UnBooks:Grey is the New Pink

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The novel Grey is the New Pink is also available in paperback.
Her

cock thrusting into me felt like a monster truck, driving hard and fast down a rough and dirty monster truck race course. Sex with her, Madrida, as she was known by her legion of Parisian law students, was like hastily putting on my trousers and accidentally tipping all of their pockets' contents out, small change flying everywhere in a boundless acrobatic whirlpool, dodgy tissues sauntering unceremoniously towards the ground.
"Oh," I crooned out, "Madrida!"
She then wailed out the single most destructive expression of my career, if you are to call it that. "Grey," she wailed, "is the new pink!"

I have always appreciated a humorous pop culture reference

At the time I was unperturbed by this mysterious statement of intent. I was readily aware of the Emmy award-winning hit US Netflix-produced sitcom, Orange Is The New Black, and assumed that she was making a witty reference to the show. Although I had not at the time seen the show, I have always appreciated a humorous pop culture reference and I liked the way this one in particular cleverly subverted the show's abstract title into something with a different literal meaning by exchanging the two colours incorporated in the title with two completely different colours. I did not exactly understand the context under which she thought this remark of comedy gold was necessary, but I tried to chuckle politely, only my diaphragm would not contract as I was being pelted so damn hard in a sexual way.

She got the message. She picked up on my subtle rhythmical vibrations with her gargantuan penis. The decision to laugh, it turned out, was my grave mistake. She did not find it funny. Suddenly she pulled her gargantuan penis out of the unwieldy tufts that constituted my wacky hairdo and bolted stark naked down the badly lit corridor, yelling "AAAAAAARGH!" like a brain-damaged primate. I watched her beautiful hairy back disappear out of sight for the last time. I hastily put on my trousers and accidentally tipped all of their pockets' contents out, small change flying everywhere in a boundless acrobatic whirlpool, dodgy tissues sauntering unceremoniously towards the ground.

She was not a happy monkey

I emerged from the dungeon. The broad-day light of day's sunlight blinded me. Not literally of course, ya big silly. But it did make me limp and writhe about in the middle of the busy street waving my arms about like a Kung Fu sorcerer for a few minutes. When I eventually elected to open my eyes, I noticed that things, colours, looked different than from before. I couldn't quite put my finger on the precise chromatic change that had occurred, but one thing was for sure: things were looking a hell of a lot less pink and more grey. I dismissed this as some phenomenon related to the change of light between night and day.

Boring.

The grey sky that hung on my head that had previously been, quite implausibly, a gaudy bright pink, made me have an instant involuntary flashback to my lesbian phase a decade ago. I was having an affair with this drug-dealer. Myriad, or something. Beautiful name. I was utterly in love with her. I knew this to be true because every night she would beat me with a large studded bat, which reminded me of my father, and I loved my father and I always use clear logic when it came to diagnosing my emotions so therefore I must have loved her too, and equally. She smelt of chlorine, and I was drawn closer and closer to her as I grew more and more dependent on her unique offerings. I lay semi-conscious for weeks by her fridge while she provided me with all her love and affection. Things changed. I noticed colours transforming. People complaining about prisons being full up with these new orange people. Of course I never went to prison, despite the fact that I kept on forgetting to go through customs when we went on holiday together.

I got back to my surprisingly large apartment in the suburbs. Although I wasn't a lesbian any more, I kept loads of lesbians hanging about the place because I was politically correct. They were always ugly, but I hadn't remembered them all being grey, head to toe. Not that they were now, but if they had been pink head to toe previously I bet they would have been. But lesbians don't like pink. At any rate, I just about figured out that everything pink had turned grey when Jack approached me and punched me square in the nose because I hadn't been feeding her for a while or something. I was confronted by a stream of bright grey blood (my blood had been pink ever since Myriad injected super glue into the side of my head) staring at me intimidatingly in my bathroom mirror. Well, intimidating is something of an overstatement, considering that, and not to sound pretentious here, grey simply isn't a terribly intimidating colour. Don't get me wrong, I was a little worried when I saw grey blood dripping over the top of my upper lip, but it didn't have an immediate effect.

I had not considered up until this point that Madrida's oral ejaculation was to be taken literally.

A funny way of putting it. Then again, Madrida was quite the joker. What kind of evil bastard could possibly have made grey the new pink? 

Before being able to think through the implications of that question, I dropped off into another involuntary flashback. It was Myriad and me engaging in graphic hardcore sex, screaming at the top of our lungs. WHY didn't she care? I'd dance for her, and she USED me. I want to go back, I want to tell her that her pathetic minuscule penis was practically non-existent. All she ever did was business. One day she just left. She bolted stark naked down the badly lit corridor, cawing "YAAAAAAAR!" like a brain-damaged ornithological pet. I watched her beautiful hairy back disappear out of sight for the last time.

"JACK!" I shouted, "WHO TURNED ALL THE PINK STUFF GREY?" What I had not accounted for was that I had been out cold for several hours during my last flashback and Jack had gone away to wherever it is lesbians go. But considering the question myself, I realised that grey, unlike pink, is not a colour, but merely a tone. Which means that making grey the new pink is an even more evil and devious thing to do, because it means that there's less colour and stuff. Then I thought to myself, "Who would want to take away colour from the world?
"Drug-dealers! of course!" I realised that Myriad and her gang of orange Negroes must have been the root of it. I never had great respect for drug-dealers, but now I knew I had to take them on single-handedly.

I rushed out onto the streets and frenziedly made for the spot of Myriad's evil drug-dealing gang's secret hideout, but bumped into some distressed young man.
"Madrida!" he shrieked romantically. He was wearing a scruffy olive neck-tie and had a large wet-patch in the groin area of his campy green shorts, so I presumed he was a Parisian law student.
"Is it cool, like, legally, to kill a bunch of people if they're evil and deal drugs 'n shit?" I asked earnestly, while making casual and jaunty hand gestures to show how normal I was.
And like the frog piece of shit he was he replied, dismissively, "Je ne sais pas..." I slapped him across the face and asked him, politely and patiently, to speak English. "C'est la vie..." God, bastard had a nerve. I had a right mind to kill him too.
I stomped off down the street and, being weasel he was he called out for me, "Wait! Vous know le great Madrida? Je have seen vous avec her outside le dongeonne... Tell her she is mon raison d'etre!" I scolded him harshly and told him that I found bestiality disgusting and that he should know better, as a law student. It was at his excited reaction to this last comment that I realised something special was going on. Turns out, he wasn't a law student, he just really wanted to be one. Only someone so stupid, so bold, so earnest, so irritating as to fail 127 entrance exams at 127 different French universities could ever possess any true feelings for one so overgrown as Madrida. I knew love, and I knew now that this was it.

But I couldn't do anything about it. It was nightfall, grey was the new pink, and I was stealthily prancing about a street corner. I have never been one to pride myself on my intelligence, but I knew that it was wise to test the waters first by watching their operations. Unfortunately Myriad was not with them, but I knew the rest and I knew the rest were scum. After a disgraceful 2 hours of watching their naughty drug tomfoolery, I decided it only made sense then to suck it in and go for the jugular, so to stab.

I ran in, screaming "Die orange criminals, why did you change the colours?"
"Yo, lady, you wack! Yo – yo – you need to get yo eyes fixed," exclaimed one in a stereotypical accent just before I brutally slashed up his face. Of course! It was just colour blindness, all along!

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