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Overview

Welcome to Mr. Stripy and Other Stories, Seven Slippery Supernatural Snippets, 342 pages of anarchistic, otherworldly adventure by David Jasmin-Green, an original storyteller and a truly great guy; I know that's true because I'm blowing my own trumpet, knoworromean? This is my first book, and I'm excited about the prospect of publication - in fact I'm practically wetting my pants. This book is for open-minded adults, OK? It's strictly not for kiddies (well most kiddies, but mine have read it). But don't fret - it's not that bad unless you're a total pussy, so please don't navigate away from my blurb in barely disguised disgust. Its brill, honestly; it's a phantasmagoria of unmissable delights, and there's something for everyone within these pages. Revel in the wisdom of Mr. Stripy, a stuffed toy suddenly imbibed with sentience that makes a series of increasingly disturbing predictions with surprising consequences. Meet Howard Stanton, a probably unforgivable disgraced businessman cum drug runner and seasoned junkie whose tainted, possibly murderous and somewhat parrot haunted soul is weighed in a Yuletide flavoured suburb of hell. Dally awhile with Terry Palmer, a boy trapped under his tyrannical mother's thumb contacted by an alien intelligence whose outlandish promises he's not at all sure if he can trust. Witness the dilemma of Brian Whittaker, a man with learning difficulties trapped in an unjust, potentially lethal situation; he may or may not be rescued by a passing knight in shining armour – I really can't say. Enjoy an alternative Creation account involving a decidedly overworked God, a plague of unruly kids and a horde of flesh eating Crinkle Giants; oh, I almost forgot, and a malicious Dodo. I think you'll like the story of Susie Picket, an uncommonly bright girl exploring the unpredictable chaos of her personal, thingummy infested Wonderland. Is that it? I sense you yawning. No, it bloody well isn't. There's also a chance to meet Jonathan Fitzroy, who ekes out his autumn years by trying to make himself useful during the dying throes of an apocalyptic world gnawed slowly to death by a mysterious, apparently incurable malady. And that's still not all. This is no trashy, swiftly compiled glob of prime time pap. Amongst other tantalising extras I've thrown in an infeasibly long, rather tiger oriented afterthought that began as a brief foreword but for reasons that I don't have time to go into mushroomed alarmingly and slipped into the borderlands of insanity, into a strange place infested with ravenous tigers, nauseous critics, pig-thick chinless wonders, scheming pigeons and dream trains, amongst other things. In that far from watertight vessel I discuss life, the universe and everything from my unique, darkly comic and more often than not caustic point of view, largely because I'm a smug, sarcastic git. Not to be missed! You have to buy this book – it's an absolute bargain. I'm not kidding, laddie matey boy (or lassie matey girl, as the case may be). You must read this or you'll pine away for the rest of your miserable life, die psychologically unsatisfied and emotionally incomplete and be buried in a paupers' grave, and your only mourners will be a couple of meths swigging tramps and a gang of spaced out hoodies pissing on your cheap chipboard coffin. And just before you expire I'll give you a slap with a long dead cod for daring to shun my mad scientist with illusions of world domination genius. What do you mean, you still don't fancy perusing my long pondered extravaganza because it sounds a bit weird and you don't think you'll enjoy it? Oh, all right then - begone! Go and buy someone else's safe, deodorised, relatively sane tuppenny-ha'penny crud instead if you think it'll m

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