It was a typical Saturday afternoon in Bristol. Matthew Maher had just left his parents and was on his way to a football match between Bristol City and Tottenham. Ordinarily Matthew supported Rovers so this would be his first time at the City ground. Still, the depth of his hatred for Spurs, or "the Yids" as he called them meant this time he would make an exception. Matthew reflected that the Yids were not only a bad football club: they also controlled international finance and had plans for left-wing global revolution. But much of this confused Matthew; his main concern was with the football. And he here was: Ashton Gate, home of the Robins.
Matthew took in the scene around him; something wasn't right, although he couldn't quite place it. He surveyed his fellow football fans - they weren't chanting their traditional "Drink up yer Zider" today. Instead, it was an alien chant, something about the "servile masses arising", the sort of thing that professional hippies might sing on a pro-Saddam, anti-American, anti-War march. Matt spat with disgust at this flagrant communal lack of respect for social hierarchy, and he noticed with rising horror that the crowd seemed to be enjoying this sing-song rebellion. His worst fears had been confirmed: the entire mob of Bristol City supporters were Communists! For the first time in his life, Matthew Maher became acutely self-conscious about the bright red swastika emblazoned on his black armband. Personally Matthew had never worried about being "cool" - but Communists were different. They just wouldn't understand his devil-may-care sartorial style. He had to get out of there. Fast!
Matthew threw a scornful glance back at the chanting sheep-like Communist masses. "Pah!" thought the rugged individualist, "I bet they even paid for their tickets. Hypocrites! LOL". Matthew's mind cast back to the copy of the Sun he had read this morning. Richard Littlejohn had written a piece about the disgraceful Left-Wing elements within the BBC. Matthew felt his loins stir with admiration, and wished Littlejohn could have been with him to witness the same brazen foulness on display that he had just experienced. Richard would have known what to do!
As Matthew wandered from the City ground, he whistled the latest Amen tune to himself. Sometimes Matt felt that Casey Chaos was the only person in the whole world who could understand him, and capture the complex patterns of raging frustration inside his head in a songs such as "CK Killer". That was his genius. A door on the road opened, and Timothy Fife-Shaw ran out.
"I thought you lived in Farnborough?" said Matt.
"Never mind that, Matthew, it's great to see you. Do come in!" laughed the young Liberal Democrat. Matthew followed Tim back into the house. He suddenly remembered that he had some very important things to tell Timothy - they had formed a close bond on the message board of their favourite website: manics.co.uk
"I have some important things to tell you", warned Matthew, "and you must prepare yourself physically for the shock. Lie on yuor back and pull your legs over your head".
Timothy did as he was told. Matthew's authoratitive tone reminded of him of his schoolmaster, somebody Timothy had always been careful not to upset even if it meant suffering the mocking laughter of the cooler boys at school in silence.
Tim noticed that Matthew had lost his Bristolian burr and had begun to speak in a highly-affected and effeminate lisp. Frankly the transformation was amazing. Before Tim's very eyes Matthew morphed from a bland MTV-generation cultural dupe into an overbearing grand old dame with buckets of charisma. "I've a confession to make, Timothy. With you I feel I can finally be mythelf and talk about this: my thecret is revealed! I have long admired the dandy and aesthete Othcar Wilde, and have long mathked my true urges with the carefull-cultivated comic character 'Matthew Maher'. In fact, Timothy, " - as Matthew spoke these words he delicately traced his finger around the rim of Tim's pristine pink sphincter - "the truth is out: I am none other than the REINCARNATION of Oscar himthelf! Timothy, will you be my Bothie?"
"Oh yes, Matthew, yes! I'll be Bosie!" squealed Timothy, his frail body quivering with excitment. And with the youthful Virgo's consent, Matthew quickly worked his thumbs deep into Timothy's anus. Although Timothy had never known the love that dare not speaketh its name before, Matthew encountered surprisingly little resistance from the newly-wed arse.
Matt remembered a little trick he had picked up from his vast collection of Wrestling videos. Wrestling videos were his guilty pleasure as a teenager; the greasy grapples and neanderthal homoeroticism reminded him of his relationship with his father. This move was called the "piledriver", and Matthew had already placed young Lord Alfred Douglas-fraud into the position that had been so familiar to him in his childhood.
"We're all in the gutter, Bosie, but some of us are looking into your arse" quipped the reborn wag, and with that plunged his erect member into the illegal mystery of grecian boyhood. Timothy admired his penetrator's dapper wit.
"You're so gay!" gasped Timothy.
"Quiet, Bosie!" joked Matt, "you'll upset the PC brigade!".
"I don't care about them anymore, I don't care about anything except you, Matthew Maher!".
"LOL" replied the hirsuite neo-metaller, and drove his three inch rock-stick deeper into virgin territory. Matthew continued to be amazed at the younger rocker's capacity for bumhole-pummelling. Surely Timothy was a virgin? Suddenly the manly three inches became the familiar two as impotency's cruel and clammy gaze fell upon him.
"ANSWER ME THIS, BOSIE:" commanded Matthew, withdrawing, "ARE YOU PURE FOR ME?"
"Oh Oscar," pleaded Timothy, "I confess all! Every day at school I allow the rough boys to pull my shorts down and slam me roughly from behind in the changing rooms! It's my one pleasure in life!"
Outside, a storm was brewing. The beautiful Irish maiden Prufrock walked by Timothy's house, oblivious to the bloody anal carnage that was about to transpire within. She was thinking about werewolves, although she wasn't sure why.
Anyway. Matthew was disgusted by this perverse revelation from the queer little rentboy, and removed two 17th Century duelling pistols from his rucksack. "Bosie, you have ruined my life once again. But this time there will be no Reading Gaol! Instead our nameless love shall endure forever in a HOMOSEXUAL LOVE SUICIDE!". As Timothy whimpered, Matthew placed a duelling pistol into Tim's engorged rectum, and the other into his own. Without hesistation he pulled the triggers on both at the exact same time. They died instantly, but as flaps of intenstinal tract and lumps of black excrement mingled together on the carpet around the two nu-rockers lifeless corpses, something beautiful happened: a crippled child somewhere in deepest Africa stood up for the first time in her tear-stained life, and miraculously began to walk. Whether these two events were connected nobody can tell, but only this thing is certain: that love, in whatever incomprehensible form it may assume, conquers all.