Let’s Silence The Bitch!

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Noel decides he’s had enough of the fictional bum sex…and somebody has to pay.

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Notes: Written in homage to BSH (July 2006)

Let’s Silence The Bitch! by The Lizard

Julian grunted as he pulled up his trousers and fastened his flies. He gave Noel a playful slap on his bare arse and walked away, leaving Noel feeling used. Noel sighed and straightened himself up. Over the sofa again. This was becoming a drag, to say the least, not to mention painful. His arsehole felt as if it had been stretched as wide as the Dartford Tunnel.

Julian sat down on the sofa and nonchalantly lit a cigarette, turning his attention to a newspaper article on Brazilian music. Noel adjusted his clothing and gingerly sat down on the seat next to Julian. Silence fell between them, broken only by the sound of Julian clearing his throat (god, how that irritated Noel) and the crinkling of newsprint as he turned the pages over and tapped the ash from his cigarette into an ashtray on the armrest.

Noel stared at the floor and suddenly felt very depressed. Was this all there was for him in the Boosh Slash Haven? An eternity of sofa fucks and lube? Jesus, he was experiencing ANGST! What the fuck-?! That was Julian territory! His head pounded. This was wrong. He needed to make a change before he started to dress like a tramp and reading books about philosophy. He took a deep breath and turned to Julian.

“Julian, I’m getting out of this.”

“Mmm?” Julian replied, half-listening, distracted.

Noel continued: “The Slash Haven. I’m leaving it.”

Julian exhaled a cloud of smoke and stubbed out his cigarette. “Don’t be a fucking fool. You’re fictitious, just a sexual quirk in the mind of a deviant author. You’re confined here in this parallel universe to do her sordid bidding. As long as she wants to write slash fiction, you’re buggered.” Julian gave a snort of laughter.

Noel looked quizzically at Julian, barely concealing his surprise at his partner’s carefree attitude. “Well, you’ve changed your tune! There was a time when all this freaked you out, when you couldn’t deal with the feelings you had for me, when what we did repulsed you!”

Julian shrugged. “Nah. I know it’s fiction. Get over it.” He farted and got up from the sofa. “Fancy a beer?”

Noel shook his head in disbelief. Julian headed out of the room to the kitchen, leaving Noel feeling forlorn and alone in a world of blurred imagination and exaggerated reality.

For the next two days, Noel paced about the flat, unable to come to terms with his Fate as a fictional sex monkey to Julian’s organ grinder. He tried to sketch out some new ideas for characters but couldn’t concentrate, dreading the new positions that The Writer would force him into against his will. Why did she make him initiate sex the whole time? Did he really create the image of a puckish, permanently horny fuck-buddy? All he had to do was touch Julian’s arm, or look at him in a certain way (what was wrong with looking affectionately at his best mate?) and The Writer had him bent over the soft furnishings before you could say “Ka-shunga!”

Noel managed to avoid The Writer’s imaginings for a couple of days, and his bottom began to feel less sore. However, he made a serious error of judgment – through boredom with his appearance, he grew a moustache. This change in his appearance triggered a story that he had acquired the moustache from Julian. Of course, in the mind of a slash fiction writer, this kind of thing is Noelian Gold. After a short story involving ‘shaving’ was posted on the haven, Noel walked around for three days like he had a broom handle up his backside.

On the third night, he couldn’t handle the mental turmoil anymore. He burst into Julian’s bedroom at 3 a.m., shouting, distressed, over-wrought, tearful. Julian, sprawling face down across the bed in his pyjama bottoms, raised an arm to hide his crab-like eyes as Noel flicked on the main bedroom light and circled the bed. Brown smoke all over the shop.

Noel limped up and down, wringing his hands. “I have to break this cycle! I can’t let them make you ram me to Kingdom Come!”

“Oh, not THAT again, for fuck’s sake….” Julian’s head flopped back on to the pillows.

Noel sat heavily on the edge of the bed, lunging across at Julian and shaking his bare, scarred shoulder: “I have to stop her! I have to stop The Writer!”

Julian shook free of Noel’s grasp, groaned and placed a pillow over his head, covering it completely. “Go back to bed” he mumbled from beneath it.

Noel continued: “Ju, I’m serious. If you ever want me to have sex with you again, like we used to, when I used to enjoy it, you’d better listen to me.” Julian removed the pillow from his face and looked at Noel. The little man looked serious, his blue eyes fixed on him, no trace of a wry smile. Julian sat up and listened to Noel for almost three hours, as he earnestly explained his reasons for not wanting to continue their fictitious sexual existence.

Eventually, the morning sun began to peep through the bedroom curtains. Noel stood up again, wincing as he straightened up, clasping his buttocks: “I can’t live my life like this anymore, never knowing what you’re going to do to me next. I want control of our sex life again. I want it to be just our business, like it used to be, before the haven was set up and all those pictures of us supposedly just about to kiss were plastered all over the forum. I want to fuck you when I want to, not when they say so. Don’t you want that too?”

Julian reflected on his own Fate at the hands of The Writer. It was true that, at first, he had felt repulsed at the physical acts he was made to perform on his partner. And there were definitely some other personal things that he felt made him look like an idiot. Being made to wank into his beloved guitar was pretty humiliating. Afterwards, he felt vulnerable and exposed. He thought this private act was secret, that nobody knew that he really did enjoy strumming himself to ecstasy. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more pissed off he felt….

Julian; “So, how exactly do you plan to do this? We’re fictional, we have no power over whatever goes on outside the Haven.”

Noel: “I know, but what about if we broke the archive and let the characters spill out into reality?”

Julian: “Have you been sniffing Goth Juice again? What the fuck–?”

Noel: “The archive. We could break into it and persuade Vince and Howard to help us!”

Julian: “Vince and Howard? The Morecombe and Wise of Wonderland? Come off it. We didn’t write them as James Bond characters. They couldn’t punch their way out of a paper bag. Maybe if we needed somebody to fight a kangaroo or rescue us from a sea transvestite, then I’d be on the phone to them right now, but in this case they’d be about as useful to you as flip-flops on a rock-climbing trip.”

Noel: “That’s a good look!”

Julian: “Christ, I knew you’d say that…”

Noel: “But Julian, who else is going to help us? Vince and Howard have suffered just as much abuse as we have, probably more. I bet they’re tired of this existence too.”

Though skeptical, Julian played along with Noel’s enthusiasm: “So how are they going to help us out? By summoning up Charlie and sending him after The Writer?”

Noel: “Hey, I hadn’t thought of that!”

Julian: “I was kidding, Noel.”

Noel: “I was thinking more along the lines of…kidnap?”

Julian: “Kidnap. Right…..”

Noel: “Howard and Vince could do all the dirty work for us. They can break into The Writer’s house and kidnap her. They could frighten her, silence her, once and for all. We wouldn’t have to get involved. What do you think? Could it work?”

Julian considered Noel’s proposal to silence The Writer. Maybe Noel had a point – if they stopped her writing, they could carry on shagging but it would remain just between them. It might return to how it used to be, before the Slash Haven picked up on the signals and gestures they passed to one another, as secret lovers do. Julian could handle it better now, he had grown used to the way Noel touched him, and his own sexual urges didn’t frighten him anymore. They might be able to go back to their private life. And anyway, surely readers had grown tired of reading about the same old Noelian positions? His arsehole must be as familiar to them as Noel’s black KISS jacket – over-familiar and worn-looking.

Julian’s mind span into plan mode. In truth, he enjoyed taking charge of a situation. Somehow, in the time it took him to climb out of bed, search for a clean shirt and underpants and then pull on some jeans, he had convinced Noel that it was all his idea in the first place. And that it was a great idea – his great idea. Noel hugged him tightly in gratitude. The two men gazed into each others eyes and exchanged words of affection. Slowly, Julian pulled Noel down towards the bed. As they kissed and rolled around on the crumpled sheets, Julian congratulated himself on his continuing ability to manipulate Noel like a well-oiled trombone…

It was midnight, and an alabaster moon shone down on the roof of a ‘Mr Softee’ icecream van as it made its tuneful way down Repetitive Strain Avenue.

Above the musical box din of ‘Greensleeves’, the driver screamed at his passenger, who was frantically stabbing at a series of buttons and switches on the dashboard of the vehicle: “How do you turn this bloody thing off, Vince!?”

“I don’t know!” the passenger replied, “Pull over, Howard!”

The icecream van screeched to a halt at the kerbside, the repetitive wail cutting dead. Howard cut the engine and pulled up the handbrake, turning in exasperation towards Vince. “What the hell were you thinking? Couldn’t you get us something less conspicuous? An ambulance full of screeching gibbons on acid, maybe?”

Vince: “It was all Leroy could get hold of at such short notice!”

Howard: “Leroy? Oh, I might have known Leroy was involved. That explains it all!”

Vince: “Calm down, Howard. You’re getting all worked up…” Vince tried to massage Howard’s shoulders but he was having none of it and shrugged off his advances.

Howard: “Don’t you start trying any of your funny business, Vince! That’s why we’re here, remember? If we get this little problem sorted out, there will be no more of that kind of thing. I’ll be the hero of a slash-free Boosh Universe. Yes sir.” Howard studied his reflection in the rear-view mirror and adjusted his tie. “Did you bring the balaclavas, Vince?”

Vince reached into his pocket and presented Howard with a black balaclava. Across the forehead, just above the eyes, was the word ‘MOON’ sewn on in sequins, with a small skull patch to one side. Howard looked at the item, aghast.

“Vince! We are supposed to be anonymous! This isn’t a fashion parade!”

Vince: “I’m just trying to bring a little bit of style to the kidnapping experience. It might make it more fun.”

Howard: “It’s not about style, it’s about silencing this twisted bitch so that you, me and all the other characters in the Boosh Universe can go back to our private lives in peace. Or do I need to remind you just how many times you’ve taken it up the shitter in the last 6 months?”

Vince: “Yeah, but I haven’t seen you complaining…”

Howard: “Don’t start showing out!”

Vince shifted uncomfortably in the seat as Howard spoke. “Alright, but I don’t see how this is going to work.”

Howard ignored his comment, springing into ‘man of action’ mode: “Come on, we haven’t got long!”

Howard turned his balaclava inside out and pulled it over his tousled hair, adjusting the eye and mouth holes. He slowly opened the driver’s door and stepped down on to the road, casting a glance up and down the suburban street. Vince sighed, lifting his white cowboy boots off the dashboard, stepped out on to the pavement, then closed the door.

Pausing to check his hair in the side mirror, Vince wondered how and why he had agreed to this plan. Julian had made it all sound really persuasive on the phone. He had explained how Noel felt about the slash haven and how unhappy they both were with the pressures that The Writer put them under. But now, standing on this street in the middle of nowhere at midnight, Vince was having second thoughts. What was wrong with a bit of bum sex between mates? Didn’t Howard enjoy his blow-jobs anymore? He’d noticed that they hadn’t touched each other in the last few days, not since Julian’s telephone call. Maybe Howard had stopped fancying him altogether? He had to admit that he felt less than enthusiastic about the whole thing.

Howard hissed at him from across the street. Vince wandered after him, up the drive of number 38, Howard moving like a ninja, hands raised as if he expected to be attacked at any moment. Vince noticed how Howard looked good in black. It slimmed him down a bit, made him look quite….fuckable. Howard was a pompous twat most of the time, but a loveable twat with a sizeable cock that Vince didn’t want to give up that easily. Vince comforted himself with this thought and then caught up with Howard.

The Writer sat down and faced her laptop computer, placing a mug of coffee on the small table in front of the settee. She had an idea that she’d been working on and wanted to get it finished by the weekend. Writing fiction for the Boosh Slash Haven had taken over most of her evenings since she joined the haven. She’d long been a furtive reader of the “naughty stories” involving Noel and Julian but only recently felt confident enough to post her own fiction. And now the sexual couplings were coming thick and fast. Tonight she would do some more work on a Howince tale. She began to tap the keys and disappeared into her imaginary world of zookeepers and anal lubricants.

What was that noise? The Writer thought she heard a clattering sound. She stopped typing, got up from the sofa and turned down the music on her stereo. She thought the noise came from outside the back door. She walked through to the kitchen and peered out of a window above the sink into the back garden. It was probably a fox sniffing round the dustbin, but she’d take a look, just to be certain and put her mind at rest. There had been some attacks on young women in the area recently. Opening the back door to a slight crack, she stuck her head outside to take a look.

A tall man in a balaclava shoved the door open and lunged through, grabbing her by the face, his gloved hand covering her mouth. “Don’t you dare struggle or say a fucking word!” the man snarled, as he pulled her through the kitchen, still gripping her terrified face. Another balaclaved man entered the kitchen and closed the door behind him, switched off the light and followed them through to the lounge. “Don’t make a move or I will hurt you!” warned the taller man, as he pushed The Writer backwards on to the sofa. She screamed as soon as he released his grasp. He stepped forward and smacked her hard around the cheek, sending her falling sideways on to the seat, sobbing and shaking.

Vince moved forward to check if The Writer was OK, crouching down to comfort her, then looked up Howard: “What are you doing, you batty crease?!”

Howard danced about from foot-to-foot, making a fist with one hand and punching it into the other: “Let’s silence the bitch!”

Vince: “We’re meant to just frighten her a bit, not finish her off!”

The Writer sobbed harder, terrified at the prospect of her impending fate. “Wha….what do you want? Please don’t hurt me!” she begged and collapsed again in a flood of tears. “It’s OK,” Vince consoled her, and threw a look of daggers at Howard. Howard shrugged and carried on with his menacing act: “You better believe it, little lady! I’m gonna come at you like lightning, like a ray, like a lazer, I’m frightening! Ooowww! Chica-chicaaaa!” He gave the Howard Moon ‘signature look.”

The Writer stopped crying, and looked incredulously at Howard. “What did you just say?”

Vince: “Take no notice of him, he likes jazz. He was just doing some scat. Come on, sit up and wipe your eyes.”

The Writer: “But you…your voice…what’s going on? Is this a joke?” She suddenly noticed Vince’s white cowboy boots and gave a little laugh. Am I hallucinating? The Writer sat staring at Vince’s boots, unable to comprehend the situation, hoping she would wake up from this surreal nightmare at any moment.

Howard was keen to bring this situation to a close. He wouldn’t become a hero if he didn’t carry out the plan and bring the Slash Haven to a close. This woman had to be prevented from writing anything slashy ever again, and Howard Moon was going to be the one to stop it, yes sir. If only he could get Vince to feel as fired up about this as he did.

“How is this…..what are you doing here?” croaked The Writer, barely comprehending that she was talking to a fictional creation, here, apparently in the flesh.

Howard: “We’re going to stop you from writing anymore filth, that’s what!”

The Writer: “Why? I don’t understand. How is it anything to do with you?”

Vince spoke softly and calmly. “Some of us are unhappy about the kind of things you make us do in the Boosh Slash Haven. They’ve asked us to come here and freak you out a little bit, so that you will stop writing slash, and then they can go back to how things were before.”

The Writer: “But I write these stories because I admire you so much! It’s a specific kind of nonsense that a few people find entertaining. I’m so sorry if my fiction has made you unhappy, I didn’t realize. I’ve never wanted to hurt or harm you!” She sobbed again.

Howard pulled up his balaclava so that his face was exposed: “That’s not our problem, sister! Vince, get up. We’ve got work to do.”

Vince stood up, lifted up his own face-covering, and whispered to Howard, turning his back on The Writer, who was now leaning forward with her face in her hands.

“Howard, look at her. She’s confused and shit scared. There’s no way she’s going to write about us after this experience, let alone think about us in a sexual way. Let’s go. We’ve frightened her enough.”

Howard: “But Vince! We have to deliver the message from Noel and Julian!”

Vince: “What message? I don’t know anything about a message.”

Howard: “She must receive her punishment as we have received ours.”

Howard reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a large under-ripe banana. He gently tweaked it between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. The Writer glanced up at Howard, who held the fruit in a way that seemed both threatening and slightly ridiculous. Vince smiled and nodded: “Oh yeah, I remember…….I quite enjoyed that one.” Howard frowned at Vince, who immediately dropped the smile and looked down, studying the toe of his boot, as if he’d just been told off.

Howard ordered Vince to switch the stereo back on and turn the volume right up. The sound of Muse’s latest album filled the room as Howard and Vince inched towards The Writer, the banana thrust out before them. “Oh…..no, please, NO!” The Writer begged, pressing herself to the back of the settee, knowing full well what was to come next. “I promise, I’ll stop writing slash! Just…please don’t…..aaaarrrrgghhhh!!!” But nobody could save her from the fruity abuse, as her cries were drowned out by the music and the yellow fruit forced its point home.

It had been two months since the Boosh Slash Haven had closed down. Vince, Howard, Noel and Julian claimed back their private lives, which went unimagined, unrecorded and remained a secret between them and them only.

Howard milked his new hero status for all it was worth. He was pleased that he and Vince had an opportunity to spend more quality time together. Vince feigned enthusiasm, trying to look as if he were listening attentively to Howard during the evenings they spent in the flat, just the two of them. But ultimately Vince was kidding himself that this new arrangement would work. Whilst Howard tried to explain the history of be-bop to him, all Vince could think about was blowing a Dizzy Gillespie on Moon’s spunk trumpet. Vince would console himself at night, when Howard was asleep, by masturbating over the slash stories he had printed off the haven before it closed down. It wasn’t ideal but at least he could still read about and imagine Howard thrusting inside him. The Writer produced some great graphic gay porn, that’s for sure.

With the pressure off them to perform the perverse demands of The Writer, Noel and Julian had began to enjoy life more, perhaps even letting themselves go a little bit. Their flat had become a bit messier, and Julian had given up worrying about his waistline. Noel noticed that he’d stopped putting a hand to his tummy in a self-conscious way, whenever they were in bed together. Noel liked to think he was taking a more carefree attitude with his own appearance but Julian had barely noticed the 30 seconds less that Noel was spending in the bathroom these days.

Noel’s rectum now only saw action when he wanted it. Julian was happy that his masturbation habits were private again. One thing was for certain – the sofa was seeing less action.

Meanwhile, The Writer spent her evenings staring at the flashing cursor on her blank computer screen: unable to type a word, crippled by fear that it might get its revenge and come after her. She switched off her laptop and clipped the lid down shut. Writing had definitely lost its appeal. It could be much worse next time. They might discover the un-posted Noelian story she’d written that involved a pineapple.

The Lizard