It doesn't matter much but that Manchester night was lit by the glow of the moon. An ordinary man called Peter and a regular woman named Sally calmly walked through a bleak street to where they had their car parked without noticing the two muggers who had been quietly tailing them for some minutes. Resonant footsteps and the couple's heated discussion about a play they had watched at a near venue skewed the silence as they advanced across a deserted route.
"Sorry, babe, I've had the most boring night I can remember in ages," said Peter casually. "I wouldn't have been able to bear it one more bloody second."
"You're kidding, aren't you?" answered Sally slightly annoyed. "Come on, get stuffed! I think you're pulling my leg, honestly. Tell me you haven't enjoyed the brilliant third act," checked glancing at his lover's nonexistent facial reaction and proceeded. "Well, I savoured every single detail, FYI."
"You really enjoyed that...? Ok, fair enough! There's no accounting for taste, they say."
After a few blocks, the merry pair arrived at a rather small improvised parking lot on an undeveloped site and promptly covered the short distance remaining to reach their transportation. Standing by the vehicle, yet with closed doors, they continued dialoguing.
"Best writer of his generation, you're saying?" inquired Peter with a hint of mockery, "No fucking way! Most overrated, I'd say."
"Man, you're impossible... Grant me, at least, he's popular and connects with a wide audience," the girl brought forward in defense of the author of the discussed show. "You, absolutely, can't deny that!"
The boy interrupted himself as he detected the invasive presence of those hunting louts who already had cornered them. It seemed that some sort of confrontation would be unavoidable; so he swiftly evaluated his chances considering appearances and guessed odds were not propitious for getting away triumphant. To begin with, he was outnumbered and surpassed in size and muscle. Then, he carried no weapons or self-defense gadgets. Last, he lacked confidence and courage. Therefore, hope for good intentions was the only thing left to deal with such situation.
"Wonderful! This is really all we need to make the day complete!" Peter muttered in an inaudible voice recognizing the ambush.
"Alright, mate?" the criminal spoke waving his tattooed arm at the same time. Pussyblaster, his nickname, was artistically written in it.
Though a greeting from Pussyblaster sounded tough, hostile enough, the first aggression came from his associate, Thomas, who wore a crude imitation of a vintage football club's shirt where the sponsor's name had been mutated into Thomas' Cock. He placed himself on the sly behind Sally, grasped her using a pseudo judo immobilizer technique, and squeezed her neck with the shining blade of a menacing flick knife.
"Iiiiih!" the woman screamed trying vainly to escape as the metal caressed her skin.
"Don't be too brave, you, little fellow," Thomas Cock warned Peter over the cry of his hostage lady.
"Take your hands off her!" he claimed anyway, as expected of a gentleman. Nevertheless, he remained static, convinced that further replication would jeopardise Sally's safety but realising indeed there was no sustention to his boldness.
"Master, you better... Shut the fuck up!" intervened Pussyblaster with a furious posture making his hand into a strained fist and exhibiting it. "And you, honey, just behave! Got it?... Uh?"
"Peter..." she sobbed terrified.
The attackers controlled the scene, having suppressed any trace of resistance, and were in no hurry because they knew the area wasn't haunted by common people or police. The fun commenced then for them. Their acquiescent preys, meanwhile, desired a quick resolution of the affair in order to get rid of such an unpleasant experience and preferred to precipitate events, to the extent of testing the threat.
"Fair enough, fair enough! It's money what you want, right? I think I've got twenty quid, maybe more. D'you want my wallet? Listen, guys, don't hurt her! OK? I'm giving you everything!" Peter stated with determination throwing off his money on the bodywork of his automobile.
"Don't worry, Willy Wanker, we're gonna knock the 'ell out of you too," Thomas replied sneeringly.
"Shit!" Peter exclaimed in a whisper on the brink of desperation. "Why us, why?"
"Stop messing around, retard!" Pussyblaster commanded his comrade. "Your job is taking care of the little slapper! Understood?" reminded while picking up Sally's purse from the ground and leaving it on the car's hood together with Peter's notecase. "Let's take a look at that fine wristwatch you have on there, sir..." he required next addressing the victim.
The timepiece was around two thousand pounds and still its owner gave it away unhesitantly as he was paying more attention to the tussle taking place between his fiancée and the hooligan. It wasn't only the dagger being pressed a little harder and harder into her neck what distracted, disturbed and disgusted him so much, but also the panorama of the ruffian relishing the game, sniffing his catch's hair, glaring at her lush cleavage, rubbing any possible inch of his anatomy against hers. Unfortunately, no good evading or rescuing ideas were popping. Luckily, powerless fury can't kill a man unless himself.
"You know, I don't think this makes me too happy," Pussyblaster manifested dawdlingly whilst keeping the two-grand object inside a pouch in his track-suit.
Negotiation regained focus.
"My earring," the assaulted suggested. "It's solid gold."
"Yeah, sure," the yob assented apathetic. "Pass it 'ere!"
Peter divested himself of the jewel in his ear nervously just as hearing the postscript "And the keys, dipshit! The fuckin' motor's keys!"
At that instant he interpreted they were playing the "All-You-Can-Take-From-This-Suckers" game of which the only uncertainty was the extent of the spoliation. The abused pessimistically anticipated his credit card would be targeted, squeezed with a withdrawal to the limit, if the offenders demanded visiting the closest ATM. Then, depending on their malicious ambition, the bandits might force an expedition to his abode to plunder at their wish. Nonetheless, he refused to think those men would go that far for such a small loot, working class stuff.
"All right, fine! Here you are, ok?" Peter cooperated handing over the keys and the other shiny item with readiness.
"That's the way, lad," Pussyblaster praised.
Next, the remote beeped, the right hand door of the car was opened and, when the scoundrel got in and started rummaging for valuables, the couple felt the twinge of the intrusion in their souls.
"Peter...!" Sally whined.
"Take it easy, love," advised her capturer openly amusing himself with her bosom. "Be a good girl, and shut your cake hole!"
"Come on, mister, can we go now?... uh?" Peter appealed to the one in the vehicle but keeping a fleeting eye on the other.
There was no return, though. Pussyblaster accommodated in front of the steering wheel and turned on the car instead. In a few seconds after the engine, the sound equipment switched on too and "Don't Look Back In Anger" by a band from that city resumed playing from the chorus lines. With no doubt, those notes and lyrics would trigger an obnoxious memory in the head of the pair for the rest of their lives. In contrast, Thomas seemed alienated enough by the view of the female's aroused nipples through her light clothes to be heeding any music. Besides, a certain physiological manifestation made evident his lecherous state.
"Peter... Peter...," she implored in a whisper. But a gesture of absolute defenselessness was the only answer she received.
"That's rubbish, man," the driving candidate declared at the same time that he began tinkering with the music player. In a sudden, drastic manner, the volume decreased; then, boosted by degrees; and, finally, the song was skipped. Posteriorly, a few song's intros were aborted as well until the electric twangs of "Love Spreads", also by a local band, satisfied his taste and he stopped messing around with the digital jukebox to start drumming gracelessly with his forefingers in the air. "You know," said with a nostalgic demeanor in his countenance, "It'd be really, really, really cool that you had somewhere... let's say, a wrap or, at least, a stone, a spliff, a joint..."
"Sorry, we don't do stuff," the alluded apologized. "We're clean!"
The thug, unbelieving, chuckled at that sentence.
"Seriously, mate, we've got nothing more to offer," Peter yelled over the tune, extending his arms forward and displaying his palms in a typical disheartened stance.
"Fuckin' 'ell, we don't give a turd about you offering shit, dickhead!" Thomas spat firmly. "I'm gonna take, you know... 'cause I'm fuckin' turned on! Mate, I'm gonna fuck' her right now!" the horny male announced in an upset tone.
So the outlook of the issue dirtied in a split second with the prospect of such an offense. Moreover, fleeing by himself, abandoning Sally to her fate, ceased being a tolerable option.
"Ei, that's pretty uncool, mongol!" Peter growled, out of a reflex, reckless act.
Instantly, however, observing half of the duo's immediate absence, he sensed that the opportunity was almost optimal for an eluding maneuver. Hence, he concentrated all built wrath into impact energy in his knuckles and lunged at the felon aiming specifically for the nose, like he had seen in the movies.
His movement was precise though barren since Thomas effortlessly dodged that pitch interposing the girls' jaw in the way of the boy's fist. Bruised, vanquished by a bad twinge never suffered before, Sally started crying covering her face with trembling hands; while, performing a not quite technically well executed though devastating taekwondo kick, the one still holding her knocked down his opponent unleashing instinctive combat violence.
"Wow, what was that?" the robber wondered invigorated on adrenaline as seeing his panting, feeble sparring lying on the ground. "Hah, hah, hah!" cackled.
"You've got the money, the jewels and the car... Now, let us go!" Peter besought disabused in the light of the outcome of his attempt, sore and fearing a damaged rib.
"Both of you, shut up!" Thomas commanded unconcerned. "You're giving me headache!"
At that point, Pussyblaster got off the car, walked serenely to join a terrified Peter and, squatting by him, explained placidly "Look, pal, my friend is just horny. And I know he's an ugly, thick, filthy, bloody pig," portrayed laughing. "But d'you think I know the way to stop him if he goes nuts," inquired rhetorically whilst he taking an automatic gun out of his sweat suit's pocket. "D'you really think you'd be able to do anything to save her when you can't even throw a blow, mate!"
"Yeah! That was funny, trying to punch me. Now, I say, it's gonna be a self-defense rape," Thomas asserted while he kept clumsily fondling Sally's breast as his knife pricked her neck making a thin blood line in that delicate epidermis.
"Damn, that's too far... I'll do whatever you want, man, I'll give you anything. But leave her out of this, please," begged visibly stupefied by the sight of the pistol. "Would you stop him, please," added impotently soliciting the gunman by his side.
"Who, me?" Pussyblaster jested. "Look't that!"
His partner was trying to take Sally's blouse off by one hand means, somehow, creating a ridiculous scenario and inducing enough amusement for a remorseless guy's laugh. Ticks passed that manner until the brain of the pair made a decision and spoke, "Right! Hold on a sec, chum!"
"Bollocks, buddy holly, come and suck my dick long and wide," Thomas protested with no intermission. "I couldn't care fuckin' less what you're gonna say, mate, 'cos I'm in there! And you know what I mean..." And insisted gesticulating, "Now I'm in the stage of screwing anybody, HIM or HER. Don't give a shit, so I'm gonna do it!"
"Hang on, man," Peter hurried. "Wait! Let's work it out!"
"It'll be only a minute! I'm fast..."
However, the action froze as soon as Pussyblaster directed the barrel of his automatic at his crony's forehead.
"I've said to fucking wait, Thomas!" shouted obviously annoyed still keeping the tube of the firearm between his accomplice's eyebrows. "D'you listen when I'm talkin'? D'you understand fuckin' English, mate?"
The other one said nothing.
"Great! This's exactly how I like you!"
A tense silence, only broken by Sally's weeping and during which murderous gazes were exchanged, expanded for a bit. Then, Pussyblaster rejoined Peter and resumed talking.
"Ok, chap, you may have noticed... That's entertainment! Though, I wouldn't lie, things are getting strained for you two, really," noted waving the gun near Peter's face. "But, somehow, tonight I'm feeling kind, generous. And therefore I'm proposing you a bargain. Tell me, how does that sound?" spouted, slowly stressing each word of the last question. "I'm that type of person. Brilliant, innit?"
"Oh, thank you," Peter responded with a thin shaft of voice full of subtle sarcasm. Nevertheless, he was losing faith having to watch and hear the continuation of his girlfriend's scuffle and the lamentable sounds Sally was uttering on each of Thomas' indecent grabbings.
"Wonderful, then, simple and easy as fuck," proclaimed Pussyblaster. "It's her or you. Pick out!"
"What?!" snapped Peter in surprise. "Is this a joke?"
"Does it seem like a joke to you, Mister Peter?" the dealer, impassive, asked preceding his elaboration. "It's your choice: Thomas may fuck you or Thomas may fuck her. You or her, arse or cunt... It doesn't make any difference to him. Any hole's a goal..."
"What the hell!" Peter reacted, incredulous, insulted, unprepared for the quandary. "This is a bad taste wind-up..."
"Shh... Easy, dear Peter, Mister Pitiful," the master of ceremonies halted him straight away helped, if so, by showing off the omnipresent, automatic weapon. "Basically, you're fuck'd, mate. And my friend here, the gun, says it'll spit in your fuckin' phiz with no vacillation unless you play along with us. Have I made myself clear, darling?"
There was another taut muteness between musical compositions from the car's sound system filled with despondency and frustrated rage. On one side, the lad opted for inspecting around, searching sneakily for a rock or a stick, as a very ultimate resort. On the other, Sally, whose neck was slightly bleeding, had to persist in her restless struggle, groaning the pain, although desisting from calling his boyfriend's name for aid. Exhausted the void, new lyrics erupted, "You must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh..."
"You know by 'screwing anybody' I meant shagging her or beating him up, don't you," Thomas remarked out of the blue, sparing the woman for a moment.
"Hey, I've seen you happy once banging away a poodle... Yeah, man, a pooch! Not to mention when you're feeling it while humping a rubbish bin! Am I lying?" explained his colleague mimicking such grotesque scenes. "So, let loose, mate, flow with the mood! Just be glad 'bout what you're getting now. Okay?"
"Fine, thoh, I'm not a faggot, you know," clarified the specimen.
Meanwhile, Peter had arrived at the position of discarding all his fail ideas for salvation, what led him to begin embracing submission. More perturbing task, nonetheless, was selecting who sacrificed for the cause, with reasonings and emotions colliding in conflict or simply beyond all bearing.
"To be fucked in the arse by a zoophile," he thought peeking one instant at his molested sentimental partner. "No way! What a couple of fuckin' cunts! Bastards! Why us?"
"A fight for love and glory, a case of do or die," sang the crooner.
Pussyblaster, then, fretting about the victim's delay for a reply, touched his face again with the pistol. "You'll lose your balls anyway... Choose, my friend," urged bluntly.
"How humiliating would be for me to have my arse broken," the menaced carried on with his inner estimation. "So, for her, to be unwillingly penetrated, actually. Only, it's common for a woman to be drilled. What if she was up for it? Whore!" hypothesized, falling to an extreme. "But... For fuck's sake! What the hell am I thinking? How can I even consider letting this disgusting, fucking scumbag to do my girl?! No fucking way! Plus, that piece of shit could have any sort of crappy disease!"
"So, what, boy? I'm losin' my patience here!" an eager Pussyblaster demanded. "Make a choice already!"
"Yeah, I'm losin' it here too, buddy!" Thomas complemented, unable to conceal his mirth.
In the end, Peter assumed that the sole dignifying alternative was representing the part of the tortured martyr. Not that he wished to comply with the ludic perversion of those degenerates, but reckoned that path had easier, plainer future justification.
"Fine. Holy shit! I'll be the one," agreed, shedding a sad, warm tear of impotence which found the cold metal of the gun on his cheek.
"Alright, sweetheart! On your marks!" his guardian ordered, next, indicating to stand up with a stark motion of the steel he managed. "Pull down your pants, your hands on the hood! All yours, Thomas!"
And, since the brute had been erected for minutes, not many prolegomena were needed. He rudely pushed Sally towards his criminal mate, like getting rid of her, approached fumbling Peter, yanked trousers and underwear from him, released his rigid tool and moistened his glans with saliva from his own spit.
"These metrosexual blokes are lovely, as a matter of fuck, ha, ha, ha," commented, separating buttocks before charging. "Not bad, sir, not at all..."
Over the unusual Peter's howl, motivated by his anus being torn, another Mancunian classic talking about ripping things broke through, "When routine bites hard, and ambitions are low, and resentment rides high, but emotions won't grow..." Nevertheless, it was yet neglected by who previously cared about music because he had disposed himself for the punch line of his tactics.
"Excellent decision taken, dear Peter," Pussyblaster gaily approved, strongly seizing Sally's arm. "So Thomas fucks you,... and I'm gonna fuck this beautiful little thing of yours! You ready for a piece of this, babe?"
"No!" she helplessly squeaked, opposing sordid, implacable advances.
"You, noisy bitch... Good thing I carry two weapons...!" the rapist reminded her, accompanying it with a ferocious slapping.
Real inconvenience, though, came from Peter whose roars appeared to be disproportionated, like he was being stabbed with a burning iron. Furthermore, Thomas was moaning pathetically too, and the heavy splashing of blood, excessive for a neat sodomy, was a complete bizarre sight. Not sufficiently bothered by that, Pussyblaster proceeded getting his willy out, shredding Sally's knickers and penetrating her applying, perhaps, extra aggressivity. At that very moment, he understood everything, the yelling, the abundance of red fluid and, above all, the pain of corrosion at his own genitalia.
A few days later, their four drained off bodies were found by authorities and that incident was the first to be reported by global media about the Pistos-Chromosome's Condition, as scientists would name the disease, or Monogamy Lock, as was regarded popularly. That strange illness caused certain permanent physiological changes in the sexual organs of humans so that they became forever mutually marked after their first contact with another living being's genitals' gravity. Thus, intercourse was only possible between both virgin or linked persons and untied individuals interaction triggered total destruction of their tissues. Hence, dead.
So people started playing the Mono-game.