Kriss Akabusi....

Akabusi sat in his Vauxhall Corsa eating a corn beef and horseradish bloomer from Greggs with all the gusto of an Ethiopian at a Harvester salad bar. He looked out the dirty window at some pigeons fighting and f**king in the strong beams of the low winter sun. He roared with a laugh as loud, dark and hollow as a Lenny Henry comeback tour. What did these animals know of the art of f**king love making?

The thought sent a quiver down Akabusi's ebony frame to his purring pussy pounder. It hadn't tasted the sweet suds of a clunge for at least eight hours and it was getting restless and hungry. Kriss considered inducing a wet day dream - or a "lunchtime geyser" as Geoff Capes had once called it. But no. His throbbing hulk of brown greasy gristle needed kneeding and it had to be from the wettest, reddest lips since Jilly Goolden on a tour of the Bordeaux region.

And anyway, John Regis was sitting in the back of the Corsa nursing a Cheese and Onion pastie and feverishly counting the rain drops on the window. Since the Manchester Casino debacle Regis's OCD had become 456 times worse. Akabusi and Black had tried to f**k the casino over with Regis counting cards but the daft window slurper had gone nuts and pushed the table over and flopped his monster cock in the face of the croupier. Regis insisted there were 39 steps out of the casino but the boy's feet barely touched the ground.

To cheer himself up Akabusi had entered a Pro Celebrity Golf Tournament at Wentworth and as he licked his big brown finger and dabbed the crumbs from his tweed dungerees he looked out on the assembled Z list clebs at the first tee. He knew he was going to get some hole today and he prayed to his Nigerian gods that it was deep and didn't have a flag in it. Yet.

Akabusi wiped Regis down with a wet wipe and headed over to registration. In the distance he spotted that c**t Tanni Grey Thompson rolling over to the first tee with her electronic caddy in tow - it looked like a convoy of sh*t Transformers. Akabusi growled and snarled like an Muslim's belly on the penultimate day of Ramadam. If he was playing against her he was sure he would lose his considerable rag and bury her up to her head in a bunker. He tried to remain calm as he was introduced to his caddy.

Clunge Sunesson was the smoking hot daughter of Fanny, Faldo's old stick holder, and Akabusi's interest in this good walk spoilt was heightened when his greedy eyes focused on the svelte Swedish sexpot that stood before him polishing his wood. The cool air of the early morning breeze slide into his dungerees like Sidney Cooke into a nephew's bunk and licked at his black short and curlys like lesbians at the annual muff divers stamp collectors blow out. He wanted to sink his rapidly engorging brown Mizuno into her fairway as soon as. But he had a game to play and some spastics to buy a bus for or some sh*t like that.

"What's your handicap Abakumi?" hurled Bruce Forsyth as he passed by in his golf buggy which doubled as a hearse. "By big cock, you old c**t" roared Kriss with a sharpness and panache not seen since that bender Wilde complained about the wallpaper. Akabusi knew he had a powerful swing but knew more often than not his balls ended up in the rough. She worked in the clubhouse on Saturdays.

As was Akabusi's custom he let the brass buckles of his tweed dungerees loose and felt the coarse fabric rush past his ebony carcass like a rocket launch. All the celebs knew the score with Kriss and no one said a f**king word as he stood at the first tee looking like a large chocolate "K". Akabusi always played erect- it improved his game and left him ever ready to plunge his black post box into a fan or PR girl. As he shifted his giant onyx rugby balls and pulled his bat or club or whatever the f**k it was called the CTU tone of his mobile started ringing.

Clunge picked up the huge bloody thing and the battery attached and slung it over to Akabusi. It was Derek Redmond. They hated Redmond. Him, Blackie and poor Regis had never forgiven him for plonking Suzanne Davies and not letting them watch and he had a small willy so he never really fit in. As Akabusi held up the whole tournament with his call viewers could see his veiny colussas begin to fall to the ground like Beckett in the cathedral. Apparently Redmond had been sending parcel bombs to various offices across the country. He'd got a parking ticket whilst he was dogging with Collymore and McFadden in Penge and it had driven him nuts. And he had a small willy.

Deflated, Akabusi told Redmond that the lads would be over to his £117,560 mansion near Watford as soon as the tournament was over. They'd have to kill him of course. He knew too much. But at least the madness would be over and the good people of the parking and traffic enforcement community could sleep easy. Black liked murder and killing so he would garoutte the micro cocked loon whilst he poured the others a Kestrel.

Clunge Sunesson came over and told him the tourny was off. Darren Clarke had waterlogged the second hole with his tears and automatically both won the tournament and managed to f**k loads of mothering birds. Akabusi wished he had a dead wife. Oh well, he thought as his attention returned to Clunge.

He knew beneath the pink Pringle top and flourescent tabard lay a pair of epic blonde bristols with all the promise and weight of Frank Lampard as a teenager. And as sure as Regis was mad as a closed box of c**ts, Akabusi knew that tucked into those khaki shorts was a pussy as hairless and had a powerful grip as a Professor Xavier action figure. He felt the blood rush into his brown campanile quicker than a train delay at the hint of snow.

He picked up Clunge and threw over his shoulder and headed to the tranquility of the nearest bunker. He torn her gear off and flung her into the bunker. She lay helpless in the sand like an unturned beetle - with a pair of itty bitty tits and a fanny as wet as a Zeebrugge purser. He plunged into her like a Johnny Vegas dive bombing a kiddie's pool and before long he was up to his crackers in this blonde spunk wagon.

Within hours he was approaching his vinegars and let out a roar of pain, pleasure and passion as he let fly such a stream of hot man scum over her battered torso that people in the next town thought someone had struck white oil. He had.

As he strapped his dying dong to his toned calves and slipped on his tweed dungs he looked over to the Corsa. Regis was all excited - there were 8796 rain drops on the rear window and couldn't wait to tell Redmond. Black was at the boot loading up some tools and cheese wire. This was going to get messy.

He looked down on the shagpile of giant spermazota, matted Scandic hair, Slazenger Number 1s and a Clunge that looked like a regurgitated steak, bent down, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

The sun shone down on Akabuski's shiny chocolate head which glistened in the mid day sun like the tin foil wrapper of a milky bar. He was in the front garden of his two bedroom mansion and was sitting wearing his summer short style dungarees which showed off his mighty jaguar which would moisten any clunge to biblical vengeance proportions, perhaps an ark would be needed. Fortunately, Akabusi could provide.

His Argos plastic garden furniture was heating up and it began to burn his mighty oak tree like legs. He stifled an awooga and decided that he needed a glass of Coke Zero (he was hoping for a sponsership deal and drunk it at any opportunity he could.)

He walked to his Kitchen/dining room and from the window he suddenly smelt the sweet aroma of clunge. An aroma he knew only too well. It hit him fast and suddenly like a junkie waiting outside the post office for a pensioner on a monday morning. Like the junkie, Kriss also had an addiction. An addiction for the sweet sweet act of love making. Or as he called it. "Munching the branston"

The aroma was sending him mad and his pulsating warrior was almost bursting through the summer dungarees so he slipped them off and he stood there in all his glory like Michaelangelo's David smeared in chocolate with a much larger pocket rocket. He was in a frenzy now and was ready to track down that clunge and attack it like a bully attacking the boy with the stutter in the playground.

He burst out of the door of his mansion and surveyed from left to right. The sun on his balls felt good to him. It reminded him of the time him and Michael Hutchence had gone to a brothel and had some kinky match sex with cheap whores. All of which are now in wheel chairs, like all of Kriss' lovers. It was then that he spotted where that sweet aroma was coming from. It was ex blind date host Cilla Black. She was out walking her dog and saying Chuck to anybody would listen. Kriss normally didn't like old Vag but this smelt too good to turn down.

He bellowed over to her 'surprise surprise' You see, he also has a razor sharp wit. And at this he plunged into cilla like a plane into the world trade center. His mighty staff was up her BHS two piece beige suit and her old ginger saggy clunge was tightening around his mighty penis which looked like Al Jolson but infact several feet bigger than the singer.

In mere hours it was all over. He looked down at Cilla who looked like she had just been attacked by a gaggle of angry geese who had an affection for spitting. His famous Akabusi smile appeared on his face and he said. "Are you still breathing?" There was no answer. Barely holding back his laughter he said "Maybe i should ask our Graham" He chuckled so loud and erotically that a 4 year old who was playing near him actually hit puberty right then. She pointed towards her playhouse and Akabusi grinned.

Before heading off too the playhouse he leant over Cilla. And gently whispered, "awooga" in her man juice covered ear. And patted her on the fanny. Today had been a good day for Kriss Akabusi.

The End.

Akabusi thumped his hand on the walnut effect table. His brown hammer fist split the table and for a moment he was reminded of Ulrika Jonnsson's well thumbed clunge. This was sh*t. His rider for this gig had specifically specified specific things like 500 gram Tupperware container of Reggae Reggae Sauce mixed with blue peanut M&Ms. He could clearly see that the f**king M&Ms were f**king red and there was only 450 grammes of the f**king sauce. Promises had been made.

Busi had had a bad few weeks. Him, Regis and Black had accidently burnt down a building in Manchester after a pyrotechnics display for the opening of a new JJB Sports had gone spectacularly wrong. It would have to be the last time they let poor demented OCD riddled Regis buy pyros. Or indeed anything. In the rush to evacute two Make A Wish foundation kids had been left behind and their charred electronic wheelchairs and three British Knights trainers were all that remained. Black had "disappeared" the evidence before the fuzz and more importantly the deputy chief marketing officer for JJB Sports North arrived. They had some pretty major openings in the coming weeks.

Even more depressingly Kriss's ebony pussy plunger hadn't tasted the sweet sticky sauce of a pretty major or minor opening in a while and the grisly pulsating Kaa betwixt his toned thighs wouldn't let him f**king forget. It needed feeding or it would go elsewhere. It also needed bathing but that was another story.

As Busi keyed in his agent Harvey Goldenblum's number into his Raspberry he looked around the table at the most useless eleven c**ts since he saw West Ham play. Jury service was the last thing he needed and when the Old Bailey celebrity bookers were going to persist in serving up red M&Ms with his sauce he wanted out. And he wanted in. A pussy.

At the moment they were deliberating over some Muslim numpty who had been caught cooking up fertiliser "above the shop". Busi had been called in at the last minute to fill the gap left by Sally Gunnell who had left to perform an emergency opening of a JD Sports in Letchworth. She got all the good gigs. The Old Bailey had made him the foreman and Busi had accepted with open muscular onyx arms. Kriss soon realized this meant he didn't get a fat reducing grill or anything to cook with and he would have to "make notes".

There was only one angry man in this room and it was Krisstopher Akabusi. The other members of the crew or whatever the f**k you called it were sure that Omar Epps was going to blow up Bluewater. Busi didn't give a monkey's clunge in hell, he preferred f**king Lakeside and he was willing to bully the others into a not guilty verdict if it meant he could get off to Cape Canerval where Roger Black and Regis were holed up. This was justice, Akabusi style.

The hot air of this cracking late April day crept into the walnut effect conference room like DJ's into the Walton Hop and found it's way between Busi's polished Texas Gold black body and his fine pinstriped dungarees that Mr Raja had knocked up for him. He could feel the chocolate liono stir as the air caressed his newly shaved rugby ball size balls. All three of his genitalia knew it was summer and knew that outside in parks, Lidos and street corners were women in tight white tops and towelling shorts splashing around in the watery arc of a burst water main. Goddamn, all four of them needed kneeding.

"Right let's get this sh*t over with" roared Busi as he stood upright like a cock in a fanny shop. "This is not a quarter as exciting as the f**king Phil Spectrum trial and this f**king one isn't televised. I was made promises". The eleven ugly men and true shuffled their papers, some followed Busi's gaze out the window to the frolicking pussy in the street. Some knew his pain, some didn't have a clue about Akabusi and that was their f**king loss.

The verdict in his fist, the twelve strode through the marble hall of the Old Bailey, crims, briefs and nickers parting as justice passed by. Akabusi had requested two drummers to play him in as he entered Court One and surprisingly they were there. As they pumped out the epic drum solo from Nilsson's Jump into the Fire in perfect unison Akabusi felt like a brown Buddha, a chocolate Jesus, a black...gas. But this wasn't about him. It was about Lady Justice.

Lady Justice was the raghead's brief and Busi's slit senses were enlivened and his sperm levels were raised to Severe as she entered the court in her long black cloak, white high collar and horse hair wig. He knew that beneath the apparel of law was an epic pair of bristols so firm you could make them heads of state in North Korea and a clunge so tight it fiddled the electricity.

For over a week Kriss had been asking these guys in gowns to make him a large Mocha with a side shot of espresso but it had turned out these dudes were barristers and not baristas. The law was an ass and Akabusi wanted to part it and plunge his jet black sack attack into it. The drummers stopped and once the screams and applause stopped Busi stood. As he opened his large piano key filled mouth he caught sight of Lady Justice. She had a leg up on a desk and had her gown pulled up to her arse as she smoothed down the creases in her Agent Provocateur stockings.

Busi was instantly harder than Dave Courtney's missus' clit. But without the Liz Duke T Bar through it. The power of his engorged cock tore the pinstriped dungs from his back and he stood naked and horny. He lept over the walnut effect partition and stalked Justice like an elephant at an Indian celebration that got out of hand.

"Erection" cried the clerk of the court. "Overstained!" roared Akabusi with all the might of Andre the Giant farting into a Sennheiser. Justice was up for it and she whipped off her legal gear quicker than Paul Gadd will be back in the ELC. Busi was right. This brief was epic. Her milky white duds had nipples darker than South London and her clunge was wetter than Tony Bullimore's copy of Heat and covered by a horse hair merkin.

Akabusi jumped on her like SO19 on Brazilians and tore into her like a Fitness First bag on the top deck of a bus. To the assembled crowds it looked like a feral chocolate scales of justice was attacking a white gavel of sexiness. Busi was inflicting Zero Tolerance and Maximum Poundage into the defence and she was lapping it up like a cat with diabetes.

Within hours he was was on his violent, volcanic vinegars and he let spray with such a gush of giant tadpoles the Judge fell to his knees and prayed for a Noah's Ark speed boat to pull up. Justice had been served and as Busi rolled up his Persian he thought he might just make the flight to Florida and the hook up with Black and Regis. This was a good day.

"Mr Akabumbumbum, what is your verdict?" pleaded the sodden Judge. "Quality shag. Quality" roared Busi as the twin drummers started up again. "And him? Let the all the f**kers go. It's summer time! Let's get out there."

Busi pulled on the shredded dungs and looked down upon the pile of flipping flapping spermazota, horse hair, fertiliser and torn stockings, bent down, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

Akabusi sat in the back of his Corsa watching Loose Women on his black and white portable. He hadn't seen this many mouthy c**ts since he f**ked all of B*witched at Ainsley Harriot's barbeque in Staines. That had ended in bloodshed and he knew if he watched another minute of this menstrual backwash he would have to take a life.

It was piping hot in the motor, Kriss never opened the windows and the air con was like a war veteran with emphysema trying to blow out a dropped John Player Special. Busi was wearing his spring wardrobe - crushed tan linen dungarees which were more breezy than a French cheese shop. The air was creeping in around his sleeping genitalia and tickling his taut black curlies like a favourite uncle at a niece's birthday party.

Akabusi turned the telly off, he was depressed. That morning he had given a motivational speech to a large group of deaf young achievers in Stevenage and he spent an hour pumping his fist and mouthing "Awooga". Which wasn't far removed from his usual routine. Kriss had wondered what these f**kers would achieve anyway other than playing the xylophone really fast and signing Open University programmes about ants. When they didn't clap Busi had stormed out without even flashing his chocolate donger. He'd stuck a fat index at them. It was the only language they understood.

To cap it all he looked down on his weeping dark colossus and realized it hadn't supped at the frothing fountain of a ladies clunge for over two days. His fat balls were more full of tadpoles than the Blue Peter pond after Peter Duncan dared to have a w*nk into it. He needed to unsheath his meat drill bit and screw something into a wall soon or he feared a bigger cum explosion since Paris Hilton made herself sick before lunch.

He got out of the car as a bucket full of crumbs from the ten Greggs Steak Packs he devoured quicker than the North Sea eats oil rig workers dropped to the ground. He looked around at all the other cars parked up at The Priory and laughed a deep and dark laugh that set off a few alarms. When you had a plonker like Busi's you didn't need a Hummer to get pussy, pussy came to you. In your '91 Vauxhall Corsa. He was at The Priory to see poor old John Regis whose OCD had gone ballistic since he was turned down for a part in the sequel to the Greek fight flick 300. 301 was a perfect project for Regis and his rampant OCD would have been helped exactly 3021 times more than the cocktail of drugs he swallowed every morning.

"This is Regggggggggggggggiss" was the last thing Akabusi heard as Regis was carted off in The Priory's white Escalade ambulance outside Kriss's £127,983 mansion in Luton. If Roger Black had been there then maybe they could have saved the huged chested blubbering fool but Black was in Tehran about to poison that President Inmydinnerjacket or whatever that guy who looked like a minicab driver in a £10 Spastic Society suit was f**king called. It had meant cancelling four JJB Sports opening events and one signing at a Maplins in Letchworth but work was work.

Akabusi strolled into the clinic, his midnight pussy piercer slapping against his toned inner thighs like Collymore on Jonsson. The Armani clad nurses stopped administering placebos to cigarello thin models to watch as Busi headed for the John Paul Getty ward with the confidence of a man with a gold medal and a brown wheelie bin in his dungs.

The attention sent a spark down his body and his meat twitched to a semi and he knew that if he had a look it would now be the size of two kingsize Mars bars wrapped together with fat veins. He let slip the confines of his linen dungs and let the imported air of the clinic cling to his toned onyx chassis to Ciccone to black babies. Regis was sitting at the window of his oak panelled room wearing a Maria Grachvogel clincal gown and was busy counting the reality stars ghost writing their autobiographies in the grounds. "97, 98..." wept Regis as he heard the unmistakable sound of flesh against flesh that meant Busi was in the room.

They embraced. They weren't sh*t pushers or anything but the touch of Olympian on Olympian seemed to cheer up the vacant Regis. "What the f**k have they got you on, John?" roared Kriss with all the power of a Spartan attacking a Ginsters concession. "Karl Malden, Kriss. f**k knows" said Regis as he secretly counted the bristles of Akabusi's immaculate tache.

"Get the f**k out of here, Mr Akabumbum" said a voice from behind the boys which was a smooth as a babies arse but without the skid marks. Akabusi was almost at full lob as he turned to spy a nurse clad in a tight white tunic that Busi was sure concealed a pair of bristols so epic that Cecil B Demille made her bras. If Kriss's pussy senses were right and they always f**king were he suspected that joining those tits was a clunge as wet as a Norwegian work experience chap.

Busi knew at that precise moment he had to get Regis out of this c**t soup factory but he also knew that he had to bash this nurse's doors in like coppers visiting a Rasta temple. Before this thought even left his brain to tell his balls the nurse had ripped the tunic from her hard body and let the buttons fly across the ward. The combatants faced each other, Akabusi looking like a brown capital T on it's hind legs and her like a naked woman with nice tits.

Akabusi pounced on her like a fat person devouring a buffet of obesity genes and within seconds he was sliding the length and breadth into a glistening hole that had previously been as unable to open as a bacon sarnie stall at Golders Green tube station. As she reverse cowgirled him he was faced with a tight little arse hole that looked like an 80 year old whistling. Busi called to Regis to come over and stick his pinky up it. Struggling with his OCD, John finally couldn't resist and slipped it up to his Liz Duke signet. This was progress. And it made the nurse yelp like a dog being kicked.

Within hours Akabusi was on his violent vinegars and let fly with a gush that looked like a dam letting off pressure. The nurse slide all over the floor looking like she had just had union with Slimer.

"Pack your Transformers rucksack Regis. We're f**king out of here" cried Akabusi as he rolled up his brown St Bernard cock and popped on his linen dungs. Busi wanted to get to a party near Durham he'd heard of on Myspace, it was called "House Rape" or something and he knew that sounded quality.

Akabusi looked down on the twisted pile of dying giant sperm, matted blonde hair, Prozac pies and a clunge so wasted it should be in The Priory, he bent down, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

wtf

lol @ chris akabusi

There's more out there. I've been e-mailed 6 more over the past few days. Going to read them in work tomorrow. Will post them if they are any good

Akabusi stepped out on to the balcony of his £10 a night luxury apartment and watched as the sun went down on the horizon like a missus looking for new shoes or Charlton. Regis had spent the afternoon throwing waterbombs onto guests below, 346 to be exact and was now curled up on the shag sleeping like a baby in the Algarve. Black was cutting the air with the sounds of his knife sharpening. Everything was as it should be.

Except Busi was bored. The last few weeks had been sh*te since the boys had gone up in the vomit comet with Stephen Hawkings over in Florida. What with Stephen and poor old deluded Regis it had been like looking at floating vegetable soup but the "kids" had had fun and Kriss had been fascinated by the gush of hot knacker suds he'd ejected into the air when the flying air hostess had pierced his NASA dungarees and slipped her index up his april. Busi just wished she hadn't been wearing so many rings.

Since then Busi had opened eight JJB Sports and one Maplins after giving a motivational speech to some young offenders in Guantanamo Bay. "Don't let the f**kers get you down" was the core message as he pumped his fist and shouted some of John Fashanu's slogans. However Busi wanted to Git Mo.

Get more pussy. His sloppy black anaconda hadn't tasted clunge custard for 8 days and his balls were heavier than Murat's conscience. Only the night before he awoke in a sweat and was sure that his onyx plonker had been trying to strangle him. When he ficked on the light, the pussy pounder had been whistling nonchalantly at the end of his walnut effect kingsize. This was a worrying development.

This morning Regis had walked in with some tarty piece from the docks and offered her up to Busi as a sacrifice. She was rougher than a main road in Blackburn, Lancashire and when unwrapped and held up to the light had a fanny like Louis Armstrong's face after a punch up. Busi and Regis couldn't even get to semi status and Black had barged in and chucked her over the balcony. Into the pool. Or into the car park. They hadn't checked.

To cap it all Regis had become addicted to Facebook, stalking old primary school friends and his fellow inmates at the Norris McWhirter Celebrity Day Centre in Mitcham. He currently had no friends or pokes but had hit F5 84,970 times. One step (avoiding cracks in the pavement) at a time.

Busi slipped into his crisp tuxedo dungs letting the cool evening air from the Croisette slip bewtixt his ebony mainframe and the silk lining encircling his big twig and big berries like pikeys around something burning. They were all in Cannes for the premiere Akabusi's latest grasp, stab or snatch at celebrity - a caper movie called "Lotions 13". Featuring Busi, Black, Regis and a gang of other athletes turned motivational speakers it was "disgraceful romp" about a robbery on a JD Sports in Letchworth run by Shadow from Gladiators. It was unmitagated sh*te and a "disgraceful mess" but Harvey Goldenblum, Busi's agent and accountant, had promised huge tax dodges and that was enough for Kriss.

Busi and his entourage hit the narrow streets down to the waterfront with all the swagger and cocksurednessness of a pack of bulls heading to a china shop convention. Apparently the Palais cinema was booked for a film called "Ocean's 13" starring Brad Pitt and John Fashanu or Benrie Mac so the glistening premiere of Lotions was at a small sex kino in a back alley of a back alley called Sinstadts. If all the suds had been cleared from the floor and walls they might be in with a chance of not catching anything.

The two foot of red carpet, which Busi knew was just lino covered in blood, was packed with one photographer and that gobby c**tbag Carla Romana who looked like Fagin's skeleton wrapped in roast chicken skin. "Have you got a quote for GMTV, Mr Akabumbusiki?" shrieked Carla. "Yeah,Carlo" roared Busi with all the might of 299 Spartans and Rusty Lee on a stag weekend in Hades. "If I had one bullet and a gun, I would shoot June Sarpong MBE through the head...as long as you were right behind her". Within seconds Romana had disappeared and Roger Black had a smile wider than Jodie Marsh's arsehole.

The cinema was sticky. But full of German buyers who loved anything with a hint of scat or with athletes. Akabusi and the gang stepped onto the revolving stage that only minutes before had featured an act with a banana, a basketball and a litre of Durex Play. As Harvey, still attached by handcuff to Met Police officers, announced the film and the numerous tax packages included Busi noticed someone enter the cinema with sunglasses bigger than a huge mutant sunbathing fly.

Angelina Jolie had shot a small cameo for "Lotions 13" - she was in a scene with Jonathan Edwards and Iwan Thomas at a Brantano megastore in Hemel. Busi never shared the screen with her and it hurt his cock and balls like a rendition flight from Poland.

Angie joined Busi on the revolving and they air kissed with air kisses more loaded than Reed on Aspel. Busi could feel his plonker filling with more blood, cum and vinegar than a gay knife fight outside a chippie van. He was harder than a thaldomide playing baseball and he knew beneath her lush yellow dress from Mark One was a pair of bristols like two Moby's with half cooked quails eggs frying onto of them and a clunge hotter than the poop deck on the Cutty Sark.

"What about Bart, Ange?" cried Busi as he slipped out of his tux dungs and let the sausage breath of the assembled krauts swirl around his chassis like novelty towels on sunbeds. "Brad is dead to me, Krisstopher. Once you've had Ak you never look back" slurped Angelina with a drawl as sultry, hot and full of danger as a curry in Tarrant's local Indian.

She dropped her drawers and the sex Olympians stood opposite each other naked, Busi like a chocolate Palme D'Or and her like a naked movie star with a glistening axe wound wetter than Ellen McaArthur's blog. Kriss leapt on her like Sky News on anything with a glass eye and tore into her creamy whiteness like Womb Raider II.

Within hours Busi was on his Oscar winning violent vinegars and let fly with such a gush of ball cream the German buyers thought they were watching the parting of the Red Sea in negative. On the miniscule screen "Lotions 13" had only got to the scene where Tanni Grey Thompson was set alight and pushed into a Barratt's shoe shop in Penge. It had nothing to do with the plot but the crowd didn't mind. This film was going to be bigger than a gigantic Jesus. People were already murmuring about MTV Movie Awards.

Akabusi hopped off the revolving stage and slipped back into his sodden dungs, placing his battered dickie back into it's bag and called to his gang of 13 athletes. They were all going to see the new Wong Kar Wai film at the skin cinema next door.

Kriss looked down on the twisted pile of matted brunette hair, creamy white tits, problems with her father, brown orphans and a clunge like a burst beanbag, knelt on his powerful black knee, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

Akabusi was in the shower. Crying. And w*nking. In fact there was liquid coming from every orifice. He hadn't felt this bad since he'd watched an hour and a half of Britain's Got Talent. It was that bad. He had travelled to Los Angeles for the funeral of international businessman Vincent MacMahon who had tragically and spectacularly exploded on an episode of some wrestling show.

Busi had done a lot of work for the WWF back in the day - once arranging a fight in a skip near Luton between Hulk Hogan, Sir William Regal and an endangered panda. The panda had sh*t moves and had taken a severe beating from Regal leaving it with two black eyes. Busi had withdrawn his support of the wrestling/animal charity not long after.

The funeral had been a sombre affair. Live on cable. Many of the wrestling world's best wrestlers had carried MacMahon's walnut effect coffin and then chucked it into the grave. Mourners then ceremoniously smashed a metal chair or bin onto the coffin as Journey played soft rock classic Don't Stop Belie-

Whilst eating a Powerade vol au vent at the wake at a titty bar Busi's agent had called him with the news that "Lotions 13" had been creating quite a buzz. Mainly because it was a big steaming pile of sh*t but also due to the fantastic tax dodging opportunities it offered. The producers of Hulk II were interested in speaking to Kriss about greening up to play Dr Krisstopher Banner. If the money and tax breaks were right Busi was in but he wanted to play it black and not green so the production company told him to stick it up his arsehole and offered it to John Regis or failing that Jonathan Edwards.

Black and Regis were out in LA with Busi and the entourage had been tearing up LA like Portugese coppers in brush land. Regis' rampant OCD was exactly 873 times better and out here in LA LA land Regis was considered a balanced individual. But a black one. Black had been hooking up with his crew from the Rollin 60 Neighbourhood Crips, although out here they called them chips Busi had learned. Black had put more caps in arses than George Michael on tour and the heat had forced the Busi posse to take refuge in the Mondrian.

So here Busi was in the hot stream of a Hans Grohe struggling to get blood into his ebony pussy pestle as his massive hands moved quicker than an Albanian at a Presidential walkabout. To make matters much much worse, his onyx boa inflictor hadn't felt the sweet touch of a lady's tight white clunge piece since he'd surprise sexed the Virgin Atlantic stewardess as she given him Reiki over Newfoundland. Busi had it all. But he wanted more. More pussy.

To cheer himself up and get Regis out of the wardrobe, Roger Black had arranged for Busi to deliver one of his magnificent and hugely expensive motivational speeches at a local prison. A woman's prison. As Regis towelled down the sleek, jet black chassis of Mr Krisstopher Akabusi, the thought of pumping his fist and shouting slogans at a room full of caged heat was too much to take and he had hit John in his eye with his inflated helmet. Just like Barcelona in 92. Maybe he would get some LA gear after all, Busi mused as he slipped into his Armani dungerees he snagged from TK Maxx.

As Busi, Black and poor demented Regis pulled up to the Century Regional Detention Centre in Lynwood in there hired convertible Corsa they could all smell the accrid stench of unpounded pussy and the sweet aroma of women slipping more fingers and tongues than a professional stamp sticker. Busi wanted to high ten but choose a five to appear cool.

They checked in, received some prison issue mirrored shades and waited in the back stage area whilst Busi ran through an arm pump, an Awooga and a Awwwwwiggght in front of Black's sunglasses. Regis had totally covered himself in a map of the prison but he was too scared to get a Schofield so he had transfers. In the LA heat he now looked like a panther who had rolled in a Hello Kitty collection.

The crowd were baying for Busi and when he emerged in his ermine dungs wearing his Olympic medal the place erupted like Palestine. He hadn't seen this many women with tats, piercings and buzzcuts since he went to the Melanie C comeback concert. There were "women" here rougher than Barrymore's chair leg and just as dangerous. Regis was sweating so much he was now standing in a pool of ink and Black kept his hand firmly on his ivory handled Glock.

Many of the deep C divers were touching themselves and others whilst Busi spun out his usual brand of David Coleman anecdotes and lispy bullsh*t. By the end of the 5 minute speech the gang of tail didn't even clap, they squelched. And that was enough for Busi. He let slip his dungs and felt the fabric slide past his smooth toned thighs. He stood there for a moment looking like a beautiful chocolate elephant with it's back legs and torso chopped off. Then the riot started.

With two women dead and fourteen guards severely raped the posse took refuge with the prison padre Father Ignatious O'Reilly. "Mr Akabumbum. Despite your naked torso causing the biggest riot since that Ikea opened in Edmonton I would like you to visit one of our poor prisoners on Death Row. I think she would appreciate your kind words...and your giant cock".

Prisoner 9818783 or Paris Hilton as she was know around here, cowered in her cell as the riot took off. Busi stood at the bars his grumbling fire hose twitching like Lubbock after a belly flop. Busi knew that beneath that Gucci orange jump suit was a pair of tits so small that her cell walls were jealous and a clunge as well thumbed as the lingerie section of a Freemans. Her stylist and PR let Busi into the cell and Paris dried her eyes with a silk do-rag. Kriss knew that The Hilt had seen more mileage than the McCann European Tour but he still wanted in. Up to his ginormous nuts.

Paris knew the drill. She peeled off her Gitmos and exposed a tanned torso that had seen more action on the internet than Pete Townsend and Leslie Grantham put together. Apart from the golden mane that topped her pin like head there wasn't a hair on her body. Busi thought he was looking at a shaved kitten and in a way he was.

Blood filled his plonker quicker than Simon Weston turning on the cold tap. He leapt on her like Hamas on Gazza and thrust his penal colony right up to her stapled stomach. Busi thought he heard a "prison break" somewhere down below but he liked a bit of blood with his pudding. Hilton was open for business and all her rooms were kingsize.

Within hours Krisstopher was on his violent vinegars and let fly with such a stream of knacker lava that Paris's spray tan was stripped from her boney body and for a brief moment the prison riot was quelled - a little in awe and a little in disgust.

Busi rolled up his heiress aerator and watched as the last of his giant spunks flipped and flapped around on the cold stone floor of Lynwood. Regis and Black had gotten a call from Robbie Williams to play football against Rod Stewart up in the Hills. Busi knew that the buffet at these things was always quality so they had no time to lose. And the prison was on fire.

"Good luck Hilt. You f**king idiot. Do your time with some dignity and don't bend over in the showers. Or the internet. Peace out" roared Akabusi with all the might of Brian Blessed with his nuts caught in the Complete Works of Shakespeare.

Busi looked down on the twisted pile of matted blonde hair, hotel reservations, dying tadpoles, rice and tiny tits, bent down on his powerful Olympian knee, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

Akabusi was trapped. In the storeroom. Of a JJB just outside of Luton. And he had just farted. The fragrance of his arse bomb was stronger than a Glaswegian Ramp Assistant and the smell would have pulled the skin back on his plonker if he hadn't already pulled it back. To pass the time.

Harvey Goldenblum, Busi's agent and confidante, had always told him that he was a potential target for extremists. People were jealous of a man who unzipped his dungs and instantly broke paving stones. So when a copper had burst into the grand opening of this palace of tracksuit bottoms and Gola trainers and announced that a suspect package was outside, Busi hadn't been surprised. He had always known this day would come.

The last few weeks had been omnious. Regis had spent exactly 5678 minutes building Krisstopher a Busi size FleshLight out of a stainless steel bin and some stolen ballistics gel. Regis had modelled the clunge piece on Mick Jagger singing Gimme Shelter and the clit had been fashioned from a mould of Judi Oakes in competition mode. All in all it was a fucking mess but Busi didn't want to disappoint poor OCD riddled Regis so he got some blood into it and within in seconds he was sweating like a doorman at Tiger Tiger.

Of course the ballistics gel was shitter than a Concert for Diana and Busi was stuck solid. For three long and hard hours he looked like he was attacking Oscar the Grouch with a cock like five brown babies' arms wrapped together in angry veins. Eventually Roger Black had pulled out his ivory handled Yarborough and slashed through the gel quicker than Vanessa Fletz goes through men of colour.

Busi had been laid up for a week in his £127,874 one bedroom mansion as his ebony pussy pestle had recovered. In the meantime he had to lay off the clunge suds and his balls had gotten so huge that he was sure the Branson and Per Lindstrand would try to fly one of them across the Atlantic unsuccessfully. To pass the time and to keep the blood resolutely in his brain and not in his slumbering onyx sauce bottle he wrote 18 motivational books, recorded two videos on how not to piss or shit yourself in public and poked Tanni Grey Thompson on Facebook so hard he burst her tyres. And her bubble.

Whilst Kriss was out of action the gang resembled a fanny that had just been kicked. Busi had sent Regis to buy some tartan paint from Homebase and he hadn't come back. It had been three days. Black had been asked to head up the new Justice Ministry in ol' glass eyes new cabinet. Of course he was too busy to take the job - he had 18 Maplins stores and one Cotswold Outdoor to open. In a week. Roger had left only one directive - have Derek Redmond shot or stabbed. Or both. As long as he was harmed.

Black had eventually found Regis in Dunfermline mixing paints in a B&Q and for awhile the gang played Bean Flicker on Busi's Wii and sank Jagerbombs until the sun scraped over the horizon near Hemel. The doctor, who for some reason had a mask over his face and C4 strapped to his chest, had given him the all clear. The news sent a bullet train of blood into Busi's sleeping hymen humper and it twitched like a burning man. Krisstopher Akabusi was back.

As they had entered the JJB near Luton Akabusi's pussy levels were instantly raised to clitical and a jet black crack attack was imminent. The musty rarified air of the discount sports store crept into his silk dungs like Shrek into an apartment in La Luz and caressed his giant genitals with all the vigour of Argus speed reading the new Argos catalogue. As was the protocal at official openings Busi let slip his dungarees and proceeded to the cutting of the ribbon his meat Brabantia swinging like Benoit from a multigym. But the numptys who ran this new store had forgotten the Liz Duke scissors that only Busi could use. So Busi went backstage to find them.

And that is where he found himself now. Naked, hornier than Paul Gadd in a fringe production of Bugsy Malone and hotter than a couple of fellas pulling up to Glasgow Departures. Busi peeked out into the store. A robot that looked like a cross between Tanni Grey and Ultra Magnus was approaching his Corsa. On closer inspection it was actually Stephen Hawkings who the Bomb Disposal team used on occasion to diffuse bombs or open fetes. Or diffuse fetes.

Hawkwind was great at sums and theories but he was shit at opening things. So Regis washed his hands 26 times with carbolic and opened the boot. The suspect package was a mangled pile of steel and a congealed spunk. It was Regis' FleshLight. The police reopened the street and released the grip around some Asian's necks. Busi composed himself and strode out onto the shopfloor as proud and upstanding as Venus William's micro penis.

"The only controlled explosion in here will be in her face!" roared Busi with all the might and passion of Thor fucking Odin and not giving a reach around. "Her" was the smokin' hot chief of Luton Bomb Disposal who was trying on some steel cap Green Flash. Busi knew beneath the crisp white flak jacket were a pair of bristols like two Bruce Willis's fighting and tucked into those crisp black combats was a clunge that would detain you for up to 90 days without charge.

Busi instantly became thicker than a wrestler's neck and his giant ebony pears lifted into the attack position. His retractable cum roof revealed a jap's eye as large and steely as Gordon Brown's glass golf ball. Kriss stood there looking like an overweight chocolate Pinocchio lying his arse off.

The chief pulled at her heavy clothes and whipped off her kevlar G with aplomb. She was wetter than coke near Cork and her fanny glistened in the strip lighting of the JJB. She had a clit like Keith Allen's penis. Busi stalked her like a black cat playing with a mouse. With tits. He wanted to get in her box and cut the red wire. Or the brown one.

Krisstopher lept on her like the McCanns on a plane and before she could take a breath, Busi was up to his nuts in the law. His hands were all over her and she wasn't shy either. He felt a thumb slip up his bum disposal unit and he knew this was going to a heavy one.

Within hours he was on his violent extremist vinegars and let fly with such a gush of ball broil that several newsagents in South Yorkshire got the sandbags out again. The store was ruined but his empty knackers echoed their approval and as he pulled his dying mickey out and slipped on his dungs Busi knew that this JJB was well and truly opened.

The emergency was over. Busi had gotten his oats and the chief was busily scoffing up the remnants. Black honked her horn in the Corsa. Regis has pissed and shit himself. He'd not watched the video. And he was a borderline ****. But he was family. And he made Busi look good.

Kriss looked down on the pile of flapping spermazota, matted fuzz, mobile phone detonaters, hazard tape and a clunge that looked like a boxer's ear, bent down on his powerful black knee, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

Akabusi hated trains. They made his balls ache. And they were about the only land based thing he had ever seen that was as long, hard and powerful as his dribbling beef ionic. He looked out the steamed up window at the blurry countryside as the vibrations of the journey went right up his toned onyx legs up to the recently weaved bush covering his monstrous sud carriers.

Before long Busi's meat and two f**king huge veg looked like Kevin Keegan impaled by a giant bum cigar and for a brief moment he passed out as every drop of his Nigerian blue blood shuffled into his genitalia quicker than Gray Thompson on black ice. It would be a shame to waste this god given erection but there was a gang of snotty kids in the same carriage so he got poor OCD riddled John Regis to pinch the end.

Two hours later the beast had been tamed and Akabusi went back to his well thumbed copy of his biography "f**k Me, That Kid Can Run" by Michael Crick. Regis continued playing iShylock on his portable Wii and so far had collected £4763 in rent and just over a pound of flesh or 0.498 kilogrammes to be exact. Which Regis always was. It was just a shame that the carriage had so many germs. Or 8,763,229 to be exact. Regis would scrub his shovel like hands until they bled tonight.

Roger Black wasn't on the train. In fact Busi hadn't seen Blackie for a few days since he had gone up to Cheshire to collect some gambling debts from the Katonas. What a pair of tits! Her and her husband had been. You borrow from Busi you will get burned and Black gets the Vig by any means necessary.

Busi put down his biography after he had read about the infamous Cirque de Soleil incident from 98. Busi liked circuses or circi as much as the f**king next man but he hadn't paid 200 nicker to see some frog in a leo tarding around to pan pipe moods. A circus "should include cruelty to animals, French fellas farting onto talcum powder and clowns dressed as Chris Langham". Good times. Good times.

Krisstopher wiped down the window. They were here. Hogsmeade was a f**king dump. Full of ropey old brass flashing grannies that looked like Gordon Ramsey's chin and Albanians selling shrooms and day trips. Busi laughed as he recalled the time he made Regis drop acid. It had gone right through his Gola trainer and the little bleeder had screamed louder than Hagrid bumming Blessed.

Busi was in town to deliver a motivational speech to some poxy students in their final year of the school up on the hill. A technical college or something, Busi didn't give two magic sh*ts. He was getting ten K for this and all the pussy he could eat. It would have taken 28 JJB openings and 2 Maplin's closures to make that kind of cash and that made Busi harder than a 10 year old gyppo riding on the back of a waltzer.

As Busi and Regis waited for the carriages up to the college they saw a queue of weirdos waiting outside the Hogsmeade Bookshop for the next Rofl Lundgren Sex Story. f**king idiots. Busi knew what happened. It always ended the same way. Clunge carnage.

Turned out the school was a bit huge. And full of "special" children. Not window slurpers or self harmers but magicians and elf harmers. It was like a ****** soup with magic croutons. And owls. Apparently the big man on campus was called Billy Bunter or Barry Norman or something. But Busi was here now and he would give the little f**ker a run for his money. He was going to enjoy his time at Hogtarts.

As he walked onto the stage for his 89 second motivational he felt the cool air of "that what should not really be talked about much" - sex - slip into his Gryffindor dungs and circle his massive hymen hurta and hairy snitches like spirits around Derek Acorah. Mainly gin. He looked down on the 17 year olds and could sense that most of the birds and a few of the owls wanted a piece of the Busi sex pie. And it was just about legal.

There was a ginger tard winking at him up front. Kriss was glad the kid from Mask had lost weight. His mum Cher would be pleased. Next to him was berty big bollocks or Terry Grotbags. He really didn't care what the squeaky little f**ker was called. He just knew he had a much bigger penis and that is what mattered to men. And Busi. As was Busi's wont he let slip his dungs at the climax of the speech and let his slythering pranny pounder fall to the heavy stone floor like their old headmaster - Professor McClusky. He stood there like a chocolate centaur standing on his hind legs about to enter Desert Orchid. Dead or alive.

"Enormous erectionanus!" shouted a voice from the back of the hall. Busi's instantly became harder than blood diamonds and just as shiny. He filled the room with a gigantic meat chimney that Fred Dibnah would have had trouble blowing up. Especially as he was brown bread. A small figure stepped forward.

Hermoine Granger was definitely 18. Maybe even 17. But she was definitely 18. And she was smokin hot magma formed into the shape of a six former. Busi knew beneath that tight jumper was a pair of bristols like two O2 Arenas fighting and a clunge tighter than two jocks on an early morning Easyjet flight to Palma. Busi's offal wand quivered as he was drawn towards Granger, helmet first.

And boy did Busi have helmet thirst. His japs was gasping like Hiroshima residents for eye drops. "Clothus flingoffus" roared Busi as he landed near Hermoine. And they did. She stood there like a beautiful female greyhound with a tits like philosopher's stones and areolae as bumpy and as hot as a landing at Sao Paulo.

He dug in. And lept on her like chocolate leaping frogs. His hands were all over her like Cerberus on three scouse kids. She wasn't shy and Billy Rotter looked over at Krisstopher with a wink. She'd been around the school more times than nits. Within hours Busi was on his vigorous vinegars and he let fly with such a gush of nad sauce that Voldermort was knocked clean out and all the kids started laying into him. He was a f**king dead man.

Roger Black appeared out of nowhere in a flying Corsa. Turns out he was Sirrus's younger brother and sh*t. Regis piled in. Busi rolled up his seven volume saga and slipped on his sodden dungs. He always knew how this would end.

Krisstopher Malcolm Akabusi looked down on the twisted pile of giant spunk bubbles, long matted hair, smashed in back doors, Dark Arts and a clunge wetter than a plunge pool on the Titantic, knelt down onto his powerful black magic knee, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.