Heff in Epping

No one much likes Heff but

fuck me can he fix a car! We

left him with that

shunted Lexus? Christ,

good as new next day!

Hot as fuck in the workshop,

had to open all the windows and

doors through which

Madam appeared in full fig—

shit, how did that stunner

marry my fucking mechanic?

I bet he could get disability benefit, the

shape he’s in, and she’s

six foot tall, built to fuck,

tits like melons just

begging to be held while you

rut her from behind—OK,

guilty, I’ve had her, not

proud but—what a fuck!

 

Heff’s buried in a bonnet but

her eyes are elsewhere—“Trevor?”

–black guy, big, say no more—

“there’s a rattle in my Beamer,

could you take a look?” And he’s gone

like a rat up a drainpipe as I

watch her arse swing away,

dreaming of what I would do to it,

turning into Heff’s blank stare—

shit, do I go red or what?—but the

funny bugger just mutters

“Hot hammer, cold anvil” and

limps off to get tea.

 

What the fuck does that mean?

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