Daniel Guy's Blog

by Daniel Guy Part 1. -See the guy at the bar, in the corner, reading a book?  -The skinny one with short black hair?   -Yeah. That’s him.  Corporal Murphy.  Looks like a clean living kinda guy, but underneath, who would believe it, huh? A fucking sicko, hiding in our unit. Incredible…   OK. So you go up to him and hand him this envelope. Inside is a photo of the laptop he lost. Tell him it was found on a park bench and it ended up on my desk. Tell him we checked to see if he had any classified army information on it, and we found some disturbing material, and we urgently need to see him. Tell him if what we found was shown to the commander, his promotion next year might be jeopardised, and his employment with the US Army terminated.  Tell him to come to the basement at the Officers Club tonight at ten pm. Tell him we haven’t told Commander Richards yet, but if he fails to turn up, we will hand the laptop over to him. O.K. Do it now. I’m going to ...

by Daniel Guy Michelle slips off her cute black leather jacket and drops it onto the white leather sofa in Sabrina’s smart new apartment.   As she begins to cast her envious eyes around,  Sabrina stands at the entrance to her kitchen and asks,  ‘Would you like milk in your coffee?’  ‘No thanks,’ says Michelle, ‘I’m off milk these days.’ ‘How about a dash of sperm?’ ‘What?’ Michelle looks aghast.  Sabrina smiles. ‘Yes. It’s very nice in a strong expresso.’ Michelle laughs. ‘You’re joking…’ ‘Not at all!  You want to try it?  It’s also very good for the skin. I got bored trying to obtain decent sperm from the kind of men I usually hang out with, so in the end I bought a machine.  Makes life so much easier…’ ‘Really?  A machine that serves up real sperm?’ ‘Yes,’ says Sabrina. ’Impossible!’ ‘You want to see it? ’Come with me. I’ll show you.’ So Michelle follows Sabrina into the kitchen and there in the corner, ne...

by Daniel Guy  (A specially requested sequel to a previous story - Giovanni Plastics.) ‘Shattowe Bertrand, seel-voo-play.’  says Martin Littlejohn in a thin, nervous voice with a faint Birmingham accent. The French taxi driver sighs and nods and off they go, passing fields of languedoc vines and pretty green hills littered with cypress trees.  Martin is forty-three and works in a bank. He’s slightly overweight but otherwise not bad-looking, and his pale blue eyes and tufty bown hair suggest an easy-going and honest man. His wife and two young kids think he’s on a three day management course in Manchester, but he’s here in the south of France, alone.  The warm mediterranean sun is setting as Martin steps out of the taxi and looks up at the imposing entrance to Chateau Bertrand. It’s ancient, ornate and grand, built three hundred years ago, standing on a gentle hill, looking out onto acres of lush green vines. Imposing tall trees stand alongside...