I have but scant moments to transcribe this latest missive, so forgive my scrawled handwriting. Using a crayon on a toilet roll doesn’t help, to be fair. I chose the pink crayon because it reminds me of you. Wink wink.
Anyway, all this talk of wax-based colouring implements is a ludicrous digression for one in such a perilous position as myself. It can only be beaten in the unnecessary information stakes by the previous statement explaining that it was a ridiculous waste of time. I think you can see where this paragraph is likely to lead if I’m not careful, so I will curb my enthusiasm for the minutiae of letter-writing digression etiquette.
I should probably get on with my tale.
This day began like any other in the treehouse. I awoke in my makeshift hammock (made from assorted supermarket-branded cereal packets), looking ragged and unkempt, yet still electrically sexy. It’s quite incredible how good I look given the circumstances. When I eventually come to, I usually just shake my head in the manner of a dog who’s just got out of a lake. This works wonders on my luscious locks and I look like I’ve just stepped out of a salon. Literally. Once my hair is pimped, I find myself psychologically ready for the perverted one’s pre-breakfast poem.
I have to listen to one of his odious odes every single morning and not one of them is any good. If I didn’t know better I’d almost think that he was making them rubbish on purpose. His grating Teutonic tones do not help matters much. The rhymes might seem a bit better if they were read out by Felicity Kendall or someone of that ilk. This morning the fiend appeared before me wearing naught but a child’s Darth Vader mask and a terry towelling bath robe. The mask was so small that it barely concealed his face. As always, however, he wore face paint under his plastic mask. Today’s design was that of a baby panda. It occurred to me that the design of a sick puppy would have been more appropriate. If the mask did a poor job of covering his face, then the bath robe was even less successful at concealing his modesty. Let’s just say that the fruits on the barbarian’s plum tree are dangerously overripe and would need thoroughly disinfecting before you even considered eating them.
I thought that I would get some respite when he started to read the verse, as he insists that I close my eyes while he performs them. He says that it will focus my mind on his words and help me to paint a picture in my mind. Sadly his wrinkly testes are burned into my retinas for all eternity and my imagination is not strong enough to overcome the noxious image. For this reason, I actually paid attention to the poem. In the words of Run DMC, it goes a little something like this:
Ooh la la
Da Kitty ist here
There’s a party tonight
Do you like beer?
You look so handsome
I want you to dance
I’d feel your muscles
Given half the chance
My friends they are coming
The treehouse floor will bend
Oh my sweet Clarence
Will you come to a sticky end?
Oh, how they’ll want you
With jealousy they’ll rage
But Kitty keep you safe
Locked up in your cage
Oh, sweet Eileen. The words of the rhyme rang shrilly in my beautiful barnet. The message contained within seemed clear. He was either going to kill me or bum me into next week. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, my sweet potato. You think that I’m reading too much into it because you always see the best in people. Come on, Eileen! Wake up. This kitty character is a molester of the highest order and I didn’t intend to stick around long enough for his plans to ‘come’ to fruition.
As usual, the rapscallion departed straight after the recital. It’s almost as if he goes off to do a day job away from his demented crimes. It’s quite laughable though, who would employ such a troll? His exit from the treehouse is the cue for sweet, demented Theresa to bring me my breakfast. The wench has been going to night school for the past few weeks to study ‘gordon blue’ cuisine. I had assumed that her primitive brain had simply misunderstood the phrase ‘cordon bleu’, however, after trying some of her meals, I assume she is just having lessons from some guy called Gordon Blue. He can only work in a greasy spoon at best, and it seems unlikely that he has any Michelin stars at all. Today’s concoction consisted of: a can of shandy bass, a plate sized Yorkshire pudding filled with minced beef crispy pancakes and croquette potatoes and half an Arctic roll (melted). To be fair, I wolfed it down like a wolf.
I had hoped that as she collected my plate that I would be able to probe her. For information! I wouldn’t touch her with yours, if you had one, which you obviously don’t. Luckily, I did not need to turn on the charm (although the tap of charisma only has to be tweaked to get Theresa gushing for Clarence), and she filled me in on the forthcoming evening’s events. Apparently tonight is Halloween. I had completely lost track of time in my isolation and was crushed to realise that I had missed the opportunity to flog loads of pumpkins. I hope that the shop is being run properly in my absence. I can only imagine that the proportion of customers that are horny housewives has radically declined since my incarceration. Anyway, that was another flamboyant digression and we all know how I feel about those.
Theresa continued. It seems that every All Hallow’s Eve, the notorious DNK hosts his annual ‘spooky disco’ for his whole network of local sex offenders. As if this wasn’t horrifying enough, Theresa informed me that I would be the star attraction at the shindig. Now, I can totally understand why that would be, I’m gorgeous, but I really don’t like to be treated like a piece of meat. Especially not by someone who wants to molest\murder me. The news galvanised my resolve to escape from the treehouse on this very day.
The rest of the morning was taken up with me scheming and getting exactly nowhere. The fortifications in the treehouse are staggeringly thorough. The main problem is all the barbed-wire, which is easy enough to clamber over, but it might result in some minor cuts and grazes to my ruggedly handsome face. There are some things that I am not prepared to sacrifice in order to secure my freedom.
In the afternoon, Theresa returned to the Kitty’s den in order to prepare me for the evening’s ‘entertainment’. She told me that I would be expected to dance for all their guests within a giant gilded cage. I’ve got great natural rhythm and so my mind instantly began to think of which of my favourite moves I could bust. I just couldn’t help myself. It’s a burden being so erotically charged. Theresa informed me that I would be expected to wear a special outfit in the cage. I hoped that it would be something like a pair of leopard-skin speedos. Something that I could really show my abs off in. Alas, my sexy attire was never destined to be something as clichéd as animal-print swimming trunks.
The wench, dressed a in cheap, PVC maid’s outfit that made me gag, started to prepare me. She stripped me naked, but never fear, my dear, it was the least sexual experience of my life. Theresa seemed to be enjoying it, though, and she was breathing all weird. You can’t really blame her, can you? I am a magnificent animal. She first washed me all over using anti-bacterial handwash. It was the cleanest that I’d felt for weeks, but it did mean I smelled of vodka. After the cleansing, I was anointed by a good quality, extra-virgin olive oil. At least that’s what she said it was. I suspect that it was probably chip fat.
After this, she began to dress me. I can barely describe the outfit that I was subjected to, but I’d better try or it won’t be much of a letter. To be fair, the outfit is quite easy to describe, I just don’t really want to. I was forced to wear an elephant thong underneath my ensemble. You know, those ones where you have to put your John Thomas in the trunk. This is the only part of the outfit that I would wear under other circumstances. Over this I was given a skin tight orange romper suit, with buttock peep holes. Where you would get such a garment from I cannot imagine. Theresa probably made it. Attached to the romper suit, in the region of my belly button, the was a sheriff’s badge from a child’s cowboy set. On my left foot was a pink wellington boot, on my right was a patent leather stiletto. My face was covered by an old pair of Theresa’s tights. I won’t comment on the stench. On the top of my head was the original woolly hat as worn by Benny out of Crossroads. I looked utterly ridiculous, and yet still somehow managed to pull the look off.
After Theresa had finished pampering me (I mean after she dressed me, I wasn’t wearing a nappy), she stood and looked at me with a certain look in her eyes. She’s quite gozzy so I’m not entirely sure, but I took it to be the look of love. My chance had arrived. I am ashamed to say it, my love, but I wooed like I had never wooed before. I don’t want you to worry your pretty little head too much though, it was purely a faux-woo. I took Theresa under my metaphorical wing and flapped for all I was worth. I complimented her wantonly on her many folds of flab, telling her that I was enamoured with the ‘curvy’ lady. I said the the smell of peanuts in her hair was driving me wild with desire. I told her that my heart belonged only to her. How I wish I hadn’t said those words, but, to be fair, they certainly paid dividends.
Before I knew it, Theresa was gushing hot, salty (and surprisingly rusty) tears down my romper suit. In her muddled English she let me know that she loved me and wished for me to make ‘scooby doo’ inside her. I didn’t enquire exactly what that meant. I dread to think. I leapt at my chance for freedom. I told the demented harridan that the only way that we could truly love one another was if I was set free and we could run away together. She seemed to believe it; what a sucker. I’m being a little harsh, I suppose. People tend to believe anything that they are told by devastatingly attractive people. I know that I believe everything that I tell myself. It sometimes gets me into trouble.
I had by this time formulated a plan to escape and I informed Theresa of the part that she would play in it. I couldn’t be sure that she would follow through, both out of loyalty to the Kitty and because she seems really, really thick. My fingers were crossed. But that was only because of the weird gloves that I had been forced to wear. I forgot to mention those earlier, sorry about that.
I sat anxiously in my cage and waited for the party to start. It was only when I heard the strains of Agadoo wafting up from the Kitty’s ghetto blaster did I know that things were on the move. It was still early, so DNK was fussing around with his tuxedo and straightening his Dooby Duck mask. Theresa was attending to the buffet. She’d obviously gone to a lot of effort but it looked like roadkill. Actually, it might just have been roadkill. Eventually, his guests started to arrive. I had expected the treehouse to be packed to the rafters, but only 3 guests arrived. I suppose that his social group is rather…niche. My cage was lowered so that I could be introduced to the visitors. They all looked as big a dick as the Kitty himself. They were:
That Creepy Mouse – he seemed to be an acolyte of DNK and clearly modelled himself on his idol. He wore a homemade mouse mask, that he’d drawn on the back of a washing powder box. His accent was trying to be German but sounded more Welsh.
Super Pervy Lemon – a true one off, dressed entirely in yellow and communicated entirely in morse code. He said that he’d like to be rubbed on my ‘pancake’.
Dave – he was wearing a simple black mask, with jeans and t-shirt. Apparently he hadn’t ‘graduated’ and so had not yet earned a sex-crime-name. He had a worryingly hopeful glint in his eye.
Let’s just say that I didn’t really warm to any of them. After I had been paraded, the curtain was shut around me and the cage was hoisted. Part of me longed to perform as I know how much they would love seeing my body in action. Alas, I had other things on my mind.
Theresa was sent up the ladder to my cage to give me my final preparations before performance. The four perverts stared avidly at the cage and barely noticed as she descended from the cage and left the treehouse. Perhaps they should have paid closer attention because it was not Theresa at all. Can you guess, my love? Can you guess who it really was that left the treehouse? Well, yes, it was obviously me.
In a ruse worthy of a really bad film, Theresa and I swapped clothes and I made my escape like a croissant into the night. I just hoped that Theresa could fool them long enough for me to get away. In some ways, I prayed that they would realise straight away because it’s completely humiliating to be confused with that sad, old bag. Obviously, the plan did work because I’m able to write you this letter.
I’m currently sat in a hedge, and that is all I know. I ran for two hours solid before I dared rest and this hedge looked mighty welcoming for a rest. There’s a friendly hedgehog in here with me, and I hope that if I smile nicely, he will make me a cup of tea. I’m on my way back to you, my darling. Never give up.