D B English

D B English is a totally cool guy; wit, raconteur, international playboy, lover par excellence, gourmet chef with a penchant for fine wines, cask ales and aged brandy. His sexual prowess is the stuff of legend amongst the harems of Eastern potentates, whilst his formidable abilities as both swordsman and unarmed combatant have made his name both feared and respected across the globe. Iron Mike Tyson, the former world heavyweight boxing champion was once reported to have locked himself in a bathroom, whimpering in terror upon being told that D B was looking for him.

Not only is D B phenomenally well-blessed in the trouser department, his techniques of seduction are so irresistible that it has been said that no female can resist the urge to hurl themselves bodily at his feet the moment he enters the room. No doubt many readers will recall the words of Marylin Monroe when, upon being asked what she wore in bed, replied 'Hey, is that D B English over there? Outta my way, boys, hubba! hubba!'

 

And yet, despite being undoubtedly the most handsome, virile, witty, articulate, and totally fabulous all-round embodiment of masculinity, D B remains at heart a simple, humble soul. Perhaps this is why great statesmen and captains of industry have sought the wisdom of his counsel, availing themselves of his freely-proffered pearls of intellectual perfection as they have wrestled with the weighty issues of the day. It may be recalled how, upon being asked what he thought of Western civilisation, the great Mahatma Ghandi remarked 'Apart from that god in human form, D B English, I think it would be a very good idea'.

And so, dear reader, you may indeed consider yourself fortunate, nay, blessed to hold a selection of the mighty D B's work in your mortal hand. How fortunate was that day on which the fates decreed that you should be so favoured. Surely, there can be no finer way to close the curtain on our little performance than to quote the master himself. As D B English said:

'If you believe a word of this bullshit, you can weave fog!'

DB has published 2 collections of short stories:

Voices available HERE

Those Who Dream by Day available HERE

And here, dear readers, is a sample of DB English's work.

The Bunker

He ran a trembling hand through his sweat-stained hair. How long had it been since he’d slept? He couldn’t remember. His exhausted brain tried to make sense of the map in front of him but the lines blurred, the models swayed in and out of focus.

He took a deep, shuddering breath of hot, stale air. Behind him was the doorway to his sleeping quarters. There was the hard bed, the crumpled sheets. He had to rest, he couldn’t go on planning, deciding, ordering. He must have rest.

But as he took a step towards the bedroom, the door of the bunker flew open. Flickering red lights and odd shadows danced outside. A tall man in uniform rushed in, slammed the door behind him.

‘Mein Fuhrer! The Russians have entered the city. What are your orders?’ he said, coming to attention and giving the stiff-armed salute.

With a weary sigh, he turned back to the cramped room. At least this underling had remembered his duty, had remained loyal when so many others had turned against him. Now, if he could only remember the man’s name…no, he was too weak from exhaustion, stress and fear. The man’s face seemed familiar but his name had disappeared into the fog. Nevertheless, he must appear strong, now more than ever. He straightened up, ignoring the pain in his back, the aching behind his eyes, the constant throbbing in his temples.

‘What is your name, soldier?’

‘Baufmetz, mein Fuhrer.’

‘Where have the Russians come from?

‘From the north, mein Fuhrer.’

He peered down at the map on the table before him. The north? Surely they should have come from the east? It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. Why couldn’t he just rest, half an hour would be enough, then he could think. He swayed, his hand clutching the edge of the table for support. So tired. He glanced up. The man was watching him closely. Was he smiling? In the dim light, it was hard to be sure. But the Russians….It was no use, he couldn’t do it.

‘Hold them off. I am going to lie down for twenty minutes.’

As he turned and took a tottering step towards the sanctuary he so desperately craved, the door flew open once more. A short, stocky man rushed in, slammed the door behind him.

‘The Americans have advanced into the city, mein Fuhrer. What are your orders?’

He turned. Who was this man? His face…did he know this man?

‘Who are you?’

The man saluted, smiled. He seemed to have too many teeth. ‘Beltzenbaum, mein Fuhrer.’

He ran a hand through his hair again. Who were these men? Why was he even here? How long since he’d slept? What was this all about, anyway?

The air was too hot, too stale. His throat was so dry he could not swallow. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten.

‘Water. I must have water. And food. You, what was your name again?’

‘Baufmetz, mein Fuhrer.’

‘Yes, of course, Baufmetz. Bring me food and water.’

The man saluted, went out. As the door closed, there was the acrid smell of smoke from beyond and a sound, high-pitched, undulating.

‘What is that smell? Is something burning? And was that screaming?’ he asked.

‘There are fires above, mein Fuhrer, and many are struggling. It is pandemonium beyond that door’ the man replied ‘but, rest assured, no-one can ever reach you down here.’

At that moment, the door opened. Baufmetz entered with another man. This one was tall, proud, clearly a warrior who knew battle. The stench of burning was even stronger now, the red-orange glow of conflagration casting dancing shadows around the room.

‘Mein Fuhrer, the enemy demands your surrender,’ said the warrior ‘will you accept defeat and plead for mercy?’

Defeat? Surrender? Was the man insane? He drew himself up to his full height, all weariness, all pain forgotten as his anger gave him strength.

‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ he roared, though his voice was cracked and hoarse from heat and thirst ‘What is your name? I will have you shot!’

‘I am Lutzfahr, mein Fuhrer. Will you surrender?’

The three men stood before him, their uniforms singed and torn from the chaos above, their eyes seeming to glow red in the reflected light, waiting for his reply.

‘Never!’ he screamed ‘I will never surrender, not to the Americans, not to the Russians, not to anybody!’

The three men grinned, nodded.

‘Do you hear me? Do you hear my words? I will never surrender, never! I am your Fuhrer, do you hear?’

‘You are the Fuhrer!’ they cried.

‘Those insolent Russians, I curse them!’ he raged, slamming his hand on the table,  ‘I curse them all!’

‘Cursed, Fuhrer.’

‘Americans? Ha! They are damned, all of them, damned I tell you!’

‘Damned, Fuhrer.’

‘I will rebuild my armies, I will rebuild my Reich and it will rule the world, do you hear?’ he shrieked in fury ‘I will be Fuhrer forever!’

‘Forever, Fuhrer.’

‘My name will live for ever more,’ he screamed, raising his fists high, his bloodshot eyes bulging, ‘I will be immortal, I tell you, my Reich will rule for all eternity!’

‘For all eternity, Fuhrer.’

‘Now get out, all of you! Out, I say!’

Grinning madly, the three men hurried out, the heavy door clanged shut behind them. Now he could think, now he must plan. His shoulders slumped. The anger, the furious outburst had left him even more drained than before. And that fool, what was his name, Baum-something, had forgotten the food and water.

He was so tired, more tired than flesh and blood could bear. And so thirsty, it was so hot down here. What was he doing? There was something very important he had to do. What was it? He leant on the table, stared bleary-eyed at the map.

He ran a trembling hand through his sweat-stained hair. How long had it been since he’d slept? He couldn’t remember. His exhausted brain tried to make sense of the map in front of him but the lines blurred, the models swayed in and out of focus.

He took a deep, shuddering breath of hot, stale air. Behind him was the doorway to his sleeping quarters. There was the hard bed, the crumpled sheets. He had to rest, he couldn’t go on planning, deciding, ordering. He must have rest.

But as he took a step towards the bedroom, the door of the bunker flew open. Flickering red lights and odd shadows danced outside. A tall man in uniform rushed in, slammed the door behind him.

‘Mein Fuhrer! The Russians have entered the city. What are your orders?’

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