The Tomb and Its Collection of Arty Facts

By Frankie Lassut

I don’t like write ups because they can give the story away and I don’t want to do that.
The Tomb is about a tomb. Powder puff is based on talcum powder.
Bitch Killer is about a rat who’s been hurt but finds gainful employment through it.
The Grandfather Clock is about a Grandfather clock.
This Time Around is just too good to give anything away about it. If you read it, you’ll want to tell the world about it and I’ll love you forever. I may invite you around for tea. I’ve actually heard that you’ll soon be able to get a computer app called e-meals. It, through a projector, puts a very realistic picture of your meal on the table and you eat it. There is an app with it called taste and texture which simulates both. Not only can you imagine that you are eating the grub, but you’ll feel full afterwards. Sounds good eh? You wait until e-nookie comes out. It takes all the risk out of chatting up. You say ”would you like a drink?” ... “she says: “No thanks.”
You reply: “I’ve just saved two quid ‘and’ I have e-nookie!”
Go home, turn it on, put on the head set ... Marvellous!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frankie Lassut
• Release date: Aug 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463023693

Frankie Lassut

I am the one being shaved; the other one Nim, is is a looney bin now!I went to see a psychic years ago who ended up as my girlfriend; she didn’t see that one coming! But she was extremely honoured. However it ended badly i.e. it rained heavily as I buried her body and I got soaked. No! You don’t really want to hear about it, it’s depressing; I was joking about the burial. She told me that I was to uncover a talent I had ... Well, another psychic told me that as the first one was dead; I was lying when I said I was lying. Nothing happened for quite a while. Suddenly I realised I needed a ‘job’ quite badly as I was beginning to drink halves. No, not a boob ‘job’! I went for the cheap option i.e. the surgeon gave some socks to shove up my jumper when I go out. I got a ‘job’ (have you got boobs on your mind?) because someone told me that bus-driving was easy because you just sit on your butt and turn the wheel. She was about six, a wise woman ... that’s called an oxymoron. Fantastic! I thought get the job and in a couple of days I’d be driving all the nice passengers around and about seeing all the sights for a fraction of the cost of a tour bus; and we’d have a roof in case it rained. Easy! First of all though there was the training; and I entered hell.I was born in Cumbria in a little ex-iron ore mining town called Millom. It was only small, a one- horse town; the horse was called Peg. It had a pedigree name too, but I can’t remember it at the moment: Peggy Suss? However, I got fed up and left as I was the only man in a town full of women and they were all lesbys; I’ve always been lucky. I went to Blackpool and attended the photographic college. I then moved to Coventry and met the psychic who would tell me what was going to happen. I could say now that the rest is history. Well it is, but obviously not history as that’s all made up anyway. Then I got the job bus-driving, which as I said is easy ‘you just sit on your butt and turn the wheel’. The bus station management weren’t pleased that she had said that though, so she was tried and sent to Guantanamo Bay; they have a section for young kids who are bad to the bone.The job was so mad that I thought it would be a good idea to write out some posters and stick them all on the wall of the bus station. The other drivers enjoyed them, but the management tore them down, the badstars (that’s an anagram of astards +B). I carried on and ended up with a manuscript for a book, which, by the way is ‘brilliant’. The management didn’t like it, but bollocks to them.I couldn’t stop writing after that episode and I’ve been writing ever since, mostly cheques to people, such as the mortgage people and the gas board etc. I am so brilliant that I’ve lost all my friends because I wrote about them in my style which I believe is called Bizzaro. My inner being is a bit of a crazy horse, because whatever I write it has to be in that style, even the horror. It just goes that way. ‘Ordinary’ writing to me is like lemonade minus the bubbles ... I can’t bring myself to do it; but thank God I can still bring myself off. I need a selfie stick as I do that because the close focus on the phone won’t do it; how else am I going to post them on the Dark Web?Writing is like a drug. When I was writing my Millom book, the pictures that flashed into my head were so funny to me that I laughed myself into hernia-ville; my stomach tore. I got injured writing.You see, hernia-ville, a retirement home for people with stomach hernias; no comedians are booked to appear at that place.So, my writing is brilliant, so read the bloody stuff!I have actually suffered for my art. I won’t go to hospital to get it fixed because, well, I’ve written about that friggin place too.All that and now I’m an international bestselling author. I’m the only author in this world who has sold books on Mars (eat your heart out Tony Robbins), so I can say with certainty that Martians have fabulous senses of humour.What a profile!

Book preview

The Tomb

and its Collection of Arty-Facts

Copyright by Frankie Lassut 2018

Published by Wonky Books at Smashwords

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Contents

The Tomb

Powder Puff

Bitch-Killer

The Grandfather Clock

This Time Around

The Tomb

It was Bill Wyman, metal detector enthusiast, who switched on his inspiration.

Jerry Bullman watched Mr Bill Wyman on TV as he attempted to detect metal in a field, hopefully finding some ancient artefacts worth a bob or two. Jerry also watched programmes on TV where people had found hordes of buried treasure and sometimes got to keep them; which made them rich. He felt lucky. Jerry though, being an ambitious chap, wanted to go ‘one step further.

He was an electronics whizz and built himself a proper metal detector from an old submarine sonar that he’d picked up for a fiver from a scrapyard. It was from a nuclear submarine that someone had fitted with wheels and fitted a big engine, (as the nuclear reactor had been removed and sold to someone who sounded Russian). It was now used as one of those luxury limos. The business had gone ok, and people who hired it out loved the periscope, and its abilities to go under rivers; but the parking turned out to be a bit of a problem, as did finding a garage long enough.

In the end, after scratching the thousandth car in a week and removing many wing mirrors, the owner decided to get rid of it; or face 100 years in jail for causing a social disturbance and forcing insurance companies to actually pay out: the business owner was a menace to the system. If only the owner had realised that making it into a nightclub which could submerge and keeping it away from the busy city roads.

Jerry however, now had the world’s greatest sonar, which could detect things two thousand feet below the ground. You see, he had wired in a special circuit to detect metals; how could he fail? His metal detector differed from other mass market models, by having a screen on it and a loudspeaker with the submarine sonar sound on it; better than some pissy ‘bzzzz’. He was simply the ‘best’ He was better than ‘all’ the rest!

***

One day, he was plodding around a farmer’s field detecting, with permission of course.

After a fruitless hour, he was really getting fed up, when his sonar went Pung Ding! Pung Ding! He looked excitedly at the screen! It was quite a big metal and concrete object. Whatever it was, and it was … ninety feet below the surface! Jerry, heart pumping, and wasting no time, began to dig with his shovel.

Three weeks later, he was stood in a big hole, next to a two hundred and fifty-foot tall pyramid; which was quite a distance around its base. The door, whose handle he grabbed and pulled, was impenetrable. He wondered what to do? Hmmmm. So, he did some brain logic and went to see the farmer.

***

The farmer was in the middle of his yard in the process of being led, by a healthy-looking Ewe with nice eyes (which looked as though they had make-up around them?), into his large hay filled barn. He gained the farmer’s attention by jumping up and down and waving his arms and told him what he’d found on his land. The farmer took his attention from the sheep and said:

You’ve found wahhhhhh? (Yokel accent)

A two hundred and fifty-foot tall pyramid. Which I uh-earthed in one of your fields.

The farmer looked shocked and ushered the sheep away (which looked disappointed).

A two-hundred and fifty-foot pyramid! Hmmmm? That sounds like my grandfather Benjamin Kahmoon’s final resting place. You see, the old fool was a bit of a drinker, and always said he was going to be buried in a tomb shaped like a pyramid, because he was related to one of those Egyptian Fairy things. His great, great, great grandfather oi think. Or something like that.

Fairy? asked Jerry.

Aye. Fairy ho!

The penny dropped for Jerry. Ahhhh! You mean a Pharaoh!

"Fairyoh, Fare ho? That’s roight! You’re eddycateeed aren’t you? You don’t look like a bloody interbred fool

Aye! A Fair Ooooh"

That established, Jerry continued :

Do you think the tomb is full of treasure?

Well I downt know you seeeee. It could bee, because he was always a quiet, sneaky, mingy stingy old bastard. So, I downt knoowwww. We should have a look.

Good idea! But; the doors pretty robust. We aren’t going to get in I don’t think.

Oh! Down’t eee worry about thaaaa. Mary! Maaaaaaryyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!

A door smashed open and fell off its hinges and out of one of the buildings came the farmer’s daughter. She was a six-foot eight muscular lass with muscles in her spit. She spat and it had muscles. Before it sank into the pile of cow-shit it had landed on, it did a little Miss Spit Universe display (without music). Mary put down the huge bull she’d been carrying before she reached the pair. The bull walked off with a disappointed look on its face