BC Holiday Special VI - Wolf

THE BEN CHATHAM ADVENTURES: NEW YEAR'S EVE SPECIAL

"WANK"

The time: December 31st, 2011

The place: an abandoned Welsh farmhouse (see Touchwood: The Cardiff Chainsaw Massacre)

Ben Chatham has set up camp in a deserted part of Wales, miles from any source of civilization or human contact. No, she hasn't realized what a total arsehole she is, but she is now public enemy number one throughout Great Britain, Northern Island and Luxemburg with continuing sweeps of police with dogs and tear gas protecting every single off-license in the land that provides French absinthe. Thus, heavily pregnant and suffering violent DTs, Ben has fled.

Indeed, things look grim for the over-fertile blonde bimbo.

However, rather than let this rather depressing reality get her down, our nude main character takes her mind off the awfulness of existence by throwing a New Year's Eve Party - of course, absolutely no one will attend, but Ben has grown used to that over the years. She makes some cucumber sandwiches with stale bread, no margarine and what could be a mouldy zuchini for nibbles, and then finds a bottle of 1963 claret with a price tag of no less than £100.

So she empties it into a dirty bowl and calls it punch.

As the last of her absinthe leaves her system, the shivering, feverish Ben loses even more of her grip on reality and starts shouting at thin air, telling it to go out to the shops and buy more wine and turn up the heating as she's freezing her tits off. Ben sits down, but her increasing weight causes the sofa to collapse underneath her.

Twitching violently and tunelessly humming Bowie's "Low" album to herself, wraps her arms under her distended belly and gets to her feet. Heading over to the front door, she opens it and grins stupidly.

"Professor Griff Rhys-Halibutt!" she gasps. "My old Archaeology professor from that University place I go on about so much! Haven't you been murdered by some monks working for an evil alien whose name starts with Z yet? No? What sort of terrible trouble are you in then?"

Yes, Ben's fragile mind has finally disconnected itself from reality entirely.

"Have a Fox's Glacier Mint, Professor Hallibut. That sounds serious. Of course, if you will accept anonymous requests to examine fossilized bones from the Figsbury Rings... I mean, the fact people that do that tend to end up mutilated corpses covered in dog hair is kind of a clue. I bet that you were dating them when they glowed and transformed into a large, strange wolf-like creature which is now on the rampage? Am I right? Oh. Wow. Yeah, good guess, huh? So you came to me because you know I have connections with certain organizations I am not at liberty to name? What do you mean, no?! You came here to try to get the monster to kill me and then claim the government reward for me dead or alive?"

Ben is concerned.

"You'll never get away with this, Hallibut! I will contact Touchwood. Why didn't you do that yourself? The number's on most toilet walls next to the words "FOR A GOOD TIME CALL IANTO BIG BOY JONES"..."

Ben stays exactly where she is and starts shouting "RING RING!" to herself for a few minutes.

"Damn it!" she says at last. "They're out. I'll leave a message. They're the proper authorities for God's sake, they can pick the damn mongrel up. Only takes ten minutes or so. Why don't you all toast me for my brilliance as I help myself to a cucumber sandwich? What do you mean, Professor? Why, there's you, me, and my legion of adoring admirers, from Prime Minister Harriet Hellfire Jones to my robot dog K9, and Charles and James and Karl and everyone who has ever been mean to me has come here to apologize and worship me."

Ben glares at a particular patch of thin air.

"Shut up you chav!" she shouts at it. "That 'booze' might be 'pricey' to you, but it's exclusive Cambridge wine from an exclusive Cambridge wine shop! Yeah, Jepsons! I have standards, unlike YOU scum!" She turns her head. "Professor! Hey! Why are you running away! You're acting like I've gone nuts or something."

Dispirited, Ben leans against the wall and slides to the floor, so depressed she doesn't notice the splinters her peachy backside has gathered.

"What's the point?" she asks miserably. "I'm a wanted fugitive lost in the Welsh valleys, doomed to be an exile for all eternity. And I'm a woman." She smacks her swollen belly. "And up the duff. How can I keep up my sensible, exciting lifestyle as a modern hero with a bastard whelp to support? I've got no one to help. No friends. No family. No smoothe chest."

She resentfully flicks her boob and grimaces as some odd green liquid drip from it.

"Ewwwwwwwwwww!"

She frowns. Sniffs.

"That's not... it is!" She licks her hand. "Absinthe! FINEST FRENCH ABSINTHE! Hah! Jurassic Park was right!" she crows, hastily shoving a glass under her nipple as a steady stream of toxic alcohol flows out. "NATURE FINDS A WAY! HAHA!"

She daintily quaffs from the glass.

"Hmmm. Cultured AND sophisticated," says the naked pregnant slut getting drunk off her own breast milk. "Yes, the future don't look sho bad, dosh ut? YESH! HUPPI NOO YARR TAR ARL UVOO ATHUM!!"

Just then, a huge werewolf smashes through the window, making grunting noises. It dives on top of Ben, tearing its claws into her skin, tossing her over and over as it bites at her head and neck.

"ARGH! AH! OW! OW! OWWIE! ARGH! HELP! ARGH GOD! GOD MAKE IT STOP ARGH!"

The End