It was amazing you got a decent 3G signal out here, Spiderman pondered, as he sat in the sturdy oak tree. The wind breathed a cool caress on the back of his neck as he tapped at his phone.
On rare days off such as this, he loved to sit by himself, perusing the latest hardcore uploads to www.underagesuperherosex.com.
Glancing around to check he was alone, he shuffled his blue tights down, allowing his cock to spring free. His Spidey senses were tingling, and now he needed relieving. Quickly.
There were some urges Mary-Jane just couldn't satisfy, bless her.
Eight days he'd been missing. Eight days where 86-year-old Mervyn Shaddock's family had worried, sure they'd never see him again. The police search had been widened to include an area within 20-miles of his last sighting at The Manor residential home.
Officers searching Spatchcock Heath, a well-known hotspot for doggers and outdoor sex enthusiasts, were somewhat surprised to hear a ringing mobile phone near some bushes.
On further investigation, they found clothing, a picnic rug, and, on top of the rug, a bollock naked Mervyn Shaddock atop an elderly lady who had also been reported missing.
Robinson staggered through the doorway of Starbucks with a crash, collided with a teenager listening to some ball-achingly hip art-rock band on his iPhone, and swung his gloved fist at thin air. Falling flat on his arse, he heard but did not process the gasps from the customers sat drinking their lattes.
'Are you alright, love?' asked a lady sat nearby, reluctant to touch the sweaty boxer before her.
Robinson stared as if she had two heads and got to his feet.
He lamped her with an uppercut. He'd won!
Robinson punched the air, bathing in the cheers.
'Are you really Elvis?' screamed the hysterical woman in the back of the stolen car.
'For the last time, yes! Now shut the fuck up!' yelled the driver.
He ground his foot down on the accelerator even further, willing the Mondeo to go faster.
He shunted the ambulance, trying to ram it off the road.
'OhmyGodI'mgonnadieohmy...' the hysterical woman ranted.
'Will you be quiet?!' came the unmistakeable drawled reply.
Again the Mondeo careered into the ambulance doors, but only succeeded in boosting it's escape.
'Fuck!!!' Elvis swore and banged the steering wheel.
He reached across for the bottle of whiskey.
Guillaume paused to change the CD in his Walkman, and pressed play. He sauntered on, the sun boring into his skin, intensifying the headache brewing in his skull.
Christ he was hungry. Stopping again to light a cigarette, he heard a ringing sound, and realised he was outside St. Cockfighter's Primary School. He took a deep drag as the first children ran out into the playground, shrieking and hollering.
'Weird' Al Yankovic's vocals broke through his daydreaming.
'Eat it, just eat it...'
His eyes fell on one particularly plump boy playing football. He licked his lips.
Time for a snack.
'And how have things been with you?' asked Shaun, the group leader.
A small cough. 'Really well, yes. I've had a very positive week' he replied.
'Is that so?'
He looked around, suddenly worried. A cold sweat broke out on his brow.
'...Yes, why do you ask?'
'It's just that...' Shaun let the sentence trail off as he pulled an A4 envelope from his rucksack. He opened it and let a number of photographs fall to the floor.
They showed him on a park bench, necking a bottle of cheap, evil cider.
'Shit....' sighed God, sitting back.
'You got me.'
Donald Summers sat in the back room of the pub, watching the bare knuckle boxing match on a small black and white monitor. A self-made millionaire, he'd bet a cool £1 million on Alec Crufts. How he'd longed to get one over on his business rival, Gordon Bayleaf.
And now, with the earpiece he'd given to Crufts to convey his commands, he was quids in.
The fourth round. Crufts was taking a beating, just as he'd instructed.
"Go down on the next punch" Summers whispered.
But Crufts didn't. He rebelled. And cost Summers a million notes in the process.
She left Simon battered and bloodied in the corner, his head staved in with an iron. I fared slightly better; a broken leg and arm, three severed fingers.
I called out to Simon a few hours ago when I came around, he was silent even then. Belinda had come home and found us locked together in ecstasy on their scratty, threadbare sofa.
She and Simon had been engaged for a while, but even she knew it was a sham - he preferred men (me, especially) to women.
Who knew such a small, waspish creature could have such immense violence within her?
Sitting in the break room, Johnson sighed and put in his earphones. He scraped his chair closer to the window and lit a fag, exhaling out into the grim afternoon lest any pollution seeped into the staff room.
The track currently playing on his iPhone summed up his mood perfectly. "I want to go home/Take off this uniform and leave the show." 'The Wall' by Pink Floyd.
As commandant of Skaggerston's official Concentration Camp theme park, Johnson made the decision there and then that - yes - he would like to go home.
These Nazi officer uniforms chafe something terrible, they do.
Disgraced actor Dave Martyr, famed for roles in the soap opera 'Concrete & Piss' and the children's show 'Buggerlugs', was arrested yesterday at a Skaggerston Bastards football match for "an act of gross indecency" involving an inflatable banana.
Shortly after Chalfont Mumbles scored an eighth goal in the 58th minute, Martyr was seen "clambering" over railings "stark cunting naked", carrying the banana.
He then lay down and simulated "anal intercourse" with the toy in front of Skaggerston goalkeeper Shaun Surgery. Police and stewards quickly retrieved the troubled 44-year-old actor, who has struggled with a "Marmite addiction" for years.
'Tosser! Fuck! Jism!'
People coughed nervously and looked in Colin's general direction, some aghast, some sympathetically. Most of them tried to ignore him.
'Twat! 9/11! 9/11!'
Colin had gone through a phase of apologising for his Tourette's, but he was sure nobody really listened to him when he explained. Their loss.
'Wanker! Shit! Fannies!'
Some more scowls. Some people would just never understand, Colin mused.
As Kevin's bus home screeched to a halt at the pavement, he dropped the empty can containing Colin, the world's smallest Tourette's sufferer. Stamping it flat, he retrieved it and tossed it in the bin.
Frankie lurched into the decrepit disabled latrine and bashed his arms on the cracked tiles. He belched an awful lager burp and vomited, unconcerned about the sick that splattered his battered shoes.
How had it come to this? he thought.
Three years on the streets.
A life wasted.
He breathed heavily and wiped his mouth. Investigating the stained sink, he saw something out the corner of his eye that pricked his intoxicated senses.
He practically leapt at the bar of filthy-looking soap. Knocking it out the way, he scrabbled around on the floor for the discarded syringe, smiling broadly.
The accident occurred at twelve minutes past one on May 3rd, on a very busy Skaggerston high street.
There were many witnesses, due to it being market day in the square.
Conditions were sunny - sixty-nine degrees - with a slight breeze.
The female driver of the Mondeo was reported to have had both hands off the steering wheel, swatting at her hair, which was fiercely ablaze.
The flames had spread to the car's upholstery by the time she crashed into the number 17 bus stop, maiming six people.
The cause of her flaming hair was never found, an inquest reported.
Miriam sat on the sofa, terrified. The two men - both large, bald and muscular, sat either side of her, silent as a stone. She watched the clock on the mantelpiece tick its way from half-past two to nearly three o'clock, with nary a word spoken.
They'd told her they needed "somewhere to lay low" and to "not ask questions" - Miriam hadn't dared.
She glanced at the man on her left surreptitiously and uttered a small cough.
Both of them turned their heads to look at her.
'Um...tea, anyone?' she offered.
'We thought you'd never ask' said one of them.
'Daddy! Come help me!'
Little Charlotte called over to where Frank Granger lay, his glaring eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.
'Daddy!' she persisted.
Go back to your digging Frank urged. Leave Daddy to his hangover...
'Daddy, pleeeeeeeease!!?' came her call again.
Frank stood up slowly, his head suddenly swaying madly. He stomped over to where Charlotte stood with her small pink plastic spade. She'd made quite a hole, he had to admit.
She bent down again to excavate more sand. Frank's thin smile faded.
He kicked out, sending Charlotte into the hole.
Whistling, he began to fill in the ditch.
The fish eye glinted in the candlelight as it arced through the air, landing in Atkinson's mouth with a small plop.
Across the table, Anna watched with a muted fascination; she hated it when he did that, but damn they sure made him sexier.
'You have an incredible body, Malcolm' she purred.
'No pain, no gain. Fancy one?' he offered Anna the bag.
She recoiled, scowling. 'You keep them away!' she screamed.
'You want another look, don't you?' he teased.
Anna nodded, hiding her face bashfully with her long hair.
Atkinson stood slowly and removed his bath-robe.
The Best Candyfloss in Town, they'd called it. North Frottageshire Seaside Awards 1983. So long ago, now. No awards for Mr. Bob since then ...they'd all gone, stolen by pretenders to his crown.
He'd packed in the old candyfloss game for a while - no point with tourism the way it was. But now, by God he'd teach the judges a lesson.
He took the bottle from the shelf, brushing the dust off the embossed label that read: 'CYANIDE'.
A little of what you fancy does you good he mused, as he trickled some into the candyfloss mixture.
Then he laughed.
They stood, hand in hand, looking out of the hotel window. Below them, on the seafront, the undead milled around, bumping into one another. Their moans drifted up and penetrated the double glazing.
'Daddy, what are they?' the girl asked innocently.
'They're us...that's all' replied her father.
Small groups of the cadavers were attacking each other, tearing and gouging. Some of them fell down, torn piles of ragged, once human flesh.
'I guess we're not going to the beach today, are we?' she enquired, resignedly.
He shook his head. 'I don't think we're going anywhere soon, darling' he told her.
'It looks much better than it did before' Mr. Fulton reassured his wife, kindly.
He patted her hand and smiled sadly. Mrs. Fulton regarded her husband with wild, pleading eyes as she attempted to comprehend the disfigurement her mouth had suffered.
'Yes...we'll leave you to heal up, then complete the treatment soon' he concluded. She murmured something illegible through the rods, rivets, screws and implements that now held her jaw together.
'Quiet now petal, you need to rest for awhile' he explained, snapping off his rubber gloves.
He picked up the bloodied scalpel and tossed it in the filthy sink.
He wouldn't last much longer, of that he was sure.
Colin grasped the girl - he'd forgotten her name already - tighter around the hips and continued fucking her. She had her head in the pillows, moaning occasionally. As he commenced on what would be his final strokes, he heard the unmistakable sound of wind being passed.
Before his mind could register this, a torrent of foul diarrhoea cascaded from her anus, covering Colin's groin and thighs.
Slipping out of her as the unholy fountain continued, he leaned forwards and vomited over her back, adding to the grim tableaux of bodily waste.