Paint. The art of scam. Read Online Free PDF

which both she and Kevin were directors.
This was to protect him from his ex-wife's attempt to financially destroy him,
the fine details of which were unclear to her.
    By the time
Seymour and Polly had told their stories, both were delightfully drunk, and had
between them somehow managed to serve and eat a delicious meal. They were now
attempting to regain a semblance of consciousness with coffee, cocaine, hashish
and brandy, which served instead to put them on a helter-skelter ride between
sublime wisdom, idiotic burbling and occasional waves of paranoia.
    Polly was
gracefully draped across the table, her dress straps sliding down her arms
with every windmill arm-swing she made to accompany her excitable ranting.
Seymour listened, slouched back in his chair, and attempted to stop himself
from sliding under the table.
    After hours of
amazing insights into the complex and often chaotic state of their minds, they
concluded that virtually everything on planet Earth was fucking ridiculous. God
doesn't and never has existed, and is only a dangerous idea as powerful as the
number of people who believe in Him - or It, come to that. Superglue doesn't
stick anything together except skin, the world, and relationships, and
virtually everything is completely buggered and there is nothing on this Earth
as satisfying as a glass of champagne and a fag.
    ‘And you know
what Sleymour?’ said Polly ‘I bloody like you, you must be the most fucking
intereshting bloke I've shpent time with for bloody years.’
    Seymour closed
an eye to see if there really were two Pollys there. Yup, there were - not a
bad thing. Her breasts were now fully visible and Polly either didn't care or
had no idea. He had to say something.
    ‘You know what
Polly?’ said Seymour.
    ‘What?’ said
Polly.
    ‘Your titchs are
hanging out.’
    She looked down:
he was right. She attempted to shovel them back in but the straps had slipped
through her arms and were tangled up somewhere too complicated to deal with.
She gave up, stared at Seymour and suddenly launched herself across the table
shoving plates, glasses, cutlery and everything in her path crashing onto the
slate floor. Polly landed perfectly onto Seymour's lap, her legs somehow
miraculously ending up astride him. She looked him straight in the eyes and
slapped her full red lips onto his. Seymour, shocked, tried to pull back. Why?
He wasn't sure. This stuff had, thus far in his life, only inhabited either
movies, TV ads or lone fantasies of the night.
    His chair slowly
leaned back with the mysterious combined forces of Seymour's retreat and
Polly's enthusiastic advances. His chair reached the point of no return and
fell backward sending both of them in a wrestling grapple onto the lounge
carpet.
    Within seconds
she was sat astride him, her face inches away from his. She again slapped her
now smudged pouting lips onto his stupid clown-like grin and proceeded to suck
out his digestive system.
    Seymour,
attempting to breathe through his nose whilst happily being asphyxiated, ripped
at her dress, tearing it clean in two as she pulled off his jacket Houdini
style. She slithered down to his crotch, undid his flies and wrestled his vaguely
enthusiastic penis into her mouth.
    The phone rang.
    They froze and
looked up at the cordless handset warbling on the sofa. Climbing off Seymour,
she slowly crawled on all fours towards it. Seymour watched her.
    The phone
stopped. Polly dropped her head, let out a defeated sigh as she stood up,
grabbed a throw from the sofa and wrapped it around herself.
    ‘Oh shit, what's
the time? What the hell am I doing for God’s sake?’ whispered Polly, suddenly
distressed. She looked up at the clock, then at Seymour, who was attempting to
yank his trousers on.
    ‘God, I'm sorry
Seymour, this should not be happening, please forgive me. Oh God. Fuck!’
    Polly looked
around at the chaos, running her hands through her hair.
    Seymour stood up,
his oversized suit trousers falling down to his