Haddock Flies At Midnight

Keven Shevels

Description

An adult comedy that reflects true life - not a lot of sex and violence, but lots of naughty words and even more innuendos.Thirty days in the life of a town hall housing official in the north of England. Joining forces with a femme fatale from MI5, the pair investigate the discovery of a dead Russian intelligence agent. The dead Russian seems to have been investigating an international gang that has links to terrorism, gun running and people trafficking. So why was he found dead in this quiet little town and where will the investigations take them? Meanwhile on the other side of town, a terrorist sleeper cell comprised of Mohamed, Mohamed, Mohamed, Mohamed, Mohamed and Justin strive to gather the materials to both make and deliver a 'dirty' bomb to it's target while also obtaining funds and supplies for the cause in the Middle East. And then one of them wins on a scratch card.Meanwhile on another side of town, the American preacher Jedidiah Makepeace and his followers pursue their mission from God, to restore the birth place of Anglo-Saxon Protestantism back to it's rightful place and remove the influence of the worldwide conspiracy of Buddhists, Catholics, Hindus, Jews, Moslems and the bleeding-heart liberals that just love the evil of sodomy. If only it was like America and they could get their hands on some guns ... then everyone would listen to them. Meanwhile on yet another side of town, there's an awful lot of sides to this town, the North Yorkshire and South Durham Brotherhood of Satanists and Associated Followers of Beelzebub are struggling. They need to find a virgin in time for their annual sacrifice. Unfortunately, in this small town virgins are in short supply and desperate times call for desperate measures. Cyrus Slimeball, one of the Brotherhood, just happens to have contacts that can get them a virgin, although there is an offer on and it would be cheaper to get half a dozen. Unfortunately, as they struggle to 'find' their virgin, members of the Brotherhood keep experiencing strange accidents. As their numbers diminish, they seem unaware of a vendetta against them, a vendetta carried out by the Eastgate Gerbil and Hamster Breeders Society and their chairwoman Patsy Longshaft, a vendetta carried out as a punishment for past sins.Through it all runs the exploits of an old school friend of the hero. A twenty-four stone, former professional rugby player now working as a drag queen, Big Dolly harbours an unrequited passion for Chuck, one of the American evangelical preachers and blindly pursues his love interest. Dolly also has psychopathic tendencies and can hold a grudge. Events come to a head with the Battle of Edwin's Bottom. Edwin's Bottom is a meadow on the outskirts of town where the BBC Breakfast Outside Broadcasting Unit is presenting a weather forecast with star presenter Karen Churchbush. Guests for the item are the local Eastbourne Road Church, Mosque, Synagogue and Temple Gospel Choir under the musical guidance of its leader, Rabbi Moshe Patel. Then the armed gang arrive. They are closely followed by the terrorist sleeper cell, Jedidiah Makepeace and his followers, Cyrus Slimeball looking for another virgin, the SAS, the SBS, the Metropolitan Police Counter Terrorism Unit, the local police Tactical Firearms Unit, the Immigration Service and Big Dolly. And the owls in the town also appear to be behaving quite strangely.

Informations

• Publié par: Trailguides Limited
• Date de parution: 01 janvier 0001
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781839780011
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Haddock Flies at Midnight
By Keven Shevels
The right of Keven Shevels to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the written permission of Keven Shevels.
Copyright 2020 Keven Shevels
ISBN: 9781839780011
For Lyn
CONTENTS
Monday - Day 1
Tuesday - Day 2
Wednesday - Day 3
Thursday - Day 4
Friday - Day 5
Saturday - Day 6
Sunday - Day 7
Monday - Day 8
Tuesday - Day 9
Wednesday - Day 10
Thursday - Day 11
Friday - Day 12
Saturday - Day 13
Sunday - Day 14
Monday - Day 15
Tuesday - Day 16
Wednesday - Day 17
Thursday - Day 18
Friday - Day 19
Saturday - Day 20
Sunday - Day 21
Monday - Day 22
Tuesday - Day 23
Wednesday - Day 24
Thursday - Day 25
Friday - Day 26
Saturday - Day 27
Sunday - Day 28
Monday - Day 29
Tuesday - Day 30
Postscript
About the Author
What s Next
Acknowledgements
Pricing
MONDAY DAY 1
Stephanie walked through the doorway. With her voluptuous figure barely contained by the red, skin-tight playsuit she gave a come hither smile and, gently slapping her right thigh with the riding crop that she carried in her hand, purred, I hear that you ve been a naughty boy. Well I ve got something to give to naughty boys. As she said that, her hand slowly pulled down the zip on the front of the playsuit, stopping just below the navel. The suit parted just sufficient to partially reveal a pair of golden tanned, perfectly formed breasts.
The alarm bell sounded.
The man in the bed rolled over and, reaching out an arm, turned it off. That was a good dream, he said aloud to himself. Shame it didn t last longer.
Just as well it didn t, said a disembodied voice from above. By the size of that tent pole you were enjoying it far too much.
What the .., how did you get in here, who are you and, looking round the empty room whilst pulling the duvet up to his chin, where the fuck are you? screamed the man.
I m the author, said the voice.
The Arthur?
No, the author, you cretin. I m writing a novel, and you re the main character.
I m a character that you ve made up and you re giving me dreams like that. You re one perverted writer, responded the man.
Don t tell me that you didn t enjoy it, said the voice. Anyway a book has to start somewhere.
The book s all about me is it?
Don t kid yourself, answered the voice of the author. You may be the main character, but there s lots going on in the story that you don t know about. Come to think about it, there s a lot going on with you that you don t know about.
So I m a bit dim am I, said the man with a bit of an edge in his voice.
Let s just say that if you were a chisel then you wouldn t be in danger of cutting yourself.
Thanks a bunch. Well if I m a character then tell me a little bit about myself. Go on what s my name?
Dogsbreath, said the voice.
DOGSBREATH, exclaimed the man.
Yep, Ivor Dogsbreath, came the rather proud reply.
You re having a laugh, stated the man now called Dogsbreath.
Well I am actually, was the response. Your name is a running joke throughout the book. It s a darkly comic tale of love, lust and betrayal.
Har-di-bloody-har, Dogsbreath said. And I can guess where the betrayal comes in, he added under his breath.
You think that s bad, continued the voice. You want to hear the name of your youngest brother. I m really quite pleased with that.
Go on then, tell me what could be worse than Ivor Dogsbreath.
Nope, said the voice. Look into the memory that I ve given you and find it for yourself.
Dogsbreath s eyes partially glazed over as his mind delved back into his new memories before opening wide in shock and horror. Even for a writer you are one sick puppy. The poor bastard. I just hope that one day he gets his hands on you.
Oi, I don t have to take this crap, the voice snapped. I m the author and you re just a character that I made up. I can just as easily get rid of you or even worse, kill you off. Anyway I ll have you know that I m a classically trained writer. I could have written Wuthering Heights, I could have been another Edith Bronte.
Just one question, said Dogsbreath interrupting the voice s tirade. You re the writer and I m the character that you ve invented. Well how come that even I know that it s really Ethel Bronte.
Shut your face, was the articulate and well-reasoned response. Now get on with the story.
Muttering, Bollocks, under his breath Dogsbreath moved to get out of bed, releasing the duvet which until that moment he d held tight under his chin. Throwing it aside he stepped out of bed to put his left foot into a full chamber pot before stumbling and landing face down in a cat litter.
Take a tip, never piss off the author, and the voice from above sniggered.
Fuck, spluttered Dogsbreath.
***
Meanwhile on the other side of town, six people sat around a table in the dimly lit kitchen of a council house. The six, Mohamed, Mohamed, Mohamed, Mohamed, Mohamed and Justin, had been at the property for four months now keeping themselves to themselves and only going out for provisions and other supplies. Of the six that sat around the table there was one who stuck out like a sore thumb. That was the smaller Mohamed who sat in a head to toe burka.
Why? he d asked, then that had changed to, But why me? as the four bigger Mohameds had carefully explained, with the aid of a rolling pin and a bag of frozen Brussel sprouts, that one of their number had to pose at the council offices as the wife and mother of the family in order to get on the housing list. Once the deception was over he could have removed the burka, but had insisted on continuing to wear it. It hid the broken nose, swollen eye and cauliflower ear that had mysteriously appeared during the explanation.
Mohamed, the leader of the group, looked round the men sat at the table. What a load of tosspots, he thought to himself. Yes, he could see the purpose that the Central Committee had for assembling this particular group of individuals. All were highly educated, each being very intelligent in their own field, in some cases exceptionally so. But when it came to everyday common sense and organisational ability there was something definitely lacking. To quote the English expression, they couldn t organise a piss-up in a brewery. Not that he d been in a brewery or even tasted alcohol, but judging by the context it must be something that was very easy.
The fact that they were all British born was also a factor for bringing this group together. All second or third generation immigrants, well except for Justin. Who knows how many generations his immigrant forebears went back to, probably the Norman Conquest. But there was no doubt that he was a PR bonus, a member of the old established ruling class joining their movement.
I suppose that s why I m here, Mohamed thought, to organise this lot and get them to actually do something useful for the cause. Aged twenty-nine and born in London he was what the English would call a Cockney, although his understanding of rhyming slang was non-existent. To him apples and pears were just fruit. Like the others he was highly educated, a graduate of the LSE, the Lewisham School of Etiquette, although on his CV he just left it as LSE. Let the reader make their own interpretation.
Even as a child he d been good at organising and getting other people to do things properly. The rest of the family had just called him bossy, but to him that was far from being an insult. And this talent had been needed right from the start with these idiots. The fact that five of their number were called Mohamed immediately led to confusion. At their first meeting they d sat for forty-five minutes waiting for Mohamed to get the tea. Each one claiming that it was another Mohamed that had been told to make it. In the end they all decided that it was Justin s turn to brew up.
At first he suggested using their surnames to help clarify what the others had jokingly called the Mohamed Situation, but there was a bit of reluctance from the other four. Then, when he realised that one of their surnames was Abu Salizar Bin Ahmed Bin Saliem Bin Natoff, it started getting a bit silly anyway.
It was one of the other Mohameds who suggested using numbers instead, something that all the others were quite keen on. He guessed it was because it lent an air of mystery and intrigue to things, every man s dream to be involved with espionage and to have a number. Ian Fleming had a lot to answer for. Even Justin wanted a number though there was no need for him to have one.
But even then things didn t go smoothly. Nobody wanted to be a Number Two and even he wasn t too sure that he d want to be known as a Number One. So after a discussion they thought that they would start the numbering at ten and as leader he would be Number Eleven. But then nobody wanted to be Number Thirteen. As a group they may not have accepted British values, but nobody was willing to chance British superstition. After another discussion they then decided that they would start the numbering in the twenties with him being Twenty-One.
This actually turned out to be quite beneficial. With the numbers going up to twenty-six, the Central Committee seemed to think that there were three times as many members as there actually were. This meant that they were now able to draw three times their normal expenses, most of which went on the ever expanding wardrobe of burkas being purchased by the smaller Mohamed.
***
Later that morning when Dogsbreath was at work, he went to the corner office, knocked then entered. The name on the door read I. Scrotum , the occupant s given name was Ian although everybody just called him Itchy for short. A f