Peacock Rose Ivory Catto Kelly.
Yes… Peacock Rose Ivory Catto Kelly… Smith.
Bradley Smith, known for being a wannabe Scotsman, thought it wise to appease the clans when he named his son. He didn’t want to use the whole alphabet, but he thought it prudent to aptly name the lad, making the name selection decision many days after the boy’s birth, Scotch strongly influencing the tiresome process.
It’s said the lad’s entry into the world was a lengthy process, ultimately causing the demise of his shattered mother. It is further said that Smith was so distraught with the death of his fair maiden wife that he left the boy in a corner for almost a full day while he anesthetized his pain with a few flagons of whiskey. Only the arrival of the village midwife saved the little bundle of joy from following his mother into oblivion.
The midwife slapped Brad Smith back to reality. She found a wet-nurse, who had not long before lost her own firstborn, to suckle the boy. The boy took to the abundant supply of fresh milk with such ferocity that it raised concerns. Would the mammaries last? Brad and the boy were soon competing for the services of the nursemaid. The young one would suck while his father would get sucked, thankfully not at the same time. Father and son, son and father… connected forever by the bond of sharing the wet-nurse.
Brad’s pain was soon forgotten. The bottle and the blond set him on the path to recovery. Tongues wagged but many in the hamlet understood. The boy needed nurture, the father needed a mate and the nurse needed distraction after her own baby went the way of the fairies.
Peacock Rose Ivory Catto Kelly thrived on Maid Milly’s milk. Maid Milly seemed to thrive on Brad’s attention and in turn Brad thrived on the bottle and the blond. The lad kept hanging onto Milly’s ample mammaries… until her milk turned bitter. It was bound to happen… Milly’s pregnancy robbed him of his only semblance of affection.
Maid Milly’s miscarriage robbed both Smiths of their joy. It is said Milly’s second loss was enough to drive her over the cliff. Literally. Brad kept them alive. By hook and by crook and often folk wondered how he managed to keep them fed when he seemed to always be in a state of semi-imbibe.
Young Smith took to his own devices. He soon worked out that he could quite safely raid his father’s pocket when the man was in a state of alcohol-induced collapse. He’d always leave a few pound or pence in the pockets so as not to alert his father to his survival tactics.
The rest of young Smith’s formative years were spent in obscurity. It is said the village clubbed together to put him through school. Only because his mother had once been the town’s one and only celebrity when she’d been runner-up in the International Purple Thistle Beauty Pageant.
Peacock Rose Ivory Catto Kelly made it to dental college on the completion of his schooling. Brad’s passing had left a sizable amount of money for the boy to further his education. Questions were asked as to where this money had come from but the town’s fathers thought it best to send the young Smith off. Out of sight, out of mind.
Peacock Rose Ivory Catto Kelly didn’t fit in anywhere. He was a very ugly young man. His features resembled the cartoon characters depicting the devil in illustrated children’s bibles. Thus, he gained more unpleasant nicknames than many other villages bestowed on all their boys put together.
You didn’t want to bump into him in a dark alley. You’d most likely think it was the Evil One coming to collect your innards. So, his reputation spread. Physical attributes were converted into characteristics. The man was doomed to become a social misfit because of image and whispers. No one wanted to give him a residency after he completed his studies.
Those with cop-on wondered about his initials. PRICK Smith? To be fair to Prick the Devil, he’d inherited one physical attribute that wasn’t only an endearing attribute but as the news spread, a welcome relief from isolation. He was hung like a stud stallion. He found an extra income playing psychopathic monsters in low-budget porn movie thrillers.
Smith reasoned that he needed an income and as no one wanted to give him a shot at dentistry he may as well use his only endearing physical attribute. However, as luck would have it, this led directly to him being offered a dentistry role. One of his leading ladies handed him a note after their shoot was done.
PRICK paid it little heed until he was back in his attic apartment. The note simply read,
Call into the Pig and Priest and ask for Ronan.
Two nights later he was handed an identically worded note. No verbals exchanged, just the note. That evening he made his way to the pub. He found a quiet, dark corner and waited for the waitress. He placed the note and payment on the tray when she returned with his pint.
Minutes later a figure slid into the booth. The hoodie and dark glasses effectively obscured all identity. The man’s whisper the only identifier.
“You’re a dentist, right?”
“In theory yes, I’ve not pulled a tooth in anger since completing my studies."
“Enough said, we want to offer you the chance to put your skills to use, in your own practice.”
“What’s the catch?”
“You’re a suspicious kind, aren’t you? The only catch? You’ll be doing your practice in a remote part of the islands, where no one will care about your beauty.”
“Who would care if I’m totally isolated?”
“Let me put it this way PRICK, no one cares a rat’s arsehole about either of your chosen professions. On the other hand, we’re offering you the opportunity to develop. Who knows, age could work in your cosmetic favor. Take it or leave it. I’m giving you a few minutes to decide. If you’re still seated when I return, we’ll discuss details. Understood?”
Smith’s nod indicated that he did. What had he to lose? The chance to practice and even get the odd shag outweighed the option of only getting the odd shag. The stranger was about to slide out of the booth, but Smith raised his hand.
“I have nothing to lose… you can continue.”
“OK… are you willing to leave immediately?”
“I have a few items I’d like to collect at the apartment.”
“Make a list... now, give me the flat’s key, Suzy will collect for you.”
“Suzy?”
“Your co-star.”
“Does she work for you? I thought she was just a model making a few extra pounds, like me.”
“No PRICK, she’s part of the organization.”
“The organization?”
“Stop… no time for debate.”
Smith wondered if he should heed the hardening of the tone, was he mistaken about accepting? His expression hardly changed but his body language betrayed his doubts.
“No need to worry. You’ll be going to the Outer Hebrides… to the Lesser Ono island, to be exact. It’s not on many maps but that’s just the way we like it.”
The stranger paused, the tone lightened.
“The island’s population fluctuates. You’ll be the only permanent resident. At times, you’ll be the only resident. There’s a comfortable cottage for you to call home. Your practice is attached. All your needs will be met, including the filming of a movie or two. So, even your member will be kept in practice. Satisfied?”
Smith was about to speak but the stranger shut him up.
“Enough… we’ll continue the conversation at your new dwelling.”
Smith remembered that day like it happened yesterday. Five years, a whole five years he’d been the mayor of Lesser Ono. Five years he’d been allowed to hone his skills. Skills he’d bought into when he realized the magnitude of his new role.
It soon became apparent that life on Little Oro wasn’t quite what it seemed. In fact, his first briefing spelled it out in easy to understand language.
“This is the most isolated spot in the Isles. This is the debriefing hub. Here, dissidents captured by His Majesty’s intelligence agencies are left… until they are successfully debriefed.”
It didn’t take Smith long to work out that debriefing really meant mind-bending. In the distant past debriefing simply meant torture. Physical, phycological… it didn’t matter. This was the information gathering mecca. Here, Papillion’s escape from Devil’s Island was a fairy-tale only dreamed of. A myth to cling onto. Reality and myth were long distant memories when a new arrival set foot on the island.
From the air of the island looked deserted. The remains of three buildings seemed to be the only traces of forgotten human inhabitation. Little did outsiders know that the underground maze supported a small community of misfits. The only sign of habitable structure was the ram-shackled appearance of a cottage. Smith’s home.
New arrivals landed on dark, moonless nights. Even the temporary security staff came and went under the cover of darkness. All humans and supplies arrived or departed by submarine. Secrecy
Into this world that PRICK arrived. His role, it was explained to him, was to establish a truth mining strategy. He was at liberty to use his dental practice to extract more than teeth.
The role suited his depraved sense of self. He soon established a routine. The guards would bring in a new arrival for the necessary check-up. His patients, as he referred to them, were told they needed dental check-ups, to ensure they weren’t concealing hidden death capsules.
Smith, the dentist, used his tools with expert efficiency. The guards would help strap down the patients and insert mouth props. Smith would begin his inspection, no sedation provided. He’d scratch at every tooth, occasionally slipping the probe hook into the gums of the unsuspecting patients.
The fear levels reflected in their eyes indicated when they’d had enough. The interrogation crews then had little difficulty extracting information from the terrified patients.
The first time Smith dealt with a female patient his lust got the better of him. He began fondling himself while the woman was restrained. Shocked, on seeing his huge member bursting from his trousers, she fainted. He was delighted. He’d won a small moral victory, or so he thought. He could dominate… he could force himself onto women in ways he’d never imagined. By the time the guards arrived to lead her away she was babbling like a fast-flowing spring brook.
Smith’s reputation grew. The interrogators knew a few visits to his chair would solve all their extractions problems. If a difficult case needed follow-up visits, The Dentist would pull a tooth or two and leave the patient ready to spit out more than blood and bits of broken teeth. Extractions, of information and teeth without anaesthetics made short work of persuading the most stubborn resisters to part with knowledge.
PRICK played his vile games. He developed the rules. Some said he raped his patients, male and female alike. No proof was ever sought. As long as the interrogators prevented enemies of King and Country doing damage, the means to the end wasn’t questioned. All went well for Smith… until the arrival of Sally B. She was, apparently, the queen-pin of a radical rightest movement preparing to take out the Red Labour clown who’d bribed himself into Number Ten.
She didn’t belong on the island, but the State couldn’t quite make exceptions with the classification of potential enemies. Sally’s first visit to the chair went as expected. Until Smith laid eyes on her. She was a stunner. Petite, Auburn… curvy and… well, simply beautiful. He had difficulty concentrating on his work. For once, he removed her mouth prop. He couldn’t help himself, his huge erection wouldn’t go away so he allowed the thing to escape.
Sally’s reaction was totally unexpected.
“Wow… ww… w… weee… what a beauty! I’ve never seen such a beast in all my life!"
Smith didn’t know how to proceed. He couldn’t bring himself to harm this stunner. For once, he lost control of himself… and the situation.
“I want some of that… no, all of that!”
Her eyes pleaded… even as she mouthed the words. She actually wanted him, the PRICK? He was shocked. Never had any of his liaisons wanted him. He was smitten. He had to set her free. She expressed her gratitude… by climbing all over him.
Two further visits to the chair had him totally bewitched. He arranged for Sally to stay over at the cottage for a weekend, on one of the rare occasions when the security staff was on ‘shore’ leave. He’d convinced the guards that he’d break her while they were away. That was his last mistake. Days later, the Red Clown at Number Ten was blown sky high… at about the same time the PRICK was found on his kitchen floor, lying in a pool of congealed blood and bodily fluids, with his balls clenched in his smashed rigor-morticed mouth.