The inevitable passing of the years, coupled with a degree of proud Champagne-socialist neglect, had dirtied the plaster and eroded the mortar, giving the brick walls a delicate, spikey look. The gardens were riotous and thick with weeds though still bearing, even after so many centuries, the rigid lines, concealed gazebos, elaborate walls, facades, ha-has and faded glory of expensive, structured landscaping.
In short, the residence was certainly quaint and, some would say, actually beautiful in a bright, care-free way; its quiet aesthetic and romantic remoteness might lead many a reclusive millionaire to desire it. But the villagers would still never approach "the castle", for fear of the hideous being that lived within the crenellated walls...
They called the creature "The Milipede", in hushed tones, though few could now remember the reason for this curious monicker; it had none of the anonymous terror associated with a name such as "The Thing", nor the appeasing quality that led the ancients to refer to the Erinyes as "the Kindly Ones". All that was known was that the occupant was unbearably hideous, that it was simply known as The Milipede—a word used to send a thrilling chill down the spines of the children and adult alike—and that was that.
But tonight all of that would change...
Had one dared to hide away in the great hallway of the castle one might have crouched closer to the wall, pulling the great brocade curtain tighter around oneself, as from far away—but drawing steadily ever closer—came the sounds of a shuffling gait and a barely audible muttering. And as the ears adjusted and the source of the sounds approached, one would be able to make out the words, "they calls me hideous, yeeeees they do; but not after tonight, David. Oh no, after tonight, David shall be known as The Adonis, The Sexinessssssssss, oh yeeees."
And, were you hidden behind said curtain, one might have cautiously drawn it aside—just the merest bit—and stuck one's fist in one's mouth to stifle the involuntary scream engendered by the hideousness of the beast—David?—approaching. For what one might have seen through the curtain was The Milipede itself...
It seemed to resemble a man but the body was thin and horribly twisted—the long, disfigured limbs, all of which were used for locomotion, moved at strange angles giving the creature a definite arachnoid appearance. The beast had, it seemed, attempted to ape the styles of men for it wore a dark suit, white shirt and red tie on its misshapen frame and the incongruousness of its dress might have led one to giggle at the ludicrousness of the animal. Until one saw the face.
There was something so ordinary about that face and yet it was quite terrifying; the features lent the superficial normality a preternaturally terrifying aspect, subverting the humanity into something quite, quite appalling and other-wordly. The eyes were empty and yet large, magnified behind thick glasses; the nose looked pinched and uneven at the edges, as though the nostrils had been nibbled by rats. But it was the wide mouth that was truly unpleasant: it writhed across the near-human face as though it were independently alive—as though it were some hideous parasite, symbiotically bound to the face upon which it crawled and from which it uttered those strangely coherent ramblings.
Had you been concealed behind that curtain, you would have crouched in fear and trepidation as the nightmare shuffled past, pushed open a door and started the painful descent into the cellars that ran like catacombs below the house.
It seems like a cliché to describe the laboratory in the cellars beneath the house; if you have seen any horror movies, you will be able to envision the bunsen burners, the collected, connecting glassworks, condensers and wires. You will already be able to see the blue sparks jumping from the incessantly turning Van de Graaf generators and various connecting pieces of polished metal. And, of course, it would be superfluous to describe the bubbling coloured liquids boiling in the test-tubes and flasks, and the strange glowing progress of the said solutions through the hamster-run of pyrex tubes that ranged around and about the dimply-lit room.
Nevertheless, it was into such a room that the creature descended and you might—had you been fast and quiet and lucky—be concealed behind some particularly large piece of apparatus hidden in the densest of shadows. Wonderingly, you might have looked around and wondered what all of this was for and you might have an inkling that, tonight of all nights, you were about to find out.
The event itself you might have thought something of an anti-climax. The creature shuffles eagerly to one bench and, taking a Green low-energy bulb from an inner pocket, screws it into the lamp on said table. The bulb's pathetic light barely alleviates the gloom, but you would have heard The Milipede cackle in satisfaction. The monster then progresses to a small remote control and, pointing it at a machine, presses a button. Nothing happens.
"Fuck," screams the creature. "No stand-by." It hobbles across to the machine and pushes the power button and the contraption springs into life. Lights blink on and banks of controls flicker into life. Through the window of an upright coffin-like contraption, you can see a pale blue light hum on.
"At last," The Milipede breaths, "The economic storm is here! Now is my time."
Shuffling over to the coffin, The Milipede enters and the door slowly closes behind him and, with a hiss, seals itself. Had you been there, you would have felt a steady pressure building in your head and an almost unnoticed tone strumming in your ears and then...
A FLASH of almost blinding light!
And then you might have seen the coffin door click, jerk and then swing slowly open and then something emerge. And you would have gasped in wonder...
Not since the first butterfly emerged from that first cocoon has there been such an incomprehensible transformation, for gone is the hideous creature that entered the coffin and in its place stands the most beautiful man that you have ever seen.
Gone is the bowl-like haircut, the thick glasses are no more; the nose is straight and the mouth retains only the smallest vestiges of the evil that once lived in it. Before you stands a veritable god, an Adonis.
Were you Trixy or Polly, you might feel the dampness between your legs as your pussy juices start to flow uncontrollably. You might slip a finger or two past the waistband of your pants, stroking your clit in a desperate attempt to relieve the uncontrollable sexual desire that you now feel and, finding that it is not enough, suddenly and desperately cram more fingers deep into your gushing hole to simulate the cock that you so desire filling your emptiness.
You would see the tall figure straighten itself yet more, stretch its arms out, and then the piercing eyes would glance in your direction, looking straight at you. Your inbuilt fear fights with your sexual need and you find yourself paralysed by indecision.
But then the man breaks the tension: "You can come out now, my dear; only I can give you what you need." You break from your hiding place and run across the laboratory to this god. His strong, straight arms enfold you and suddenly you are kissing and kissing hard, lost in the ecstasy as you feel his fingers slipping down to where yours once were. You moan and break the kiss, hoisting yourself onto the bench behind you, opening your legs to allow The Milipede entry; he unzips his trousers and you gasp in ecstasy as he thrusts hard into you...
Even as he is satisfying you, The Milipede's mouth writhes across his face in something resembling a smile as you realise that he possesses you, heart and soul...
Of course, were you Polly you might, alternatively, just write ridiculous encomiums such as this.
Suddenly everything changed. The burst of optimism was so startling it dazzled those too long trapped deep in a dungeon. In that one moment it was all over for the old leader who had plunged them into these depths. Suddenly here was the chance of escape everyone was waiting for.
David Miliband stepped up as the man with a plan to take the fight to the Tories, the man to free the party from the bondage of disastrous leadership. With the deftest of brush strokes in his Guardian article, he painted the policies of optimism. Any gleam of hope looks like a blinding revelation to a party stuck at a terrifying 25% in the polls. But here was a sketched outline of radical policies. Judging from an avalanche of emails pouring in, out there Labour people are ready to return if the party offers something better.
He set a small stone rolling down the hill, its effect unpredictable: already it has become a boulder. His press conference and performance on the Jeremy Vine Show gave his party the chance to look at him in a new light. His breezy ease was at odds with previous awkward appearances - notably a bad speech at the last Labour conference. He dismissed suspicion that this silver-spoon-fed political princeling hadn't the guts to reach for the sword in the stone, nor the muscle, the will or the street-fighting canniness for power.
But though she might substitute the pen for the overt physical invitation, make no mistake: this is Polly opening her legs for Batshit Miliband. She has changed the locks to her house—the big Norse Warrior stands alone and frustrated on her doorstep, desperately attempting to get the lock to turn—and David has found a letter containing only a bright, newly-cut key, an address and enthusiastic promises of "a good time, big boy!"
And Trixy is, frankly, even less subtle...