Kindle Edition
Mark C Sutton Author
Category:
Humor
Publisher: Mark C Sutton
Type: Fiction
Pages: 304
Copyright: apr 18 2014
Price: $1.99 (eBook)
Britain's strangest pervert and stalker is back, weirder, filthier, and sexier than ever before!
'Jeremy and the Winter of the World-Wide Stalker' sees the return of Jeremy Felliwell, who, once again, has recently been released from a mysterious 'establishment' following his suicide (and inexplicable resurrection) six years earlier.
Jeremy is now living a relatively happy existence in a new council flat, together with his masked, satanic cousin, Vanessa, and occupying himself by spying on his sexy new neighbour, annoying and humiliating his long-suffering care worker on their fortnightly shopping trips, and building an updated, mysterious 'device'. Jeremy's future is threatened, however, with the arrival on the world stage of the immensely popular 'super stalker' known only as 'IOU'. Will Jeremy be able to rise to the challenge that this new, globally successful pervert, poses, especially when armed only with an Uzi 9mm sub-machine gun and an increasingly unreliable magic wand? What is his cousin Vanessa's dark secret? How will Jeremy deal with having to pay the much derided 'bedroom tax' on his under-occupied council flat? Did Jeremy really murder his much-loathed Auntie Doris back in 2008? What is 'The Device - Version Two'? And where is 'The Oracle', Jeremy's wizened tutor in perversion, who has vanished, together with his equally perverted partner, Sarah (Jeremy's former community psychiatric nurse)? All of these questions are finally answered in the second installment of the humorous and slightly sickening saga of Jeremy Felliwell, the finest stalker that Britain has ever known.
Excerpt
Thursday 11th December
I decided to visit the Day Centre today, as I haven’t been down there in over a month. I ended up getting thrown out, for good, because I got caught doing something that I probably shouldn’t have been doing.
As soon as I got there, the owner, an idiot called Trevor, who I have never seen eye to eye with, and who always wears stupid football tops, blocked my entrance with his arm, and wouldn’t let me in through the front door.
“Did you steal a laptop from here?” He asked, aggressively.
“No, I did not.” I replied, telling a bare-faced lie. I nicked it the last time I visited the Day Centre.
“Well, I think that you did.” Stated Trevor. He smelled of garlic.
“Evidence?” I replied.
“Well, it went missing on the day that you last visited, and you’re well known for your thieving.” He said, looking angrily at me.
“Evidence?” I repeated, like a stuck record.
“I haven’t got any. Yet.” He admitted.
“Then you can’t stop me from coming in.” I replied.
“Oh yes I can.” Argued Trevor. His face was going red, and he was sweating slightly.
“Not without hard evidence you can’t.” I advised him. “In this country, a man is presumed innocent until found guilty.”
“Well, I think you stole that laptop.” Trevor repeated his cruel accusation.
“And I say, when I have been found guilty of this crime in a court of law, then, and only then, will you be entitled to prevent me from entering this Day Centre.” I stated. I know my rights.
I went to walk past Trevor, but he still wasn’t budging.
“I don’t care what you say, Jeremy, you’re not coming in.” He insisted.
“But I haven’t flippin’ done anything.” I protested.
“Well, I think that you stole that laptop from the IT room.” He said. We were going around in circles. It was time for a change of tact.
“Let me in, now, or I’ll go to the newspapers.” I threatened.
“Yeah, right.” Laughed Trevor, flippantly.
“Yes. Right. I think that you’ve forgotten about the recent success of my sister, Anne, in the writing world. She’s made a lot of contacts, and that includes journalists. Local journalists. They’re always looking for juicy stories, even if untrue, about the abuse of patients in facilities such as the one that you run.” I informed Trevor, whose resolve to not let me into the Day Centre suddenly wilted. He slowly put his arm down, indicating safe passage for me into the building.
“You haven’t heard the last of this.” He whispered, as I flounced past him. I didn’t give him the dignity of a response.
Once inside the Day Centre, I headed straight for the IT room; I was in desperate need of a new memory stick for my photograph collection, because the one back at the flat was full. There were a couple of people in the room; two elderly ‘clients’ called Elsa and Bartie, but they were both too busy arguing over an excel spreadsheet to notice me pocketing a nice, shiny new thirty two gigabyte memory stick that I pulled from out of one of the desktop computers. After I had stolen the memory stick, I left the IT room and wandered down to the music studio. Music is the one, true love of my life, especially that of a classical variety. Unfortunately, I lost all of my musical instruments after I burned down the old flat in my succesful, yet failed, suicide bid back in 2008.
When I walked into the music studio, old Molly Barntree, who must be in her eighties, looked up at me with delight. She was sitting at the drumkit, hitting a hanging tom with a stick, with absolutely no timing whatsoever. But then, as I say, she is in her eighties.
“Jeremy,” she beamed, “I haven’t seen you in ages!”
“Hello, Molly.” I replied, and I walked over to her. I kissed Molly full on her wrinkled old lips, and forced my tongue into her mouth, just for a few seconds. She tasted of salt and vinegar crisps, stale tobacco, and whisky.
“Ooh, you are a saucy devil!” She said to me as I pulled away from her, and she slapped me playfully on my arse. I started getting an erection, and thought it best to move over to the grand piano.
“So, what are you trying to play, Molly?” I asked her.
“That song by, ooh, what were they called... The hee gees.” She replied.
“Oh, you mean the Bee Gees... Well, they did lots of songs, Molly. Do you remember what it was called?” I quizzed her. Molly gave me a long, vacant look, and then something clicked inside her decrepit old brain.
“I think it was called ‘Being Alive’.” She replied.
“Ah, you mean ‘Stayin Alive’?” I stated. Molly nodded at me. “Well Molly, I think I can play that one. You just try and keep in time on the drums. Are you ready? I’ll count in from three... three... two... one.” And I began playing the tune of ‘Staying Alive’ for her, generally getting it right, but occasionally hitting the wrong note every now and again.
Molly tried her best to keep in time with me as she banged on the drums, but she didn’t know her hi-hat from her snare, and just made an awful flippin’ racket. She kept dropping the drumsticks too, which obviously didn’t help. After a few minutes of jamming with her, if you can call it that, I decided that I was bored. I went over and gave Molly another french kiss, got another slight erection, and then I left the music studio. I wandered down the passageway, and wasn’t sure whether to go into the art room, or pay a visit to the ‘media hub’. In the end, I opted for the latter; ‘media hub’ just being gobbledeegook and ‘newspeak’ for ‘TV room’. As I went in, I noticed Trevor, far off down the corridor, staring at me angrily, his face incredibly red.
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