Print Job #666 By Frankie Spermwhale
The Skunt Chronicles, Part 1:
Skunt woke up in a disheveled trout of a hooker's fanny, the stench of steamed kippers hitting him like that train full of jews three days ago. "Cor blimey love, close yer paddy whackers when the sausage isn't in the butchers!" Skunt cried, upsetting the semblance of a dog faced human that laid in his bed. She shot up and screamed "The fuck are you talking about you filthy jabroni" before spitting yesterday's mouthwash into his eyes, searing them with 3000% methanol flavour that refeshed his senses and singed his cornea in seconds. His screams echoed throughout the corridor of Skunt Manor before he pulled out his dick cannon and placed a .60 bullet round through her skull.