity bookers were going to persist in serving up red M&Ms with his sauce he wanted out. And he wanted in. A pussy.

At the moment they were deliberating over some Muslim numpty who had been caught cooking up fertiliser "above the shop". Busi had been called in at the last minute to fill the gap left by Sally Gunnell who had left to perform an emergency opening of a JD Sports in Letchworth. She got all the good gigs. The Old Bailey had made him the foreman and Busi had accepted with open muscular onyx arms. Kriss soon realized this meant he didn't get a fat reducing grill or anything to cook with and he would have to "make notes".

There was only one angry man in this room and it was Krisstopher Akabusi. The other members of the crew or whatever the fuck you called it were sure that Omar Epps was going to blow up Bluewater. Busi didn't give a monkey's clunge in hell, he preferred fucking Lakeside and he was willing to bully the others into a not guilty verdict if it meant he could get off to Cape Canerval where Roger Black and Regis were holed up. This was justice, Akabusi style.

The hot air of this cracking late April day crept into the walnut effect conference room like DJ's into the Walton Hop and found it's way between Busi's polished Texas Gold black body and his fine pinstriped dungarees that Mr Raja had knocked up for him. He could feel the chocolate liono stir as the air caressed his newly shaved rugby ball size balls. All three of his genitalia knew it was summer and knew that outside in parks, Lidos and street corners were women in tight white tops and towelling shorts splashing around in the watery arc of a burst water main. Goddamn, all four of them needed kneeding.

"Right let's get this shit over with" roared Busi as he stood upright like a cock in a fanny shop. "This is not a quarter as exciting as the fucking Phil Spectrum trial and this fucking one isn't televised. I was made promises". The eleven ugly men and true shuffled their papers, some followed Busi's gaze out the window to the frolicking pussy in the street. Some knew his pain, some didn't have a clue about Akabusi and that was their fucking loss.

The verdict in his fist, the twelve strode through the marble hall of the Old Bailey, crims, briefs and nickers parting as justice passed by. Akabusi had requested two drummers to play him in as he entered Court One and surprisingly they were there. As they pumped out the epic drum solo from Nilsson's Jump into the Fire in perfect unison Akabusi felt like a brown Buddha, a chocolate Jesus, a black...gas. But this wasn't about him. It was about Lady Justice.

Lady Justice was the raghead's brief and Busi's slit senses were enlivened and his sperm levels were raised to Severe as she entered the court in her long black cloak, white high collar and horse hair wig. He knew that beneath the apparel of law was an epic pair of bristols so firm you could make them heads of state in North Korea and a clunge so tight it fiddled the electricity.

For over a week Kriss had been asking these guys in gowns to make him a large Mocha with a side shot of espresso but it had turned out these dudes were barristers and not baristas. The law was an ass and Akabusi wanted to part it and plunge his jet black sack attack into it. The drummers stopped and once the screams and applause stopped Busi stood. As he opened his large piano key filled mouth he caught sight of Lady Justice. She had a leg up on a desk and had her gown pulled up to her arse as she smoothed down the creases in her Agent Provocateur stockings.

Busi was instantly harder than Dave Courtney's missus' clit. But without the Liz Duke T Bar through it. The power of his engorged cock tore the pinstriped dungs from his back and he stood naked and horny. He lept over the walnut effect partition and stalked Justice like an elephant at an Indian celebration that got out of hand.

"Erection" cried the clerk of the court. "Overstained!" roared Akabusi with all the might of Andre the Giant farting into a Sennheiser. Justice was up for it and she whipped off her legal gear quicker than Paul Gadd will be back in the ELC. Busi was right. This brief was epic. Her milky white duds had nipples darker than South London and her clunge was wetter than Tony Bullimore's copy of Heat and covered by a horse hair merkin.

Akabusi jumped on her like SO19 on Brazilians and tore into her like a Fitness First bag on the top deck of a bus. To the assembled crowds it looked like a feral chocolate scales of justice was attacking a white gavel of sexiness. Busi was inflicting Zero Tolerance and Maximum Poundage into the defence and she was lapping it up like a cat with diabetes.

Within hours he was was on his violent, volcanic vinegars and he let spray with such a gush of giant tadpoles the Judge fell to his knees and prayed for a Noah's Ark speed boat to pull up. Justice had been served and as Busi rolled up his Persian he thought he might just make the flight to Florida and the hook up with Black and Regis. This was a good day.

"Mr Akabumbumbum, what is your verdict?" pleaded the sodden Judge. "Quality shag. Quality" roared Busi as the twin drummers started up again. "And him? Let the all the fuckers go. It's summer time! Let's get out there."

Busi pulled on the shredded dungs and looked down upon the pile of flipping flapping spermazota, horse hair, fertiliser and torn stockings, bent down, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.


Akabusi didn't have a clue where he fucking was. Nor did Black. And Regis was about as much use as Cassius Clay with a speculum. They were on a boat on the Norfolk Broads and everything looked the same. And all the people looking from the banks looked the same. Horrible. Akabusi wondered whether this was the first time they had seen three blacks on a boat since a slave ship pulled up at Lowestoft. Last week.

Akabusi had been very depressed since part of his £127,675 mansion near Luton had collapsed because of dry rot. Extensive damp had been caused by epic amounts of knacker suds Kriss had splashed around the house in the last five years. Akabusi was crushed. Literally. But weeks of building works and wall irrigation was a small price to pay for the great wanks he had over catalogues, Sunday fashion supplements and a copy of a six year old Loaded that now resembled a solid block of Portland spunk stone.

The boys had had to move out sharpish. He had more Polish in his mansion than Krakow. The men all had hands and faces like 100 year old bricks and the women were hardly better. His ebony clunge puncher had hardly shuffled as the naked women swung their hammers into his walnut effect flooring. And waking up to the smell of goat meat and decade old sweat was too much. Even for Regis.

Regis had been in a bad way. His nephew had been deadened and since then John's OCD had become exactly 872 times worse than it had been 28,987 minutes before. Roger Black was feeling no better. He was maintaining a low profile after completing some "wet work" in Jamaica. He had spent weeks enticing himself into the world of Bob Woolmar and in the end he'd done it for free, he'd enjoyed killing him so much. In the end "they" had paid him in scratchcards which Black had ripped up in "their" faces.

So all in all it had been a tough time for the gang. They decided to hire a 4 berth cruiser, buy a hundredweight of Greggs Steak Bakes and travel up the Norfolk Broads and kill Bernard Matthews. With extreme prejudice. Yokel Kurtz, as Akabusi had named him, lived in a £314,899 complex in Great Yarmouth and had apparently gone "native", cutting the head of turkeys and dancing around in his yellowing pants wanking on crackers.

Black was at the helm and he was bollocks. They'd killed at least five swans and one window slurper in a kayak who had become detached from his outward bound group. All six of them were in the cooler now and would barbeque a treat later on. Regis was in his element. He loved to waterski behind the boat but as this jalopy only went 2 knots, technically the speed of an old woman chewing a boiled sweet, they just dragged John through the brown water as his skis picked up used condoms, diseased turkeys and his big gob filled with loose turds.

Busi laid out on the top of the ramshackle cruiser and let the cold low sun caress his onyx chassis like an Asian waxing a Nova. His cocoa pussy beater growled as it awoke from it's slumber. It hadn't pushed it's purple head into the wet crack of clunge or an arsehole for a few days and it knew that Norfolk was full of both. It was hungry and it needed feeding. Kriss was engrossed in the latest episode of Tanni Grey Thompson Sex Stories that Redmond had forwarded him via his internet connection. He hated Redmond but these stories made his balls rise like the price of twenty snouts. As he turned over his chocolate plonker pierced the roof of the cruiser. He was as hard as a pikey's sister. They were here.

Akabusi jumped ashore, his brown rudder dragging in the water. He let slip the brass shackles of his camo dungerees and let the fetid air of the Matthews encampment swirl around his diamond hard labia cutter and his heavy balls. Black kept the engine running and pulled out a bumper Suduko book whilst Regis counted the ripples in the water.

Akabusi stalked the perimeter of the compound and anyone looking would have thought he was a huge black panther with an fucked tail. Bernard Matthews was exactly where he Akabusi knew he would be. Snapping turkey necks in his pine effect kitchen. Covered in blood. Naked. Bald. And quoting T.S Eliot. Busi pulled out a hefty machete with more grooves in it than a 70's night at the Roxy. It was from Black's vast collection of life stoppers and it was perfect for carving a fat turkey.

As Akabusi reined in his throbbing erection he stealthily moved up behind the braying Bernard and slipped the knife against his turkey neck. "Mr Abakumii, what the fuck are you doing?" said a voice from behind him as smooth and as fruity as a fart at a Camra meeting.

Akabusi turned slowly holding the machete firmly up into Matthews giblets. "Bootiful!" said Kriss as he spied the smoking hot daughter of the poultry magnet - Bernie Matthews. And she was. Busi knew that beneath her blood spattered white tunic rested a pair of epic bristols you wouldn't be ashamed to crave them up and serve at Christmas and a clunge so open it was letting a draft into the room. Akabusi dropped the twisted fat gristle of Bernard to the parquet effect flooring and pounced on Bernie like a sex offender at the Early Learning Centre.

He tore off her clothes revealing a massive set of breasts so white and creamy and capped by rock hard bottle tops it was like fondling Mrs Unigate. She was so wet Kriss thought he was putting his hand into fresh liver. As he slipped a fat brown finger she tightened, tighter than a ten year old pussy walking past the Pete Townsend Research Facility in Richmond.

He could tell by the way she gulped his king dong down her slender throat that she was from Norfolk. And married to her father and mother to his nephews, nieces and his grandmother. They were a tight family.

Within hours he was on his triumphant vinegars and he let fly with such an epic amount of ball gunk that Bernie was struggling for air like Roy Castle in a jazz club. "I love the smell of clunge in the morning. It smells kippers" roared Akabusi with the power of ten Blesseds and one Biggins.

He slit Bernard's throat letting years of gluttony and several turkeys spill onto the kitchen floor. Bernie was the Boss now and Busi liked it. In the distance he could hear Black and Regis honking the horn. They were desperate to get away to the Monkey World that had just opened in Yarmouth. And so was Busi.

He looked down on the pile of spunk, milky white tits, father's blood and guts and reformed turkey slices, bent down, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.


Akabusi sat in the Corsa playing with the indicators. He was fucking bored. Since Tanni Grey Thompson had retired he felt a void in his life - he had nowhere to direct his immense hatred for the woman. "Harry Potter in a shopping trolley" was the quote he gave The Times as reporters had surrounded his £126,876 mansion in Luton. Eventually he had been forced to send Regis out to clear them away. Two journalists were killed and for a brief glorious moment John Regis' rampant OCD was replaced with sociopathic rage and violence. One day at a time.

Since then Akabusi, Regis and Black had been holed up in the mansion playing strip Kerplunk and devouring KFC Mum's Week Off Buckets like Yorkshire policemen into a Sheffield crack mum. There were more bones strewn over the walnut effect flooring than an after party during London Fashion Week. After seven days of debauchery and finger licking the boys had decided to get out of the house and visit a local farmer's market. Black loved expensive bread with currants in it and doctors had told Regis that it was healthy for him to mix with other vegetables. Akabusi, on the other giant brown hand, hated the fucking places. "Overpriced cunt soupery" was the quote Kriss had given The Times.

As Busi moved from the indicators to the hazard lights he looked out the window at Black unfolding his Bags for Life and Regis counting the clouds in the sky, he reflected on the real issue of the last seven days. His meaty pussy pounder hadn't felt the rush of blood and the silky touch of a sopping fanny since "The Transformer" had retired. Kriss had sneezed this morning as Black was writing his shopping list and spunked 72 hours worth of man slush out of his large nostrils and onto his granite effect worktop. Maybe the farmers market would throw up a clunge and a bristol.

Akabusi wiped spunk snot from his dungerees and joined the boys. As the gang strolled into the farmers market Busi felt the rancid air of middle class self satisfaction and Safeway Savers potatoes covered in shit waft betwixt the denim of his dungs and his toned onyx frame. He welcomed the twinge that flickered down his resting chocolate plonker and could feel his weighty balls gurgle like Marc Almond in a cock shop.

He followed Black over to a Greek olive stall. Roger had purchased a small plastic container with 4 olives for £25. Akabusi roared with a laugh so long, dark and violent shoppers thought Winston Silcott was back in the area. "You fucking mug, Roge" cried Busi as he popped the four olives in his huge, piano key filled mouth. Kriss was enjoying himself - he loved all the media types struggling to carry bags of forty quid ham and fifty quid bog rolls made of papyrus. There were more weirdly shaped glasses than a Belgian public house.

Akabusi was having so much fun he decided to let free the heavy shackles of his denim dungs and let the low winter sun lick his chassis with all the skill of an office junior on the back of the Queens head. As he stood there as naked and hairless as Britney getting out of a Lambo, he began to sense a stirring his chunky weiny marrow. He needed clunge and he need it immediately. Or sooner.

Akabusi ducked behind a cheese stall and let his colassal phallis smell the air. He'd drunk so much celeriac juice from the Original Organic Celeriac Juice stall that he was bursting for a slash. As he let loose a violent stream of horse piss into a pile of organic satsumas he thought it inevitable that someone would bottle his hot steaming yellow fluid and sell it as cider or vinegar or Akabusi piss at a 500% mark up.

As the last remnants of the torrent sloshed around the floor he heard a scream from beyond the Organic Sex Toy stall. He hurdled the satsumas looking like a horse with three legs to find a young blonde woman being harassed by two hoodies. Before he knew his eyes were all over the blonde like organic flies around shite. He knew beneath the tight white blouson was a pair of bristols so pert you could hang war criminals on them and tucked into the those sprayed on Armani jeans was a clunge as tight and prudent as Chancellor Brown.

Blood filled his meat feast as he dived into action, smacking the two yoofs with his increasingly engorged donger and making wild animal sounds. "You're Kriss Abamjuki innit?" barked one of the knuckle draggers. "I loved you on Gladiators. Safe innit" burped the other. As Kriss's penis reached full erection and his hoodie pulled back into attack mode, the hoodies ran away screaming.

"Mr Akabumbum. You're my hero. How can I repay you?" said the young girl as she wept for her lost pink mobile phone and the clumps of her hair that lay on the ground. "You fucking know how. fucking. That's how" roared Akabusi. "What's you're fucking name lady?"

"Chloe. Chloe Madeley" she purred as she swept the matted blonde hair from her oval face. Akabusi instantly knew what he had on his hands and inevitably on his cock. He had the prospect of plunging his blaxcalibur into Richard and Judy's smoking hot daughter. Pre cum formed on his diamond hard helmut as if to announce the start of a great epic battle.

He tore her blouson from her back revealing the naked product of the unholy union between Dick and Judy. Her milky pert tits had all the weight of the mother and as Kriss ripped off her jeans her glistening paper cut looked like her father - a thin, shaggy haired cunt.

He leapt on her like Rik Waller at a fat finger buffet and went up to the hilt within two strokes. "You say, I spray" thundered Akabusi as his hands explored her body with all the throughness of a OFCOM investigation into phone scandals.

Within hours Akabusi approached his vinegars with all the conviction of a man walking out of Tesco's with a trolley full of wine without paying. He let spray a tsunami of thick creamy knacker soup all over the heiress and flopped to the floor like Stallone's arm at the end of Over The Top. In the distance he could hear Regis and Black pushing over the apple cart and pushing 60 quid melons into the face of farmers and knew that he had to leave immediately. Or sooner. They'd head for the sanctuary of a Nandos.

He pulled on his denim dungs, reeling in his flacid phallis like a Japanese trawlerman hauling in a tuna friendly doplhin. He looked down on the pile of matted blonde tits, empty wine bottles, fashionable stubble and shattered viewer confidence, knelt down, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.


Akabusi tightened his black tie around his bare neck as he wiped down the splashback from 3 Muller Rices he'd demolished from his jet black dungerees. He stood in front of the mirror and examined himself. He felt so sexy he was sure that it was only a matter of time before Lynx named a spray after him. Ebony? Clunge buster? Fanny Patt? Or just simply Akabusi. He made a note in his Psion to call his manager when he got back.

Kriss heard John Regis downstairs checking all of the window locks and counting the pixels on Akabusi's new 14" plasma. The OCD had gotten pretty bad after the "incident" and to help daft Regis through it Akabusi had bought him the first of the "Build your own Bismarck" collection. Only the first one mind, the rest were too expensive. This had kept Regis occupied for about a minute before he'd crushed the fourth rear engine with his mighty hands and eaten it. War is hell.

Akabusi jogged down the stairs of his £126,970 mansion, cleaned up Regis' face with a wet wipe and they left the house and waited for Roger Black to pick them up in his Corsa.

Akabusi could feel the fresh air of the cul de sac racing around the base of his sleeping sliver of pork and encircling his giant hanging balls like dipping a hot hot dog and two cum filled scotch eggs into a pint of Stella. He really wanted to let slip the confines of his dungs and let his hymen hurter find a wet place to live. But in the distance he could see Black cutting corners like the architect in the Towering Inferno. It was time to hit this funeral harder than Boycott on Moore.

There was an awkward silence in the motor on the way. Black had been fucking decent enough to provide sausage rolls, mini kievs, little pizzas, cherryade Panda Pop and a pack of bourbons for the 5 minute journey. Akabusi hated funerals, they made his angry cock wilt and retreat within his bristling ebony frame and it could often only be coaxed out by the prospect of surprise sex or wanking on religious iconography. What made this funeral even harder was he hated the cunt so much.

Richard Blackwood had been killed during Operation Trident last week in Clapham. The Operation had been introduced several years ago to murder Blackwood with a piece of gladiatorial weaponary after Richard claimed he was ready for a comeback. Attmepts with iaculum and manicae in various parts of South London has proved fruitless until an increasingly unhinged Derek Redmond had cornered Blackwood in a "Cummin' Up" kebab house with a trident and skewered the bastard until he was deadened. Redmond was likely to serve the rest of his life in a maximum security prison or be made a Mayor of London - it was that close.

As the rain started pelting off the collection of sportsmen, minor celebrities and Richard Blackwood fan at graveside, Akabusi could feel a stirring within his dark loins that felt like the beginnings of a beautiful and fulfilling erection. His sagging testes tightened like two fists being formed by a market trader on his one night out. Akabusi was confused. Although it was Richard Blackwood's funeral, people were still pretty depressed and there was certainly no pussy worth abusing. Or was there?

No. Turned out there wasn't. He'd spotted June Sarpong MBE leaving the funeral just before Vaz Blackwood (no relation) stepped up to rap a eulogy. She was a cunt of the highest order - Akabusi had described her as a black bin bag stretched over a skeleton on his blog - but he would have loved to slip his meat python down her throat and then pull his own cock out of her sealed up arsehole. Maybe at the TV Quick Awards.

As Kriss, Roger and John kicked dirt onto the coffin the crowds dispersed and the pimped out Corsas started collecting the guests to bring them to the afterparty at the ice rink in Streatham. Akabusi peeled off from the gang and returned to the grave. He was busting for a crap and he knew this was a great opportunity to finish the day.

Before he positioned his big toned arse over the edge of Blackwood's grave he let the shackles of his funeneral dungereess slip and exposed his naked onyx chassis to the dead people who lay all around. He felt like a Titan - more vital and alive than anyone around. Who were all dead. As he felt the turtle rising he roared with a laugh so loud, dark and evil corpses turned in their graves ever so slightly.

As his giant man size plop hit the walnut casket, the impact smashed the coffin to pieces. As Akabusi check wiped he looked down at the twisted form of Richard Blackwood entwined with excrement, splintered wood and copies of his "single" which he had demamded be buried with him - "for the ferryman, man". Akabusi was so aroused his plonker filled with so much powerful, dangerous liquid he knew what it was to be George Best's liver. The erection was so intense it had drawn all the colour and life out of his body so he looked like Mr Bean impaled on fresh lumber.

"Mr Abbakumi, what the fuck are you doing shitting onto the coffin of my deadened cousin?" said a voice from behind him. The accent was as rich and as false as Lady Madonna of Gloucestershire. As Busi turned slowly around his Malteser eyes rested on the skeletal form of supermodel and nut job Naomi Campbell. Akabusi knew that this was about to become the biggest black on black crime he'd ever witnessed.

He knew that beneath the impeccable styling, giant sunglasses and lady like demeanor were a pair of cracking black bristols and a clunge as filthy, dangerous and inviting as an inner city canal. Akasbui wanted to throw his shopping trolley of love into her as quickly as humanely possible. And it seemed Campbell agreed as before he could tear the Gucci from her back, Naomi had a PA carefully remove her garments and fold them up.

Akabusi plunged into her like a caretaker into a bombing campaign. It wasn't long before he was so far into the mouthy bitch that his balls slipped into her leg cavities. His hands were all over her and the friction caused by these two jet black specimums would surely burn this graveyard to the ground.

Within hours Busi was on his big vinegars and pulled out a diamond encrusted mobile phone which he repeatedly hit Campbell around the head whilst he came so hard he thought he was in a pussy car wash. "See how you like it, you jumped up fucking clothes horse" Kriss roared as Naomi's PA returned with twelve mochas and a Wispa bar with all the bubbles taken out for Campbell.

"Run free you stupid cunt" shouted Kriss to the PA as he pulled out his Andre cock out of the shattered floppy torso and slipped his dungs on. He better get to that after party before Regis sunk his Bismarck into the punch.

He looked down on the twisted pile of giant spermazota, magazine covers, shiny tits, a copy of her "novel" swan and clunge suds, bent over and whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.


Akabusi sat in the bog reading Tanni Grey Thompson's autobiography - "Wheels on Fire". It was shit. Her sense of pace and character left a lot to be desired and her description of him as "a massive spade" had made him a little angry. The next time he saw her, and as sure as his ebony clunge buster was huge he would, he was going to slash her tyres and push her in a pond.

The ice cold porcelain of the toilet stung his toned arse like a party at Kevin Spacey's house. He'd been sitting here for about 20 minutes trying to push a brown baby's leg but to no avail. Akabusi had eaten too many Steak Bakes on the journey and had tried to show off to Roger Black by eating fifty six hard boiled eggs.

As the cold air crept into the lav like Paul Gadd into Mothercare it brushed against his proud black member as it hung over the bowl lapping at a bowl of water Akabusi had given it. He had gotten to the middle pages of Tanni's shit sandwich and had seen a picture of Judy Oakes in a latex body suit. The tightness of the fabric had pushed her humongous clit into the shape of a Chinese man size cock and balls. He could feel his heart quicken as it pumped blood into his rapidly engorging onyx Methuselah and gasped as it stood before him as powerful as a veiny, pulsating Dr King.

Almost immediately he felt his april tense and tear as an De Mille size richard slowly slipped out and dipped it's head into the cold water of the toilet. Anyone walking in at that moment would not only have a got a huge gush of spunk in their eye but thought they were looking at a giant brown X. Akabusi snapped the jumbo bum cigar half way and heard it scream as it thrashed around in the now decimated bog. He eased out it's identical twin and watched as they clung to the sides of the crapper as he ruthlessly pulled the flush. If he had been clever he would have snapped their necks and carved them into canoes and used them but he wasn't clever and he was fucking horny.

Kriss ripped Tanni Grey's book apart with his giant paving slab teeth and applied "My Troubled Childhood" and "My First Puncture" to his arse to mop up the remnants of his most recent and most tragic creations. He used the picture of Judy Oakes to wipe his weeping plonker as he pulled up his camo dungerees and left the demolished toilet and rejoin the camp.

Akabusi had been roped into by Black and John Regis to bring a bunch of primordial dwarves on an outward bound trip to the Brecon Beacons. He hated doing these charity gigs, someone always ended up dead or worse, but if it meant he got a knighthood it was worth putting up with a couple of window slurpers drooling on his medals and Record Breakers annuals.

The dwarves had been particularly annoying on the trip from Luton, their squeaking voices making his growling dodgepeice retract into his honed, carved from jet torso. Regis had been a cunt too, stopping every 33 miles for a horse piss in a Little Chef. John suffered terribly with incontinence and OCD and this was as much a trip for him as it was for the whining midgets.

Akabusi and Blackie had set up zip wire between some trees and the freaky smalls (and tragically Regis) were lapping it up like black girls on welfare. A momentary lapse of concentration by Roger had left two of the half bloods hanging like fucked testicles over a footballer's wife's gaping cum filled mouth. Regis had ran the 317 steps and climbed the 26 rungs of the rope ladder to cut them free and let them fall to the hard concrete below. It was unlikely that they would be found for some months so the guys headed back to the log cabin for a Max Strength Lemsip and some bourbon biscuits.

On the way back as the huge moon hung in the darkening sky like Bella Emberg with a mastectomy Akabusi spied some of the others preparing for bed in another cabin. Two of the dwarves, who were actually 21, were changing into some plastic pajamas before slipping into their plastic covered beds. Akabusi couldn't draw any of his three bulging eyes away from the pint size honeys and he could feel his brown birch rise like a spunk filled Dracula from his dungeree encased coffin.

Tiny tits, tiny hands and tinny voices filled his head as he let slip the shackles of his denim dungs and let the cold Brecon air encircle his ebony opus as he climbed up the side of the cabin to get a better look.

"What the fuck are you doing Amberkusi?" a voice said behind him as his diamond rough cock pierced the cabin wall and left him hanging like a rusty nail. As he strained to look behind him he saw the mother of one of the itty bitty titty he had his greasy eye on.

He pulled himself down. Before him was a smoking hot blonde yank wearing a tight blue jumper which make her areola look a relief map of the Andes. He knew that beneath that Uniqlo cashmere top were a pair of epic bristols and packed in behind her faded denim jeans was an American clunge as an open and awe inspiring as the Grand Canyon at dawn.

"Where did you buy those little fakers? I want one." roared Akabusi with a laugh as rich, fullbodied and dark as Oprah. He didn't wait for an answer and ripped the clothes from her back like a wrapper of a Quality Street. As he suspected she had a pair of cracking tits but with more stretch marks than Elton John's april. Her pussy was as hairless and threatening as a returning squaddie with Gulf War syndrome but he wanted in and he wanted in deep. fucking deep.

He leapt on her like Littlejohn on immigrants and tore into her glistening paper cut like Rik Waller at a hotel buffet breakfast. As the two mini milks looked on from the window at their mother being ravaged by a chocolate werewolf, Regis was busily counting Akabusi's deep, power tool thrusts.

Within hours and after 8067 thrusts according to Regis, Akabusi was sated and pulled out of the yanks sodden crevice like troops out of Kandahar. The yank midget maker lay twisted, soaking and mangled like an old flannel, seed dripping from every pore and her epic orgasm rendering all her bones as useless as a nun's clit. Akabusi leapt up, rolled up his brown persian shag and slipped on his camo dungs using the clunge suds on his fingers to wax down his mustache.

Regis told Akabusi that they had exactly 214 seconds before the police, the primordial dwarf protection team and a Channel 4 documentary team would be there. John ran off making sure to avoid the cracks in the patio slabs and got Black up from his Lemsip haze. They'd have to get out of her quick. They were going to head to Manchester where the gang were booked to be the star turn at the new Super Casino and Regis would be able to count cards.

Akabusi looked down on the pile of spunk, small hands, little chins, scotch eggs and piless and bent down over her, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.


Akabusi sat in the park throwing bits of sausage roll at a one legged pigeon as the winter sun beat down on his ebony dome like Ike on his first wife. He'd picked up two sausage rolls and a Steak Bake from Gregg's at the station and found a quiet spot in the park. The Steak Bake had given him serious heart burn which only a bottle of Tango could put out. He'd bought a bottle of Lilt instead. All in all it had been a shit day for Akabusi.

His accountant Harvey Goldenblum had called him earlier and confirmed that his £117,980 mansion in Brickhills had been repossessed by the National Lottery. Akabusi had become addicted to online scratchcards and things had got so bad he sold all his medals and naked pictures he had of Norris McWhirter. The ten quid he had got on eBay for the lot hadn’t made a big difference.

On the upside the cool air of the wind brushed against his expresso chassis like Rolf Harris on canvas. He felt his tremondous length growl like a waking tiger - it wanted feeding and he knew it only ate pussy. He popped his hand inside his grey dungerees and pinched the increasingly engorged helmut to quell it's mounting excitement. He brushed pastry flakes into a pile and then necked the lot of it. It made him feel good. Like a man again.

He made a little pooh behind a tree and headed over the road to the Palace.

Akabusi had been to Buckingham Palace before - he picked up some mickey mouse MBE back in the day. He hadn't disgraced himself and poor old dead Diana had welcomed a fanny patting. Today Akabusi and Roger Black were receiving a little badge to thank them for not killing any spastics on a outward bound trip to the Brecon Beacons. The Palace didn't know that a little window slurper had fallen off a cliff and Akabusi and Black had buried the body in a shallow grave. Hopefully feral cats and foxes would do the rest.

Akabusi mingled with the crowds of Lords, Ladies and fucking Tanni Gray Thompson. Tanni managed to get invited to all these things and the Palace had excellent access due to the Queen Mother. Akabusi didn't need any encouragement from Jim Davidson, who was receiving a knighthood for services to race relations, and pushed Tanni into a broom cupboard and jammed the door. Hopefully the feral cats and foxes would do the rest.

The Queen appeared. Akabusi couldn't help but feel a sudden rush of blood and cum rush into his empty brown wheely bin and his giant testes twitch like a black body builders pectorals. His proud onyx majesty rose to attention as everyone stood. He looked like a brown flag pole and his flag of spunk and a little piss was attempting to unfurl. As Her Majesty went by his erection fell to it's knees quicker than a Romford secretary. She was minging.

Akabusi was fucking confused. He was expecting Helen Mirren - that glorious old milf that he'd seen on a pirate dvd the night before. The reality was some old bird who he suspected had bristols like burst balloons and a clunge as crusty and useless as a Conservative Peer. His sword sheathed and his balls bowed Akabusi went off looking for pussy elsewhere.

Akabusi headed down to the stables. He liked horses, they knew what it was like to carry such a dead weight betwixt ones's thighs and he often used to train with Desert Orchid at the Linford Christie Track. The sessions would often end with mutual masturbation from which Akabusi would keep Orchid's horsefat and sell it to Arabs. He didn't know what Orchid did with his though.

Kriss let the buckles of his smart dungerees slip to the shit covered hay and let the fetid air of the stables circle him scum round buy one get one free deals. "Do you ride Mr Abakumisi?" said a female voice from behind Akabusi. He froze. The lady was so full of plums he felt like he felt when he'd teabagged Janet Street Porter.

He slowly turned around looking like a chocolate Challenger tank heading into battle. Before him was a brunette dressed in tight cream jodhpurs, white blouson and a pair of patent leather riding boots that would bring a tear of cum to any man's cock eye. He knew that beneath the riding gear were at the most two sparking bristols and a clunge as smart and as bald as Helen Rollinson. But not as dead.

"Do I ride? What do you fucking think!" he roared with a laugh so loud the horses bolted into the yard and killed two OBEs and a bloke in an electronic wheelchair. His sceptre rose to knight the girl whose tight jodphurs were becoming wetter than a child at an Art Malik birthday party. He was going to get royally laid.

"My name's Kate. Kate Middleton" she said with a voice as silky and hot as a balti fart in tight jockeys. Akabusi became so hard he thought some cunt was going to put Excalibur into it. The future Queen let loose rivlets of brown hair and loosened the buttons of her blouson. Akabusi wasn't one ot stand on ceremony so he tore her top off like a Zulu at Rourke's Drift. A pair of epic creamy white bristols store at him like Paul McKenna's eyes. Kate ripped off her jods and stood before Akabusi naked - her glistening axe wound beckoning him to bow at her feet.

Akabusi tore into her like Henry VIII at a Toby Carvery. His hands were all over her like the old Empire and some of the acts they were committing were just as horrific. He plunged deep into her like a jousting event and felt her cold regal body rub against his hot black tribal like years of oppression. She was greedy for cock and Akabusi wasn't one to disappoint. He thought later that she might make a career as a sword swallower if this Queen shite didn't work out.

Within hours it was over, Kate lay a mangled mess of white flesh, medals, horse sh*t, cum and vol au vents. Akabusi pulled out of her like Hong Kong, letting his weeping willow of brown muscle to roll around in the hay. Akabusi was sure that his rampant manslush had reached the inner sanctum and he broke into a wide sh*t eating Akabusi grin as he thought of a brown baby being born to the royal household in nine months times. "Try explaining that you bitch!" he roared.

He could hear the constant banging of Tanni Grey Thompson somewhere in the Palace so he bent down over the sated, upper middle class spunk vessel, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.