Through the puddles of piss and puke of the back alley of the Shaft Worker’s Arms walked the man with no legs. His alloy lower limbs with cosmetic gold plated toe nails clanked on each footfall and he whistled a tune he couldn’t name but had heard on the pub’s jukebox until he caught sight of a girl. Standing there. Leaning against the wall. Her eyes spilling black oil onto the beach of her cheeks as she sobbed uncontrollably.
“This is no place for a young girl alone” he said.
“My fella dumped me. Said I was a bitch a dog and he threw me away like an old matrass. I am a matrass a bitchdogmatrass.”
“Don’t be so hard on yerself luv, you’re a pretty young thing you’ll soon find someone else. Someone better.”
“Why? I’m a slut, I know I am, he told me so as he spat on me, slapped me, burnt my clothes. I’ve nothing. I am a nothing. Nothing.”
“Sounds a right knobhead.”
She let out a little laugh as she wiped the sadness snot from her nose onto a tissue he gave her.
People of limited height are famous for having big hearts. This is a fact. Latest research shows this has developed out of gratitude for playing major roles in films, drama and pantomimes such as Willy Wonka, Snow White, Time Bandits and elves at Christmas time, although it could simply be wanting to keep tall people on-side for when they need to reach the condom machine as dwarf fucking is rapidly becoming the new cocaine for the super rich trendy chic. However, without these media roles, people with limited height were destined to become chimney sweeps or be gainfully employed working inside vending machines.
“Well I don’t feel I should leave you like this. I want to offer you some pleasure as a compensation for the ills of mankind. I’d like to pleasure you.”
“Really? Well then you’d best fuck me. Kill me. Do what you want. I don’t care anymore. I loved him. I loved him to bits so let it be. Set fire to me. I’m a spunk stained matrass dumped in a back alley so yeah, burn me, burn me,” she said as she took off her knickers.
The man, having drunk eight pints of Badger’s Ale, felt it rather rude not to oblige. He didn’t once consider the possibility that he may be taking advantage of this situation. A pretty girl anguished with self-pity, a pretty girl offering herself to endorse her selfhatred, a pretty girl removing her knickers for him. Vulnerable, alone, distressed for him this was win win. “My wife reckons I’ve a magic tongue. Would you like me to …”
“Do what ever the fuck you want, I’m past caring. I couldn’t give a shit, just get on with it.”
The man then unhitched his false legs and maneuvered into position lifting up her skirt. She didn’t have much cunt hair and what there was being the colour of a Labrador puppy he stroked her, whistled the theme tune of The Dambusters at her clit and patting her cunt softly said good girl good girl parting fur as his tongue slowly separated velveteen lips and began to explore. Bad girl so good.
Between her thighs he didn’t hear the footsteps but the flash of a camera alerted his attention. Before his brain could process events the footsteps were fading into the distance along with his legs. And laughter. He heard something about a dirty old shortarse, and this is going on Youtube.
History books written by lofty professors with scrabble letters after their very ordinary names lay claim that Chinese peoples are, how should we put this, of limited height and that this is somehow purely down to genetics and diet but what they failed to take into account was the necessity for this shortcoming. It was during the Long March that a problem first arose. The marchers, having worn out their feet started to notice their shins also wearing down. Surgeons in China had long since mastered a technique to rebuild disfigured polio limbs by means of smashing bones to pieces then rebuilding into a functioning limb. This was usually applied to the ankle and foot bones. In order to keep the marchers on the move the surgeons were ordered to perform similar operations, applying this skill to grafting the foot to the knee. As a consequence the marcher could bend over backwards parallel to the floor which was a useful aid when limbo dancing but their height deficiency meant they could no longer perform on the world stage at basketball. Swings and roundabouts.
“Bollocks!” He said, then he had to weigh up his options. The pretty cunt before him or somehow go after the cunt with his legs. He carried on deeper into desolation valley. He enjoyed giving pleasure and the taste of her misery possessed a certain sweetness that excited him.
She orgasmed and thanked him, though it pained her to thank him, the green of her eyes turning from sick hospital green to methadone green.
“You were right,” she said. “I feel a little better. Now fuck off home to wifey and leave me alone.”
By the time he had managed to get home his stumps were red raw and bloodied almost to the bone. His usual five minute stroll from the pub seemed to agonisingly take for ever.
A long march even using the back alley short cuts.
“Where you been?” His wife asked.
“Down the pub.”
“I can see that, but do you have to come home legless?”
–Paul Levy