Pony Club, part 4

Written by The Englishman

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all those who wrote so encouragingly to me, both in email and in the forum.

I always respond to anyone who leaves an email address but to those of you who wish to remain anonymous or post in the forum, your words of appreciation are no less valuable to me. I appreciate the time and thought that it takes to for you let me know that you read and enjoyed my ramblings.

Negative comments are as valuable if not more so than praise. I'm a like a man who lives alone without the 'benefit' of a wife to tell him when he needs a haircut or that he's dressed badly or that he needs a shower - it's too easy to leave the tracks without someone to point out your failings.

So, to everyone who commented, criticised or praised, THANK YOU.

And to all of you who simply read and enjoy the stories without commenting, Thank you as well. After all it's never too late <g>

I knew by the nervous look on his face.

"Well?" I says belligerently.

"Good morning" he says all polite and smarmy.

"I'll tell you if it's a good morning or not after you finish whinging about not enough sex, too slow, too many words and any other shit you've got."

Stupid stupid bastard

I was shouting and I didn't care. I do care when scumbags like him wind me up and when that happens, I get angry and I tend to get this spittle around the corners of my mouth. It doesn't look too cool to be spitting as you talk, you know?

So what I'm saying is that getting angry makes me even more angry because I let the scummy prick get to me.

He's afraid of me. I feel better about that. He's a lot more nervous than when he came in - Good!

"The thing is," he says, a little more cautious now - and he fucking needs to be. "They want this wrapped up. You know finished."

"The thing is, Mr whateveryourfuckingnameis," I says, taking the piss out of his weird way of talking, "When they pay me the whole wack up front, like we agreed in the beginning, I'll give you the whole story in one lump."

"Yes well they say that every time you tell me more, you always finish at a crucial part - you know? Like leave the story hanging..."

"So?"

"This is most difficult and you really don't make my job any easier when you shout and try to intimidate me."

"Okay," I says, very calm and very quiet. "lets make this very easy for you, This is how it works. You pay me a part of what they promised, so I tell you a part of the story."

He tried to interrupt me there and I held my hand up. He stepped back a bit and flinched. It wasn't meant to be threatening but maybe it was invading his 'space' or something. Okay so it was close to his smarmy fucking face but my fist was only clenched to help me stay calm.

"I haven't finished, okay?" I said, really calm and collected.

He sort of nodded but I suppose it could just have been a nervous twitch.

"So they've got a choice haven't they. Either pay in bits and get my story in bits or they pay it all and... well that's it."

He scratched his face as if he had something there - better not be fucking catching because I'll kill the cunt if he gives it to me.

"They think, well some of them are saying that you sound like you're making this whole thing up as you go along."

"So, that's it. They don't fucking trust me..."

"Well, with the greatest respect, you are a convicted criminal."

That was offensive. A fucking criminal! I've never stolen a penny from anyone. Always paid my way. If I was a fucking criminal I'd have some money and I wouldn't even be talking to this prick about selling my story. Anyway, this was their idea, not mine. The fucking publishers called me. They asked me to sell my story to them, so why suddenly are they getting worried?

I didn't shout. I'm calm, My voice is soft and contained but I don't know how much longer I can stand this smarmy cunt and his fucking messages. ......(cont)

.......Read the entire Pony Club, part 4 ....written by The Englishman.
Copyright © 2008 The Englishman. ALL Rights Reserved









This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.


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