Butterfingers perched despondently in his highchair. His slick, waist length hair cresting the seatback, a brunette film. His dirty face was streaked with tears. Once more the voice came, dulled by the heavy oaken door.
‘Choody? Choody it’s me’.
Butterfingers shivered, and not for the first time, or the last, wished he still had a mouth.
‘Choody, please. Why don’t you answer?’
Wearily, he dropped to the foor, and padded once again to the old thick-planked door. His brothers voice was plaintive, and Butterfingers was sufuced with burning shame. Once more he pawed the handle futilely, once more it dripped with dairy essence. He slammed the chode of his bonce against the door, and would have keened, but couldn’t. That voice again, so supple..
‘Choody, I’ve a fierce yearn to love you. Choody!’
The tromp of legs stalking away. He took his chair again. Alone.

Ever tried necrophilia? You should, its a gas. I know what you’re thinking, ‘Why dig up some dead thing and fucking it? There are better lays with the living’.
Well I’ll tell you, because its great fun and bloody easy. You feel huge, really important. They can’t say or do anything against you, they’re dead, so you just pump away. You can do stuff you could never do with a livin’ - pump ‘em in the ass, the eye, right out there in public. Yeah that’s right, do it in public, right on the Formica table top in your local dinner- its incredible. Plus no one will ever mess with you again after they see you desecrating a corpse just to get off - they know you’re capable of anything.

Lots of love, Richard