Following on from J.R.R Haddary's cult classic...
The Yakubufication of Celluminati
by Coachilliam 'Bahiagbon' Shakespeare
The sun, having risen like the soaring phoenix, burnt brilliantly in the Brazilian blue sky. Omnipresent, omnipotent, omnisexual, caressing the contoured bodies of man and woman alike, with seductively scorching strokes. Not only did it have its hat on, but a luminous zoot suit glowing like the fabulously fro'd Ohsee of old neath the disco ball, dancefloor bloodstained and begging for mercy. The heat was on and the kitchen, Copa Cabana beach, gorgeously golden sands decorated indelibly with bikinied bullion.
Beyond the borders of the eye's acuity lay architectural ingenuity, landscapes as pristine and precise as the perfervid strokes of Picasso's paintbrush. Apples, onions, pears, watermelons, a fabulous fruit salad of more meat than a stew pot besides the boulder-like ball of amala before Babafad. Big, burly, large, leviathanic, an Obelisk and more, equally adorned in equatorial sized elasticated trousers and topless, rumours abound he'd eaten his Asterisk, a morsel of much significance, as time would tell.
As the sun spent all its carnal concupiscence massaging said mounds with a Midas touch, rendering pale skins gold and gold more golden, the joyous chimes of boast and banter danced from the deckchairs strategically placed on such vantage points as to pardon a festival of voyeuristic perversion with precious little giveaway. Mazi Ohsee had woke early that morning, paced the beach's full width and breadth, pondered Pythagorean equations, before setting the stalls, chairs and other paraphernalia down. Inch perfect, the old owl had lost much with age, but for every bit of mojo passed, he'd acquired knowledge akin to the star reading ancestors.
"3-1" bellowed a skyscraping, Soul Glo jherri curled Cyberian, between forceful gnashes at the assorted meats in hand. Optimism, positivity and yet, somewhat paradoxically, the precursor to gutteral groans and shouts of condemnation. In this motley crew of Avengers, this Marvelesque assembly of Cyberian X Men, Mr Nice was more Jean Gray than Charles Xavier, enarmored with the powers of telekinesis, his was an ability to render Rome, at the height of its plom, perfectly useless in a sentence. "Give to Caesar..." and with that Caesar was given death and most certainly, his Pompeia debauched to her delight on those divorce papers, as he lay there bleeding.
"Oooooo! You don come again with dis yor jinx! Mek u not tok am agen, mek u not o! I no wan hear am! No be u wey say Moses go tek him fullback drink garri? No be Iranian garri and okro dey for his mouth. E no chop am o! Abeg oooooooo!". Pokey, as ever, emotive, exaggerating, entertaining, Cyberia's very own Thing, as aesthetically pleasing as a lopsided b*llock, his power remains unclassified, but certainly wasn't in dress sense or fashion. If the devil wears Prada, one can only imagine what old Nick would make of a Chelsea shirt, two sizes too small, bellytopping a grown man. Rapturous applause and laughter greeted Pokey's rant, hands stretched towards the platter once more.
"Dis meat sweet pass JET, Boeing 747 and G6 dey for Arsenal academy" muttered Professor W, "wetin be dis? Grasscutter?".
"Stop! Policia arresto" or something similarly sounding, boomed a beach patroller. In an instant, a relaxing, pre-match indulgence in cuisine and curvatures in the beach bars before the games, had skipped from the sands of serendipity to bad luck and misfortune. Unbeknownst to the gnashing teeth and licked fingers, Celluminati, in accordance with the sacrificial shenanigans of secret society, had acquired an octopus, the eating of which would impress upon the average and sub-par Eagles, unparalleled talents and ability. That same morning, FIFA had called an audience before the aquatorium to see the eight tentacled oracle predict the prosperers from the day's contests. CCTV footage had shown Celluminati, v-shaped eyebrows akin to a modern day Ming the Merciless, strip fully naked, before sketching stars and various celestial shapes upon his nakedness and diving into the oversized fish tank.
A cartoon villain cackled laugh greeted the call for "hands in the air". "Let me explanate" offered Mazi Ohsee, "Cellysanjo na real...", "shato apo" a bystander interrupted, in a show of patriotism perhaps, the Hobbit height cab driver, of enforced Brazilian accent and Ayewdinho written in Biro across his back, flashed a right hand that knocked the red cap clean off the village elder's crown.
"You're all under arrestio".
"Chai, so na di state of our union go be twenty five to life o!!!! Chai!" Robby prophesied and as if by magic, the handcuffs loosened their hold, failed their hinges and collapsed to the floor. What manner of mystery, jinx and conjuring had transpired thought the gathering crowd. "Los omenos" chorused across the Capabana.
"Ahem, let me explanate" tendered Ohsee once more, "di tings wey jigglypuff for dis beach eh, na real jontoriffic jontofication, mek I..." coming to abrupt pause, he completed his parlance with forceful thrusts of his pelvis in the direction of those shapely splendours.
"Winner takes the world" beamed an arms outstretched in dictatorial fashion Cellybangida. "5 aside, one goal wins...the world" he followed, as if such was within his possession.
The stage was set, in reverence to his age and seniority, La Policia, perhaps overzealously afforded Mazi the liberty to pick the opposition. Five plentifully breasted, amply derriered spectacles later and the great escape was in full flourish. The hosts, Iraniacal in defence and magnificently seductive up top, proved an assured, measured, not least in J cup and Kash n Karrymetres, opponent, thrice striking the bar from range. The Cyberian's had, in comparison, been poor, Pokey, pedestrian, playing a plethora of short, sideways passes whilst humming the Run My Race instrumental. Pass completion 98%, but none of creative influence. The shape, predictable, two at the back, the mercurial Mazi in the hole and two sizeable galoots up top, Shola Amerobby and Emmanuel Celluminike.
Picked purely for his critically acclaimed and evidently unsubstantiated, hold up play, Robby had shown the composure of an oga on top in the housemaid's bedroom. His strike partner, cut a forlorn figure, filling the void between lazy offsides with diabolical dives and calls for "penarities" irrespective of distance from the opposing area.
"We're heading for penalties Jeff" and then it happened, fortune and all its serendipity. A goal mouth scramble, a casual elbow to the well cushioned Babafadian ribs, sees a neurologically impossible reflex reaction, Ejideonics, but for a rebound off the stanchion.
"Robby with the clearance, anywhere will do Jeff"..."its with Pokey now, glorious turn, beats one, beats two, what a pass Andy!...Ohsee's away surely".
Arms swinging post haste simulating pace, if only the feet would oblige. Arriving second to the ball, the trailing leg would do to Okosisi as the cutlass does the compounds lifeless grass.
"A thunderous fifty:fifty Jeff, both players are down", "and that's got to hurt" the pundit added. A scissor-like challenge had toppled Mazi, the momentum carrying an exquisitely endowed beautifully black brick house tumbling atop the prostrated pensioner. The fall, forceful, impressing upon the talisman breast cups, kegs and tumblers. "Dia ris God o", the zinedian octogenarian proclaimed from the depths of his mammory confine.
"A fortunate ricochet sends Celluminike clear Andy, he's one on one, has he got the pace to get there first?".
"The keeper's coming for it". Hurrying towards the striker, magnificently mounded, beautifully buttocked, both bouncing in perfect unison, up, down, left, right, dancing like the ancients in rhythmic capoeira.
"She's going to get there first J..oh! Brilliant from Celluminike, a Pele-esque dummy sends her one way, he's gone the other, genius, surely Jeff! Surely".
Goal gaping, a call for composure, the simplest of strokes, the easiest of finishes. Therein lay its difficulty. Neath the roaring inferno, the blazing ball of fire, the scorching summer solstice would make of his acumen an absolute Ameobi.
"Oooooooo, he's got to score, he had to score and he missed Andy". "Its a quick counter Jeff, terrific pace, look at them go, the bra straps broken, the thongs torn, she's one on one Jeff, Kash n Karry's got his camera out, he thinks its all over". "It is now!".
Last edited by Coach on Tue Jul 15, 2014 11:16 pm, edited 1 time in total.