the tortoise and the tortoise....

When I was four we moved house. The couple we bought it off, (note I was involved in this transaction), had five torti. Tortoises. Tortorti.

Free to roam in a large back garden, life was bliss for them. Rebecca, Sebastian, two others that they took with them, and a baby – tee-toe. Very cute.

Yes, took not they did Rebecca and Sebastian – a gift with the house.

Now this were back in the day when you were still allowed to stuff tortorti up your jumper and round the back with no questions. Always thinking value, you see, always thinking value.

According to wilf, the old mucker who owned the pub at the back of the garden (sounds strange, kept chickens), Rebecca was around 100 years old. Cool. Very likely a complete fabrication but I went with it.

Rebecca was a bit crusty with a hole in her shell. Sebastian was a right smooth mover. Rebecca used to break out of the garden, and one day I was at my friends house four doors down and she strolled in, or I’d see her on the way back from fine fare, walking down the road!

I love tortorti.

Now, I know quite a lot about them. Things you wouldn’t think were true.

Like how high their sex drives can be. Yes, for a slow ancient creature you’d have thought they’d just plop out a few eggs and give em a spray every now and again.

No.

Though we feared he was her son, good old Sebastian decided to hump Rebecca at any living moment he could. His mother. Hurrah for evolution.

He’d get the horn (literally, frightening thing curling out the back of his shell). Then, like some kind of 1980s simulator ride, he’d launch himself up on his claws and absolutely cane it to find Rebecca to give her a little bit of loving.

My mate used to pick him up and put him at the other end of the garden to delay this rape.

But it was only ever a delay. He’d find her, bite her legs and fuck her rotten.

Such was the soundtrack of multiple summer barbeques – his multiple orgasm.

We’d be settling down to charred blue-marked back-of-a-lorry chops, the charcoal taste of the 80s, and it would begin.

“what’s that noise”, would say a prudent aunt. We’d all pause.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEE………………………EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE…………..EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE………………EEEEEEEEEEEEEE”

Erm, it’s the tortorti fucking.

Sod the birds and the bees, no wonder I turned out like I did. Behind, all the way, behind all the way…………

Well, as we all know, life has a way of paying back your bad deeds.

Years later I was living in chelsea in mr murray’s flat. I get a call from my dad.

“erm, bad news I’m afraid. I was cleaning out the pond. And I found Sebastian at the bottom of it. And from the state of him, he’d been there for quite some time”.

Lovely, what a romantic policeman’s knock on the door. Not only was my favourite rapist dead and gone, the last image of him in my mind was of a slimy green decomposed swamp monster.

RIP sebastian – you knew not the wrath of your horn.

And what happened to rebecca?

The beautiful rebecca lives on, alone now, probably desperate for a fuck.


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