I couldn’t decide if, in dressing up as a gorilla for Christian Science Week, our openly disillusioned vicar was trying to convey a certain message. Everyone hoped he wasn't on borrowed time with the clergy, especially after his infamous pro-Jurassic Park III rants at the Women’s Institute GLBT Dinner Dance. No matter how much Audrey Phillips waved her dripping nipple tassels and crinkled her faux moustache, there was little they could do to stop him going off on one. It was at least 10.45am before he got onto Jeff Goldblum being God’s representative on Earth and Milton and Sedgley arrived from Deranged Ministers and Priests and Sons and carted him off for his usual post-Park sabbatical…
Today’s rant was unusual; the vicar had kept his clothes on. Usually the mere mention of Sam Neill was enough to have his scrotum out dangling like a mangled goat over the forbidding border of a Tyrannosaurus’ razorwire front plate. Perhaps it was the difficulty associated with manoeuvring the gorilla suit to establish his freedom, who knows? But the villagers were nervous enough to call it into question.
When the vicar was carted off to the loony basket and out of the way, all the pricks and fanny gathered together in the fuck-house for the review meeting. It had been four days since the vicar had last gone mad and for William (Bill) Hunter in particular, that was far too long! Bill, with his trouser pockets flapped out along with his cock to complete the desired elephant impression, stood before the throbbing crowd and roared his disapproval at waiting such a long time to perform his chosen indiscretion. Feeling the early panging throngs of release, old Maisie May thrust up onto her lurching chair and peeled down to a leather catsuit that was as geriatric as her straining heart; both met with the rowdy applause of their audience.
The point of the meeting was made with plundering haste and everyone knew what would be done. For now, it was time to let their hair down. From out of nowhere, a riotous ensemble of musicians appeared, seemingly accompanied by a back catalogue of the most forbidden of music. Beneath the gyrating minister’s wife, a seeping smile of enthusiasm was dripping across the face of the coked up organiser of the Women’s Institute GLBT Dinner Dance. The one judiciary present in the room, Sgt. Felt, was overseeing the room with a look of stunned bemusement on his face – purely a panicked reaction to the overly ambitious exercise in fellatio being performed on him by Mrs. Gripp, of Scalpel and Sons Butchers. The whole room had a smile on its face.
Two days later, an entire village had come and was now very much stuck in the end phase of coming down. Jenna Taylor was, as always, the first to return to the shackles of decency and cast her worn silken corset mercilessly into the licking fire. She glanced over to see the wrapping orange tongues lapping gently around and sensually digesting it, and afforded the whole event a pious look of utter disgust. As everyone pieced together their lives of three days ago, the look of utter disdain for a life more ordinary was only matched by the look of yearning for the profanities that had nearly killed them hours before. Though they wouldn’t say it, most of them hoped the vicar would hold out longer this time.
At 12:00 on the button, Milton and Sedgley arrived from Deranged Ministers and Priests and Sons and gingerly ushered the vicar into his private quarters. As he passed, the villagers couldn’t escape his ashen face and aged expression. Maisie May wept a moment to see the look of abject fear and confusion passing over his trembling eyes. Perhaps they’d let this all get way out of hand? The vicar was ushered into his private quarters and the residents began the customary moral evaluation of the events of the last few days. As usual, most decided it was time to call off the entire thing, no more picking and no more parties; it was over.
A week though is a long time in a little village like Auchmillen. The vicar surprised himself most of all by being fit as a fiddle and ready for the lectern by Tuesday afternoon. Mrs. Cludge had been dispatched on the Thursday for the picking and the vicar’s Sunday service had gone smoothly and broken no bones of contention with anyone. Sins admonished, the flock was fit to flee. The vicar was glad it was done and was looking forward to a spot of offenceless radio 4. He always enjoyed a herbal tea after Sunday service and maybe he could get round to watching that debatable yarn about dinosaurs he’d been force fed by that sinful harlot Mrs. Gripp…
As she heard the last mutterings of the vicar to her expectant but exiting audience, Mrs. Cludge remembered the crux of the meeting. With careful consideration of her charge, Mrs. Cludge discreetly galvanised the Jasmine Pot with enough acid to shit clouds of diamonds from the arse of a purple sky…
‘See you Tuesday vicar’ she smiled grimly.
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