Those idiot irish twins have acquired a taste for lady spluff... and old ladies.

They have broken into a care home late at night and have located an old biddy suffering terribly with Parkinson's disease. They quickly and lovingly undress each other, revealing ridiculous pubic quiffs, and gently suck each other hard knowing this will excite the old dear and set her shaking like horse and trap on a cobbled road.

First, they both lube up their hands and cocks with swarfega. Next, they quite simply manoeuvre themselves into position either side of the sweet old lady and and help her curl her fingers around their throbbing shafts. The ancient crone's neurological condition does the rest as she shakes and vibrates to the beat created by her dopaminergic troubles and soon the boys are ready to empty their sacks, which they both do with their trademark gleeful relish, their quiffs all of a quiver.

Now it's her turn,  and very gently and with great care they help her out of her knickerbockers and sit her down in a reclining chair. Once they're sure she is comfortable, the really stupid one gets down and starts giving the old dear a couple of fingers whilst the incredibly stupid one holds his quiff aside and starts lapping at her surprisingly swollen clit. This could take a while but they are patient and maintain their discipline, fingers and toungues maintaining a rhythm they could never achieve in their "singing". Finally, the woman starts to writhe and moan and so they increase the pace until, suddenly, her back arches and her arthritic toes curl and she comes like a water cannon; old lady squirt spraying this way and that as she completely loses control of her body. The twins and indeed the whole room is dripping with 30 years of bottled up cumsplash with a stench akin to old bacon.

This time it's Ailsa Stewart out of Home and Away who is utterly hammered in Lassiter's bar

She's had 18 shots of Glayva and has also been out the back puffing on some skunk - by which I mean sucking the cock of a small black and white mammal with notoriously smelly anal glands. She's smuggled the skunk back into the bar and the two of them are doing some hefty lines of coke in the toilets when Alf bursts in. He immediately spots Ailsa's particular shade of lipstick on the skunks ridiculously oversized, rockhard cock and flies into a rage, tearing his clothes off and slashing at skunk and wife with his machete screaming "GALAH! GALAH! GALAH!"

Finally, he is out of breath and looks down at the blood-soaked and shredded corpses and becomes aroused.

It is the skunk's wounds he chooses to fuck.

Ray is there, looking worried.

The rest of the office has picked up the gossip when Abigail arrives. Brian and the other Brian leer at her over their desks, but say nothing. She goes to her office to find Pascal and another man waiting behind her desk.

"Close the door." says the man. He is Detective Superintendant Moyles and he is very unhappy. It seems that Pascal is actually an undercover French police officer and the webcam is part of an operation to close down a large drug-running concern with interests in most of Western Europe. It was not hard to find her apparently. After she scrawled the crude image on Pascal's garden gate, he contacted his Interpol handler, who contacted Detective Superintendent Moyles. A street camera picked her up leaving the alley behind the Frenchman's house and another picked her up as she returned to her pool car. A PNC check revealed the car was registered with the local tax office and Pascal remembered the interview about the tax discrepancy with the intense, slightly nervous woman.

Abigail says nothing as the detective explains all this, but contents herself to stare at Pascal. The Frenchman returns her stare, until finally she cannot listen to any more.

"I saw him masturbating, he was watching me on webcam footage. I want to make a complaint."
Detective Superintendent Moyles turns to the Frenchman.
"Is this true?"
The Frenchman nods, "Well, it was a very sexy dance."

Detective Superintendent Moyles mouths swear words silently and rolls his eyes to the ceiling.
He counts to five, then looks at Abigail, "We are close to arresting a large number of very nasty people, in several countries. If you report this, I will make sure your very, very extra-curricular activities with regards my colleague here are reported to your superiors. I understand your immediate boss has had a heart attack under suspicious circumstances. I'm sure my report would not help your promotion prospects any, so stop fucking me about and I'll stop fucking you about and everyone will be happy, okay?"
Abigail manages a nod.

As he stands up to leave, his phone rings. For a moment he listens, Abigail cannot hear what is said, but Detective Superintendent Moyles is not happy at the news.
"An ironing board? They think? Where was the other one?" A pause while he listens, looking down at Pascal. Pascal is still watching Abigail.

"Burned to death with a broken neck, well I think we can rule out suicide. Fuck." He turns to Abigail.
"We are very, very done here. I'm going to assume we have an understanding and we can all get on with our lives" He nudges Pascal in the shoulder. "Come on, Asterix." He walks out.

As Pascal gets up, he carefully puts a package on the desk.
"For you." He says. His hand lingers on the package for a moment before he follows Detective Superintendant Moyles out, closing the door behind him.

When they have left, Abigail opens the bag. The rubber smell hits her nostrils before she slides it out of it's wrapper.

It is a gorilla mask.

Mrs Mangle has got herself in a spot of bother

Earlier, in Lassiter's hotel bar, ripped to the tits on flaming sambucas, she spotted Mr Miyagi out of Karate Kid. Feeling somewhat frisky, her loins lubricated with much alcohol, she went over to chat him up. It turned out Miyagi was with Paul Kersey out of the Death Wish films and that the two of them were looking for a willing participant to join their hardcore twos-up BDSM games. It didn't take many more sambucas to get Mrs Mangle to agree and the three of them had gone up to Miyagi's suite on the top floor.

Now she has awoken, chained to the bed, naked, spreadeagled and bleeding from various wounds and welts and smeared from head to toe in swarfega. She looks up at Miyagi who is standing naked on her chest in the 'crane' position, his immense, rock hard penis dripping pre-cum onto her face, a pair of crocodile clips hang from his tight, wrinkled scrotum with wires leading off somewhere out of sight. He holds in his small, neat hands a cheap Homebase hedgetrimmer and is revving it as he stares down at her hard, pointy nipples. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Kersey edging nearer, also naked and greased, holding a B&Q own-brand strimmer across his hairy chest. As he gets closer she notices his tumescent member is covered in a fine network of scars and fresh cuts, blood seeping out steadily onto the expensive carpet.

It is only now that Mrs Mangle realises she cannot remember the safe word and that she will be unable to stop them doing whatever it is they're about to do.

The safe word is "Galah".

Carol runs down the corridor in her stockinged feet, screaming all the way to the stairwell.

 By the time she's run down seven flights of stairs she's hysterical. She leans against the cool whitewashed breeze-block wall and forces herself to listen over the sound of her thumping heart.

Nobody has followed. Her car is parked underneath the hotel and if she can get there before they catch her, she can call the police. The fire alarm starts to blare out as she gets to her small family hatchback. By the time she rolls up the exit ramp, people in dressing gowns and pyjamas are spilling out of the emergency exits onto the street. Someone has found the dead enforcer and a crowd is gathering. Somewhere close by sirens are blaring as smoke roils out of the wide-open window on the seventh floor. She forgets about calling the police and drives away.

When the shock of what has just happens begins to hit, she parks the car and just sits there shivering and sobbing. When her phone rings suddenly, she yelps. It's Ray from Keith's office. Keith is in hospital, they've been trying to contact her all day. He's had a heart attack.

Carol can't think straight, so she goes home. Her clothes are all there, packed and ready to go. This morning she was going to leave Keith for Peter. She has a shower and changes her clothes, throwing her blouse in the dustbin.

When she gets to the hospital, Keith is propped up, awake. There are tears in his eyes when he sees her. Abigail from the office is sat outside, looking tired. She looks like a frightened rabbit when she sees Carol and practically runs to the coffee machine after they've spoken.

Keith, soppy old Keith who she was going to leave for Peter the fucking money launderer. "What were you thinking?" her brain screams as Keith blubbers out a string of apologies. Keith tells her everything, which, she has to admit is pretty tame considering three hours ago she was about to run away with an embezzler and two hours ago she tried to kill a man with a complimentary hotel-room steam-iron. She doesn't tell him about any of that. Instead she goes out to find Abigail sitting in the waiting room and tells her to stay away from her fucking husband. The last few words are spat out with such volume that a man with a piece of fence post stuck in his leg forgets his predicament and turns to look, along with the rest of the A & E department.

A middle-aged baglady is caught in a torrential rain shower

She hurries quickly to the shelter afforded by the archway under the abandoned railway near the canal. Once there, relieved to be out of the rain, she slowly begins to strip off her layers of sodden clothing, eventually getting down to a set of almost new looking red skimpy bra and panties. She is amazingly fit for someone living on the street and has a full pair of firm breasts of which any woman would be proud.
She removes the bra and is pulling down the panties when a dark figure steps out of the shadows, chuckling and holding his long, hard cock, tugging on it gently back and forth, back and forth.
As his face comes into view, the voluptuous trampess realises it is none other than Sinatra himself and she falls to her knees and starts sucking hungrily at his helmet.
Sammie Davis Junior watches from behind a buckled shopping trolley, cursing his luck and using a soggy roll-up to attempt to burn his scrotum.

Alan picks up a pink-handled toothbrush in the en-suite bathroom of a five-star hotel in the fashionable northern quarter of the city.

Alan is an enforcer for a large drug-running concern with interests in most of Western Europe. Peter is a money launderer and unfortunately for him, his foolish actions have been noticed by the higher-ups and this is where Alan comes in.

He turns and walks back into the bedroom and sits down opposite Peter, who is dressed only in his underpants and one sock. Alan is a big man, wearing a heavy car coat over a smart cheap suit, he looks like a football manager. Peter can smell engine oil as he sits down opposite, like the man spends a lot of time standing in garages. It opens up lots of worrying mental images. Another man, dressed like a sales rep, stands by the door to make sure Peter cannot run away.
Alan turns the toothbrush over in his hands for a moment, then reaches out and begins tapping Peter's left knee slowly and repeatedly with the bristle end. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"I don't really understand why people think they can do what you've done, Peter." Alan continues tapping the brush on Peter's knee.

"My job, you see, is very simple. The clue is in the name. Enforcer. I enforce. When somebody steps out of line, it is my job to make sure they see the error of their ways, do you understand?" He stops the slow rhythmic tapping and looks at Peter, who manages a nod. He starts tapping again. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Your job, is to make sure that the money our employers collect from their various enterprises cannot be easily traced back to them. It's a complicated job you have and one I have neither need nor care to understand. I do understand that you thought it was okay to take a lot of money from my employers and make it your own. I know this because our employers have accountants who keep an eye on people like you."

He stops tapping and looks round the room. It is a twin room decorated in a clean minimal style echoed throughout the hotel. Peter's laptop sits on the bed beside him, the screensaver is a slow cascade of rainbow colours. He has already transferred funds equivalent to what he took, practically poked his fingers through the screen showing them it was complete. A text message five minutes later confirms the money is safe.

Alan looks at the toothbrush again, noticing that the bristles are damp. He gets up and walks to the wardrobe, then slides the door aside. Beside the complimentary bathrobes and the built-in safe a middle-aged woman in her underwear is sitting clutching her clothes and shoes. She blinks up at him.
"Get dressed. Don't get out of the wardrobe." he says and slides the wardrobe door shut again. He goes to sit down in front of Peter again, listening to the clumsy bumping and shuffling in the wardrobe.

"Fucking hell, Peter. Now it's complicated. I hate complicated situations, Peter. Now I have to deal with that woman as well as you." Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Alan nods at the other man by the door. The other man goes to the window, taking a screwdriver out of his coat pocket. Seven floors up, the windows have a retaining bolt to stop them being opened too wide. He starts to unscrew the retaining bolt out of the window frame.

Alan drops the toothbrush and reaches up for Peter's head with both hands. He snaps Peter's neck easily and the man flops back onto the bed, breath heaving, eyes gaping. The other man at the window has removed the bolt and sets it down on the sill, swinging the window open wide.
" You're going out of the window, Peter. Sorry and all that, but you've been stupid and greedy and our employers won't have that sort of behaviour." He reaches down for the toothbrush and picks it up.
"Get that and his phone, I'll get the woman." He points to the laptop, then goes to the wardrobe. He slides the mirrored door open and is hit full on in the nose with the complimentary iron. Dazed, he sits back on the bed, blood flowing from his nose.

"Fuck.." manages the other enforcer before the iron glances off his left temple. He drops the laptop which lands edge on with a loud crack on the thin carpet, then he stumbles back through the open window. The laptop makes a harsh buzzing noise and begins to smoke.

The woman, her blouse on backwards and hair wildly stuck out to one side, stumbles from the wardrobe and drags the hotel room door open, before running out into the corridor screaming. Alan makes a wild grab as she passes, but misses and instead tips forward onto his knees. The complimentary ironing board tips down from it's storage bracket, driving a metal rod in the underside an inch into Alan's skull. Peter, still alive but paralysed can only stare as the now fiercely burning laptop sets light to the duvet.