slumpy rut fuck

Slumpy Rut Fuck was lying down as usual. He twiddled his cock absent mindedly, and farted. He was leaning back against a brick wall in an old deserted warehouse, where Batman used to live. Slumpy was notorious among his fans for his reclusive ways. He had made something of an image for himself out of not being there. Postcards of Slumpy were usually blurred or blank, the plastic dolls his manager had had comissioned were actually just the hardened shell of his most famous outfits, and often his gigs didn't even have him listed as performing.

But he was.

In the dark, Slumpy had grown cold and whimsical. He flitted about between shafts of invisible light, dancing among the dust motes and carelessly urinating down his legs. Rolling back the memories of his life, Slumpy fenced himself in with dark, perturbing images dressed up in lichen and overalls. In the dream, he poured emotional syrup up a dead man's arse-cavity. He rode wildebeest headfirst into trees and buggered their corpses. He ejaculated entire populations of new species into the rainbow-blackness of space, through the plapping raw tube of his dessicated urethra.

Slumpy woke from the dream in bed, deep asleep and far away. He climbed out of his body and rode a tiny invisible sheriff off his face and down his rounded little belly. When he reached the base of the pubic trail, Slumpy dismounted and ate the sheriff to death. He set up camp using a stretched section of his larger body's pelvic skin as a canvas. He secured the canvas with some rusty metaphorical nails and a hand-hammer, then set about boiling his eyes.
Soon the tea was ready and Slumpy set-to, slurping away and chanting medieval prayers about old women and hard work. Within minutes, he was bored shitless and decided to sleep in the makeshift tent. He pissed all over the entrance of the tent and went inside.

Within the chamber, Slumpy roamed about into the far corners of skin and kicked out at anything that moved. He was afraid of lichen, and in this ancient stomach-cave, there were several varieties unchecked and florid. The stench was normal. Slumpy wished, as usual, that he knew what the fuck was going on, but he didn't.
Up on the far wall was a crucifix, with a miniature Christ spitting obscenities blindly into the womb-like vestibule. The vaulted rooves echoed divine blasphemy, and little pigeons and doves squawked and chirped merrily along, as though God herself would enjoy hearing it.
Just below the crucifix was a tea towel, hanging up and a little bit soggy from the washing up earlier on. Slumpy tiptoed over, comedy-style just for effect, and yoinked the tea-towel off it's hinges. This hazardous manouevre tore a massive hole in the flesh-tent-church wall and penti-litres of scalding orange juice sprayed out straight into Slumpy's stupid face.
Panicked, Slumpy ran up the staircase to the overhanging mezzanine and shouted at the statue of Jesus.

'Christ! Oi, Christ!'

He yelled, but to no avail, for the Lord was dead and gone...