Gender: Male Age: Secret Location: Manchester England
|Introduction: Candy gets a lovely surprise|
Candy's Doll cockney rhyming slang for The Troll
A Cautionary Tale
"Hi," I said as I walked into our kitchen after another day at the office, "Any news?"
"Hi Andy," Julie said casually, "No nothing."
"Not from the publishers?" I asked.
"Especially not from the publishers," she said, "You didn't really expect anything did you?"
"A sod off would be nice not just nothing," I countered.
"But Andy 'Shades of Green?" she queried, "A bit passe n'esque pas?"
"It's about the country estate villages of England, everyone has done the big houses to death so I'm tackling the small farm workers cottages." I said defiantly.
"But Andy, no one has done the little houses because no one actually gives a stuff about them," she explained, "And why shades of green?"
"Almost every single one was painted green, but different shades according to who owned them."
I explained patiently, "So what better title could I have used?"
"The country estate villages of England?" she suggested, "I would stick to porn and the Education Act if I were you."
"Right," I said, "Did Literotica publish my latest?" I asked.
"No, nor BDSM, but XNXX did," she informed me, "Don't get too excited though the trolls have been at it."
I opened up the laptop, stories XNXX, abr0adw0rd, passw0rd, yes I can't remember them either and there it was Julia's descent, obviously I changed the names but it was pretty much what Penny Cartwright said happened to her in Italy in 2007.
I scrolled down comment one, "Really really good story...........thnx for riting it.....enjoyed a lot.....xxx Unknow
and then "Total shit. If this is entertaiment to you, then you desserve to dy horibuly, painfuly and slowly. The world wood be better of without you. "
"Bloody hell!" I swore, "Did you see this? That was a good story!" "How can someone that thick learn to type?" I asked.
"Ed Milliband," she muttered, "Shave a monkey and you have a labour leader."
"Very funny," I agreed, "Hardly the sort of site he comments on."
"They think they're anonymous," she chuckled, "Toby at work says he has a program to reveal where their computer is connected, or at least where they posted from."
"I expect he does love," I said patronisingly, "But you work at the MOD and you signed the official secrets act remember."
"No, its freeware," she said, "I'll email him, maybe he can send us the program or a link."
"But it's not funny," I said, "I sweated blood over that story!"
"And it took all those hours," she laughed, "Making yourself look busy when there is absolutely nothing to do as head of the Home School Transport CoOrdination department for ten months of the year."
"Pays the cat's vet's bills," I said, "And when I get published," I grinned, "I can retire and write full time."
"No, absolutely not, no more research," she insisted, "That poor woman said the room still smelled a month afterwards Andrew, thank god we rented and didn't try it here!"
"You enjoyed it at the time," I explained.
"The next time we try watersports I expect to use a surf board or a schnorkel," she said firmly, "Instead of ruining some poor woman's holiday home and leaving the wooden floor smelling like a."
"Yes all right, get the idea," I agreed.
"Good," she said, "I'll email Toby."
We had dinner, tasteless odourless frozen steaks from Aldi described as Chicken. Yuck.
"He replied," Julie shouted later that evening, "He sent the program."
"Great," I said, "I'm busy."
"Wanking?" she asked.
"Writing," I corrected, "I have a bit I need to try out in a moment."
"Only if we stay inside and it does not involve smelling like a public lavatory," she said rather unreasonably, "I'll try the program shall I?"
"Oh all right," I agreed.
"Andrew, why does this program say you write from just outside Murmansk?" she asked.
"Proxy server," I replied, "Where is that troll."
"Wandsworth Park Road," she said.
"Miles away," I agreed.
"About three actually, it's the new estate on the way to Ilkley," she explained.
"Wandsworth?" I asked.
"Named after Harry Wandsworth, the leader of the council a few years ago," she said knowledgeably, how was I to know she was making it up.
"Right," I said, "So we know which estate."
"Can't be that many houses," she said, "He posted during the afternoon."
"Unemployed, great, that's eliminated absolutely no one," I observed.
"It's fairly new," she said, "Not council, apart from some flats."
"OK, so the flats," I agreed, "Maybe we could."
"Yes," she said, "Lets give them a bit of a shock!"
"What?" I said.
"Stake it out!" she said.
"Right," I said "Brilliant, knock on the door and say, 'Excuse me are you a porn troll?"
"No," she said, "Lets just stake it out, take the laptop, if he's on wifi we should be abe to pick it up and the closer we get the higher the signal strength reading."
"My god, you're not just a pretty face," I said, "And if he's not on wifi, tablet maybe? 4G?"
"Spoilsport," she said.
Twenty minutes later we were outside the flats at Wandsworth Park Road, sitting in Julie's VW Golf looking at the Wifi networks on the laptop showed which showed Wifi available from half a dozen sources.
"Bad move," I suggested.
"Better than watersports, less embarrassing than those double dildo pants less painful than those awful handcuffs we had to have sawn off when the lock broke," she reminded me.
"Funny," I agreed.
"So lets do some sleuthing," she suggested.
"Oh great," I agreed.
"Start with the flats," she suggested.
"Stereotype, prejudice," I muttered but I followed as she walked along peering at the Laptop with its Wifi read out displayed.
She went round to flat number 3A, she knocked on the door, "Excuse me," she said as a scruffy middle aged lady answered the door, "Are you an Internet Porn Troll?"
"A what?" she asked.
"Troll," Julia asked, "A Porn Troll."
"No love, I used to do a bit of stripping a few years ago but not any more," she insisted.
"I mean on computer," Julia insisted.
"Not me," she said, and shouted, "Jasmine, you on the web cam again?"
"Yes mum," A voice came from upstairs.
"You sure?" she queried.
"I'm on the cam and doing my maths homework OK!" Jasmine insisted.
"Oh sorry," Julia apologised, "Only someone round here has been writing offensive comments on my husbands web page."
"You want him next door, 5A," she said, "There's his car," she said and pointed to a clapped out Reliant three wheeled van abandoned and propped up on bricks.
"Oh," Julia replied, "OK."
She went round to flat 5A, she knocked on the door, "Excuse me," she said as a scruffy elderly lady answered the door, "Are you an Internet Porn Troll?"
"Harold," the woman shouted, "You been on the chat lines again?" she said.
"Sorry love, he uses the photo from when he was in the RAF in 1980," she said, "Obsessed he is with Tinternet, shits his sen rather than miss owt."
"Right, did he say my friends story was crap and he we would be better off if he was dead?" Julie asked.
"Sounds like Harold, he don't like long introductions, if they aren't fucking by the third line he loses interest." the scruffy woman insisted, "Harold!" she shouted.
"What?" he said.
"Visitors!" she said, "Would you like a cup of tea."
Tea, it smelled worse than a sewer.
"Tell them to fuck off!" he said.
"He's in the bedroom, go on up." she said.
We went in, the place was a mess though it couldn't have been more than a couple of years old, everything smelled, the carpet had disgusting brown stains everywhere, the plasterwork gouged and scratched and a Stanna stairlift filled much of the available space in the narrow stairwell.
"Go on in," the woman suggested.
I opened the door, a 42" wide screen monitor seemed to fill the darkened room, afaint light lit hos keyboard but the room was otherwise dark lit onoy by the glow of te screen where massive purple text was displayed over a screen saver picture of a young naked black woman lying on a bank surrounded by sugar cane and masturbating with a beer bottle, the thick end.
"What's this fucking word mean?" he said. "Formicaton?"
"Fucking Harold, it means fucking," the woman said patiently.
"Why the fuck don't they fucking say fucking?" he asked, "Lost me thread now," he said and started typing. "Awfull," he wrote at about 3 words per minute.
"Did you write "Total shit. If this is entertaiment to you, then you desserve to dy horibuly, painfuly and slowly. The world wood be better of without you. " about my husband's story?
"Might have," he said.
"You did," the woman said, "I had to type it in for you because you started to cum and nearly had a seizure.
He had his back towards us, I went to confront him and stopped in my tracks.
The smell, he was sitting on a commode, a mobile lavatory, and was naked from the waist down as he typed with one hand and wanked his tiny shrivelled cock with the other.
"Harold gets very frustrated when they aren't at it by the third line don't you dear ," she said, "He hasn't been the same since his accident."
"Right," I agreed as I tried not to throw up.
"Show them the story you wrote Harold," she said.
"I'm busy," he said.
"He was so pleased when he put it on line but they keep deleting it," she said, "Literotica said the Grammar and spelling were appalling, and the subject matter unsuitable."
"I was writing about the kid next door," he said.
"But she's eighteen dear not nine," she explained.
"She was nine once," he said.
"But she wasn't fucking boys when she was nine," she said.
"No, I didn't say she were, she were fucking horse and dogs and cats and a lion at zoo," he said.
"Maybe that's why it was rejected?" I asked.
"No, its a conspiracy just because I'm Muslim." he said
"No dear, your not Muslim." she said.
"Jehovah's witness then," he said.
"Not Jehovah's witness and you're not black either," she sighed.
"Because I'm an ordinary British bloke," he declared.
"You see what I have to put up with?" she asked.
"So why do you?" I asked, "Put up with him?"
"Well it's the money, and he's in line for compo for the accident you see," she said, "No win no fee they took it on see."
"Accident?" I queried.
"Oh yes, he could have died,"she said, "Bad it was, she said, terrible."
"What, was it a car crash?" I asked, "Medical, Industrial?"
She laughed, "It's not funny really but he was with his mates down the "Angle," they got a bit tipsy and put the wrong video on while they was in the back room having a lock in and waiting their turns to go with little prostitute they booked for the night, and there was this Thai ladyboy with a bottle of John Smiths up his backside."
"Oh per-lees," Julia cringed.
"I'm only telling you," the woman said, "Any road round they bet Harold a tenner he couldn't get a bottle of Tetleys up his ass."
"Oh god," I sighed, "And?"
"Well," She said, he nearly did but not quite so somebody said to Archie Higginbotham to give it a tap with something, and the coal hammer was in the scuttle."
"He didn't?" Julia gasped.
"He bloody did," Harold said, "Bastard!"
"Of course it shattered," she said, "Shards of glass everywhere, up his backside mainly."
"Everywhere," he said, "Blood and shit everywhere."
"Sixteen pints of blood wasn't it Harold?" she asked.
"Sixteen," he said, "Bloody pints."
"Ten hours on operating table," she said, "And still he can't stop shitting,or pissing, one bit nicked the uretha, I think that's what its called, so he can't control his piss and can hardly get a hard on."
"So why stay with him?" Julia asked, "If Andy did that I would ditch him in a second."
"No, you got wrong end of stick," she said, "No I'm his carer, we takes shifts, South Yorkshire NHS Trust pays us, otherwise he would need private ward at Donny General because he stinks so bad."
"Carer?" I asked.
"Four on us takes shifts," She said, "And if he gets his compo we'll take the randy bastard to cleaners for touching us up!"
I almost felt sorry for him. "Right," I said, "Well after what you said about me I reckon you deserve to die horribly, painfully and slowly. The world will be better of without you. "
"What about my job?" the woman asked, "Why else do you think we keeps stopping him when he tries to slash his wrists."
He looked at me, his yellow eye pleading silently, "I hate that bastard surgeon," he said, "He should have let me die quiet."
We slipped away, and drove home in silence, until we turned into our road, "You know," Julia said, "He must be costing the NHS about £1600 a week for carers."
"And he's got a wide screen monitor," I agreed, "But a beer bottle up his ass?"
"Start with a carrot and work up," she suggested.
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