Scene Two

Farmer Fudge’s Farm

Sound effects – atmospheric

Narrator:

Very dark as night is crept hush, hush, Not Son towards Farmer Fudge’s arable, valuable land with wicked deeds gross in his mind.  Kitted for lust, he crept with paint can, milk crate and hard he hoped.  Now Farmer Fudge, as most farmers are, was riddled with instinct and an ant whispering sweet nothings to it’s mate on his bread and butter land, could shake him alarmingly awake and ready for violent retribution, featuring gun bangs and snapping bow wows.

Fudge:

Wake wife, but stay silent.

Narrator:

… shot up Farmer Fudge, cracking the stale lining that bound his sleep.

Fudge:

I feel trespass, some bastard bugger scum, walking where won’t not.

Mrs Fudge:

Don’t kill, but batter, my dear old Fudge, for life without your smell leaves breathless my existence and if locked up who will pigs be fed?

Fudge:

Now, now Mrs Fudge.  Don’t you worry about a thing.  Only sharks and butterflies cry, Mrs Fudge.  Now shut while I armour.

Narrator:

The land tensed as conflict neared.

Scene Three

The family home

Narrator:

Back in unhappy home, Not Father was without fish, so he grumbled his way through egg and chips.

Father:

Where’s Not Son, Definite Wife?

Wife:

Out.

Narrator:

… said Definite Wife, blushing.

Father:

Death, where he belongs.

Narrator:

Chewed up Not Father.

Wife:

Quite so!

Narrator:

… mumbled the obedient old maid.

Scene Four

Farmer Fudges farm

Narrator:

Not Son approached, tip-toeing through the green fields that was his intended’s nest.  You could hear a fart starting in a belly not due ‘til the day after next.  It was the most deadly hush that plonked itself on that field, on a hopeful virgins plight.  Not Son shaked more than a policeman failing the breathalyser as he approached the real thing.  Paint brush ready and, like his knob, dripping.

Fudge:

(whispers) Oh no, Mrs Fudge, don’t you worry about a thing.  Only sharks and butterflies cry, Mrs Fudge.

Narrator:

… the farmer whispered through his shit cracked lips, as he cautiously stalked through his green, plush profit.

Fudge:

(whispers) No, not my thing, Mrs Fudge.  The blighter be holed with bore and bit to the marrow when me and my murder arrive.

Narrator:

On milk crate wobbled Not Son, on full tip toes to aid a successful launch.  The Dobbin’s rear steamed invitingly before him, beckoning the probe to nestle in its base.

Son:

Eek, it’s all sticky.

Narrator:

… moaned Not Son, not seeming to pleased with his first adventure up real thing.  In one, two, three order were the things that happened next, as Not Son’s knob got its first squelching. 

One first.  As the penetrator made his entry, the prize stallion, definitely more used to fucking than being fucked, snorted flames in disbelief, running through the prized shaggers mind.

Horse:

This is certainly not in my contract.

Narrator:

His rear legs bent, loaded spring-locked, tensed and ready to detonate his retribution. 

Two.  Second.  As Not Son flew through the air from his rejected suitors blow, Farmer Fudges flare lit the sky a scarlet blood, revealing the face of Fudges demon.  He looked in disbelieving anger at his glorious, profit making, well hung stud.  His eyes bulged with the sight of his vandalised, beautiful, silk-backed stallion, now adorned from neck to hind with scaring, pink-painted, dripping spots, placed by Not Son for alluring, lustful purposes, same as the predator provides stockings for his sometimes unfair maiden.  Then Fudge’s eyes caught the tell tale milk crate.  Then the pieces, like a jigsaw, slotted in his mind, revealing the complete puzzle.  Fudge’s eyes flamed and his gun snapped, loaded and ready for vengeful spite.

Fudge:

Only sharks and butterflies.

Narrator:

… he hissed through the stink of his breath. 

Three.  Third.  Not Son struggled to his feet, groaning and clutching the deep anger, a bruise, a painful reminder of a foiled first sexual encounter.  Not Son stood to face his next calamity.  The growling glare of Fudge stared back steady as iron along the barrel of his gun.

Fudge:

I know that face, pervert.  You’re the weird one, beaten more often than not for parental pleasure and your own good, I wouldn’t mind guessing.  I’ll give you a count all the way to ten, fore my salt cracks and bites deep in thy buttocks.  I’ll save thee the savage of my dogs, for the pitiful you be.  But this should deliver its wrath, valuable lesson.

Narrator:

Not Son, knowing full well that mercy pleads seldom have desired results, turned and crippled painfully away from his eager attacker, his brain exhaling heavy pants in anticipation of the obvious pain that was about to strike at the order of ten.  The hammer hits bang – dogs yelp and be-not-pitied howls, as the obvious no hope becomes a stinging reality.

Scene Five

Family Home

Narrator:

 It was the knock that woke them, as was intended.  Not Father woke first with a growl on his face that was certainly not ‘aving it!

Father:

I’m not ‘aving it!

Narrator:

… he screamed at definite Wife, who was not surprised.

Father:

I fear it’s your son, who is definitely not mine, who brings trouble in this hour of supposed rest and solace.  This I feel will surpass all beatings ever before delivered.  I must quickly muster strength to entrust I do not fail the task ahead.  Pass belt, Definite Wife and if wish cover thy ears, for I am without hesitation, not ‘aving this.

Scene Six

Narrator:

Not Father opened the door, revealing himself in full sternness that quickly changed to that of surprise at the sight of Farmer Fudge.

Father:

Ah, Farmer Fudge.  Fancy seeing you here, so far from your valuables.  Tell me. To what do I owe this, the most rude of intrusions?

Fudge:

Is this yours?

Narrator:

… spat Farmer Fudge, pointing to his paint spotted stallion.                      

Father:

I beggar your pardon, Fudge, I think your vast profits have finally gone to your head.  I have never owned a horse in my life, and if I was to purchase such a beast I don’t think that I would go with the pink-spotted variety, who would certainly clash with Wife’s most prized aqua blue bathroom scheme.  She wouldn’t ‘ave it and I wouldn’t let her, making the decision definitely final.

Fudge:

You bloody fool.  The spots be paint and the horse be mine and the victim to this pervert.

Narrator:

Farmer Fudge walked to his stallion, grasping the hair and raising the head of Not Son, who lay groaning and moaning, slumped over his once intendeds back.

Fudge:

This be yours?

Narrator:

… demanded Fudge.  Not Fathers face tightened to a menacing scowl.

Father:

I’m not ‘aving it.

Fudge:

Be it yours?

Narrator:

… demanded Fudge for the second time.  Not Father’s mouth struggled to open, but finally did.

Father:

He’s not mine but he does belong to me.

Fudge:

That’ll do.

Narrator:

… replied Fudge, dragging the painfully limp Not Son off the stretchered back of his stallion.

Fudge:

And now sir, I say I’m not ‘aving it.  This lad, that’s not yours but does belong, creeping and disturbing my well kept land and painting and buggering my prize stallion.

Narrator:

Not Father grabbed tightly Not Son’s scruff.

Father:

Well thank you, Farmer Fudge.  You can now safely leave this in my hands and return to your valuables, ensured that I will beat him to within inches of his life.

Fudge:

(Cackles) Ha Ha!  If only life’s little problems could be solved with a good beating.  How simple life would be, but as all should know, you cannot trouble a farmer in the pride of his livelihood without the word compensation cropping up.   Why, I’d be the laughing stock of the Dog and Duck if coinage didn’t change hands at this distressing incident, that has aged me some great deal, I fear.

Father:

YOU BASTARD!

Narrator:

… screamed Not Father, overcome with grief.  Farmer Fudge just grinned back, no doubt, well used to this reply at the use of this, the most appealing of words, ‘compensation’.

Fudge:

Now then.  Let me help you through what must be a most distressing time for you and your wallet.

Father:

(choking on the words) How much?

Fudge:

Well, I be guessing a hundred pounds should help but clear a fraction of my troubles.

Father:

A hundred fucking pounds?!

Narrator:

… screamed Not Father, turning a deadly pale.

Fudge:

(reassuring) Now calm.  I have probably been over generous and will, after forking out the damage, be at a loss.

Father:

Costs for what?

Narrator:

… Not Father, now totally gripped in live or die rage.

Fudge:

Now sir, I threaten.  The press, I wouldn’t mind guessing, may pay heed to this.  I can see the headlines now.  Lock up your pets, pervert found interfering with the rears of domestic beasts, whole town in fea…

Father:

Alright, alright, Fudge.  I see the picture.  Stand where you be and I shall bring the amount of my hard earned to you all eager hand.

Fudge:

Thank ye kindly.

Narrator:

… grinned Fudge, gripping tightly the crisp, lovely lolly, begrudgingly delivered without much choice.  Slam shut the door!!  Not Father’s only goodbye.  Old Fudge chuckled joyfully to himself, the money grasped white knuckled, well worth the loss of a good night’s sleep.

Fudge:

Ohh yes, Mrs Fudge, don’t you worry about a thing.  Only sharks and butterflies cry, Mrs Fudge.