Rebecca Riots

A story in parts in the style of acclaimed author, Amanda Brunker…

It was a busy Saturday night in Sizzles nightclub. The hot, steamy dancefloor was packed with gyrating bodies; girls with glossy hair and orange skin pressing up close to shaven headed men wearing Ben Sherman shirts, all the colours of the rainbow, like a giant, moving bag of fruit pastels.

In the VIP lounge upstairs, Pat Parsnips held court among the hangers-on. Financial worries never far from his mind; he slammed another whiskey and soda down his handsome and manly throat in an attempt to self-medicate his worries.  

In the corner, at a table to themselves adorned only with a bottle of Smirnoff, sat Jack Jam and his Eastern European floozy, Vanka Vagina. Jack’s beady eyes surveyed the scene around him as he pawed hungrily at Vanka, never stopping to think of his wife Jane, who was back home in Clonsilla.

“If I was wearing a hat, Pat, I’d take it off to you,” sneered Jack.

“This dump may be a shithole if ever I saw one, but it sure packs ‘em in like chickens in a battery farm eh, eh?”

“Thanks, Jack, it’s a good night tonight, maybe this will be enough to help you reconsider…” “Enough of that, Pat, let’s not talk shop tonight, no. Tonight is for play. In fact, Vanka’s friend will be along very soon, I think you two will get along very well indeed.”

Great, thought Pat, the last thing he needed tonight was some glorified Russian hooker who had three words of English “yes, no and fuck”. Besides, he was in some considerable pain having torn his banjo string banging that broad from Blanch during the week.

What a surprise that was. And if Pat had anything to do with it, he wouldn’t be going there again in a hurry. He could have been mistaken, but her fanny smelled like KFC…

Downstairs, three blonde girls swept past the bouncers. All dressed in tight clothes that showed off their figures, and with smooth, glossy hair that swept back like sheets of satin as they sashayed towards the bar, Maggie, Sandra and Sharon attracted more than a few admiring glances as they entered Sizzles.

“I’d bleedin fuckin MORDER a redbull and vodka wha?” said Sandra, rhetorically.

“Fucking roigh. Get three vodkas and one redbull and we can split de redbull loike so it’s cheaper ya know,” answered Maggie.

Sharon wasn’t listening. Her almond shaped eyes were scanning the room for Pat. She had shaved her fanny and moisturized her flaps in preparation for a repeat performance.

“Arrra, c’mon Shazzer,” said Maggie, her voluptuous nostrils flaring. “Don’t be lookin’ for that man, he’s only bad newz so he is, ya need to put him out of yer moind cos if ye don’t he’ll only break yer heart.”

Almost as if Maggie was psychic, at that very moment, Pat strode past the trio arm in arm with a tall, glacial blonde.

“NO FUCKIN’ WAY MAN” yelled Sandra. “He’s only got imself a fuckin’ foreidn national. Dorty bastards, comin ova heyah and takin our fuckin jobs and now our men twowah!”

But Sharon couldn’t hear. Her senses were dominated with the rushing sound of intense jealousy, followed by extreme sorrow. She collapsed, sobbing into Maggie’s soft, creamy bosom.

“Baaaaaaaastard,” she said, eventually. “Fuck THAT WANKOR, let’s go to Coppers instead.”

“Ohmygod, you mean, into TOWAN, like, actual towan,” exclaimed Sandra.

“Yeah, I want a bleedin’ garda,” said Sharon, between sobs.

As the three girls stormed out of Sizzles, their taught buttocks swinging as they moved, Pat Parsnips settled down to a mediocre blowjob from Monika Minge, blissfully unaware of the heartache he had caused only minutes before…

Will Pat realise how much Sharon loves him? Will Jack Jam reconsider withdrawing his investment in Sizzles? Will Fingal County Council impose tougher fines on election candidates who fail to remove their campaign posters by the final date? Find out next time…