Smut Writing with No Doubt

My night stalker position has been revealed. Scotland Yard has rallied their troops and "Judi Dench" the GMILF from the rather notorious MI6 have been alerted. These fucktards think they got a lock on yours truly. Psshh.. I pop my collar, dust my shoulders off, and scream out "You'll never take me alive copper!" It appears that these dirt bags don't know who they're fucking with. I am the All Mighty Smut Writer! Not the type who writes about dirty pussy, swamp crotch, and foot fetishes, but the kind that wields my forked sword tongue like Conan the Barbarian with a hint of Kroenen from the movie Hell Boy! Yes, my friends these cum scrubbing, panty waste, gerbil herding, cock bandits are in for the fight of their whore mongering lives...


It all began with the flash of my camera phone. "Damn it!" I whispered. While fumbling for an extra exclusive nude picture of Gwen Stefani, I forgot to switch off the flash on my secret agent issued Kyocera flip phone. I heard the faint bark of the very drugged doberman's. 24 hrs prior, I had given these dogs enough acid to make Jerry Garcia and Tim Leary trip balls for a week. The dream stealing husband, Gavin, was outside, drunk, pissing himself. This bloke was in no condition to test my awesomeness. Why Gwen belittled our love and married this dynamic shit eater was still a mystery to me. I needed some mutha fuckin answers! 

She had ignored my numerous emails, and no longer returned my requests for butt sechs. I climbed to the third balcony where I could see the front man for the shittastic band "Bush." I leaped into the air with my ninja shoes on. (The ones with the weird toes on them.) My foot landed inside the jowls of this "Everything Zen" fuckbag!  "Should I fly to Los Angeles, find my asshole brother?!" is what I screamed on my way into a roundhouse kick that Chuck Norris would have wept to duplicate. With pussy nuts Gavin outta the way, I sleazed my way in to the flat, all fuckin GQ and whatnot. She (Gwen) was drawing a bath. I was drawing her name into my arm with the scissors I usually keep around for my fucking wind sprints.  I needed a picture to prove to my homies that I was the caper king. Then it all went wrong. FLASH! Scream! I told her "Don't Speak I know what you're thinking, and I don't need a reason.." She spoke. She called the fucking Po-Po on a nucka! What a hooker! We were supposed to be all cool and shit! 

My journey to London was brief. Spotted Dick and Blood Pie? They just sound scary. Fuck England! I pimp limped my way onto my awaiting learjet. I borrowed it from my wigger friend Paul Wall. He handed me a pilot and the jet for some blood diamonds I "found" on a trip to Africa. That is a story for another day. Anyway, 16 hrs later, I parachuted into the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of South Carolina, where I swam 3 miles inland. Back on U.S. soil, I had an epiphany.. I need to tell this story.