The experiment with Viagra laced food entered at the local fete might have been regarded as a success by General Compton Smyth and Sergeant Grimm, but there were consequences for the villagers on the receiving end.
There were three surprise pregnancies among the wives and girlfriends of the young farmers’ tug of war team, and a pending divorce as the vicar and his wife never got over her suspicions about him and the glamorous Scottish smut monkey Ida T. Heurtze.
Up until this point the involvement of the secretive young men at the smallholding could be dismissed as co-incidence, but the Battle of Aver Wallop became inevitable as events conspired to draw the innocent villagers into the military experiments General Compton Smyth’s brigade were carrying out.
Behind the scenes pressure was on to develop an effective way to use Viagra as a weapon in time for military trails involving both the Royal Marines and SAS, and while the experiments with Viagra laced food had proven successful, Sergeant Grimm for one, seriously doubted the Royal Marines would stop shooting at you for a tray of fairy cakes.
While it may be conceivable that the SAS may be distracted from a surprise attack on you for a few fondant cakes, it was agreed that other ways of delivering “the payload” would have to be perfected.
In field trials, in the field behind the farmhouse, the most effective delivery system by far was the use of pea shooters, or blowpipes as the soldiers preferred to call them.
With practice the squaddies proved very adept at shooting Viagra pills straight into the open mouth of an opponent at anything up to ten feet, or three metres in new money.
Sergeant Grimm realised such close quarters combat required the right kind of terrain, so marched the squaddies into nearby woodland to practice camouflage, tree climbing and ambush techniques.
As the soldiers in the Brigade knew what was coming it was quickly realised that splitting the brigade into two groups to practice was not at effective as having unwitting opponents who would react more naturally to an ambush.
It was thus decided, with some reluctance by the general to allow Sergeant Grimm to use unwitting villagers and ramblers as practice fodder for the training sessions.
The doctor had advised Gordon Thompson to exercise, “…try jogging. Just a little at first and build up over time…” but exercise he must to control his recent weight gain and fend off potential diabetes.
Not being one to ignore sound advice, Gordon donned a pair of purple running shorts initially purchased by his wife to use for aerobics classes she’d got bored with by the third session, and a white string vest. The look was complemented, if that’s the right term in the circumstances, by a matching pair of sweat bands on his wrists and a white head band.
New trainers and white socks did nothing to salvage the look, but by this the third outing into the woods, Gordon labouring with a reddened face and mouth wide open gasping loudly for air really didn’t care what people thought as he struggled to half way into his planned route.
Suddenly something shot into his mouth and into his throat, breaking his rhythm and starting a choking fit as the fly, or whatever it was got swallowed. In a mild state of shock Mr Thompson began shuffling on as before, feeling strangely invigorated, before an uninvited erection made it increasingly difficult to jog.
As he walked the final leg into the village of Aver Wallop his attire, which had only brought mild amusement to fellow villagers became almost hypnotic as his raging hard-on stood proudly like a tent pole below his equally large gut.
Mrs Thompson was upstairs bending over as she innocently sorted freshly cleaned underwear into her knicker drawer, but this proved too much of a temptation to the Viagra-drugged husband who entered the room to see her arse swaying so seductively in front of him.
Her protests were brief and pointless, as Gordon Thompson was as much a victim of circumstances as his wife, as he gave vent to urges barely remembered and squired his vixen of a spouse like he used to do twenty years ago.
Vera was speechless after the deed was done, and so was the exhausted Mr Thompson.
Four members of the Home Counties Ramblers Association deep in conversation as they strode by the tall hedgerows alongside Willow Ridge farm experienced a similar choking fit as the flies of the village seemed to take a suicidal charge into the mouths of people out to enjoy the British countryside.
The effects were mixed with two male ramblers recovering from their choking fit to become suddenly keen to curtail the walk a little early and take their spouses home, while Miss Farney, a normally quiet young lady of limited visual charms suddenly made her sexual interest in Rodney Brimsthwaite an IT operative for the inland revenue more than obvious and after persuading him to follow her for a diversion away from the group threw him to the ground, wrestled his corduroy trousers off and mounted him vigorously.
Thus the number of virgins among the local ramblers was reduced in number by two, and within nine months a hasty wedding was to follow.
Miss White, a well respected spinster of the parish was giving her Jack Russell Terrier, Freddie, his daily walk in the woods, and noticed him being perkier than usual by the time they returned to the village.
She was mortified though as she stopped to speak to Mrs Timpson, only for Freddie to mount the old friends leg and mate enthusiastically with her wrinkled stocking. The women’s combined screams drew a small crowd, but the efforts of Roger Belgrave to wrestle the randy terrier from Mrs Timpson’s leg brought nips from the unusually aggressive little dog, which was determined to relieve his urges in a renewed vigour.
By the time the crowd had grown to ten people the shock proved too much for the old ladies, and in the end the village vet had to sedate Freddie, while a paramedic called by one of the villagers administered oxygen to the hyperventilating and distressed old ladies.
Over the next few weeks more and more strange events surrounding the woods came to light and suspicions turned to the strange group of young men camped at the smallholding outside the village…
...To be Continued...
Please do check out the other titles I have published including my comedy novel, Religious Pursuits by Neil Winnington which can all be found on Amazon.
By Neil Winnington
Sergeant Goode is close to his retirement, a situation irritating him enough before a young pen pusher without any respect for village life had been sent to get to know the local patch.
When his girlfriend falls fatally during a row, blind panic sets in and Goode makes a hasty exit, triggering a sequence of events which would see a simple accident become the centre of a major police investigation quickly spiralling out of control.
Starting with a detective sergeant with a desire to prove his theory that all serious crime can be closely linked to the occult, the villagers, all hiding secrets of varying degrees set up a fake occult meeting complete with a frozen chicken as the animal sacrifice.
With a discredited former tabloid journalist, hungry to find the big story that would bring him back into the Fleet Street fold, a village gossip with a murky war-time secret desperate to hide her true identity, and a group of investigators, sent to discredit the local Reverend and protect the church’s reputation, all combined to escalate the situation further, this sleepy Devon village soon becomes the centre of a national media scandal.
As if things couldn’t get any worse, a hostage situation draws in even more police, and even a squad of soldiers led by a battle hungry sergeant with a massive chip on his shoulder, and the story takes on a final twist, before culminating in a car chase like no other and a cliff hanger end
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