I weren't that bad at being a Superhero...

Basically yeah, I did actually do some good for people that needed my help at certain times. Here are a few words from some people that I have saved in the past. It was that I just didn't last very long being good at using my gift. It were just that I got well into too many things that made ME happy and not other people you know? When you're blessed with super powers, better use em properly innit?

Anyway I digress; read what things I've done...

Brenda McCliver, Bovisand , Cornwall, UK.

"Mr Sausage, le Saucisson Grand, El Sausage, Salsiccia di Magificent, however you may know the aforementioned hero, thinker, diplomat, scientist, mechanically recovered meat product; stories of his exploits never cease. None could forget the time the celebrated ambassador for sausage-kind singlehandedly drove off the Pineapple hordes. Certainly it will be written in the histories of man and sausage that Mr Sausge was instrumental in the Defense of the Knuckle, I don’t have to tell you how grave the consequences could have been that day.
But this is not why I write; many world leaders, authors and prostitutes will write glowing obituaries in this time of mourning. I have a more personal tale to tell.

It began during troubling times, rivers were flowing sideways, toenails had formed a union demanding a creche service and dental care, but worst of all in my case was the fact that my family home had been invaded by marauding transexual man-eating camels. The word was they had themselves holed up pretty good in there, plenty of ammunition, strong defensive perimeter, and enough water to keep a lizard living on the surface of the sun hydrated for thirty seconds. Times were dark indeed. Dark that is, until the arrival of a certain intestine coated “meat” product on the scene. Rumour had it he had travelled through time and space, seperating himself from the anniversary of his marriage to his favourite wife to save the day. Needless to say, it all happened very fast. With a flash of light and a crack of thunder it began.
The courageous sausage advanced slowly towards the two dromedary sentries guarding the door. They shuffled their hooves nervously, waiting to strike. As the gap closed to striking distance, time seemed to slow to a halt, everything fell silent, the birds themselves dared not sing. After what seemed like an eternity the shorter camel reared up on it’s hind legs and threw a feint before lunging at our hero with a previously concealed fork. Much to the surprise of the two hapless sentries, Mr Sausage was no longer standing there.

A moment later the two dromedaries fell lifeless to the floor, some people reported their humps had actually been turned inside out, but this I cannot confirm. Mr Sausage let out a sadistic cackle as he towered over the corpses of the fallen. The cheers of victory from the onlookers began to fade as the muffled screams of my family could be heard from inside. The expression on the valiant Senor sausege’s face shifted from rage to concern, even fear, as he realised what was about to happen. The camels were getting ready for the main course.
Now I can’t really tell you what actually happened next, such was the ferocity of his actions, but I can recall what I saw when I ran in after him. The smell was unbearable, the sight of blood, bone fragments, hair and brain matter liberally spattered all over my ancestral home still chills me to this very day. None can deny the efficiency of the reknowned sausage in his slaughter. I started to tiptoe though the wreckage, and gradually sank into a walk as it dawned on me that there was no way I could avoid the blood, he must have torn 30 of the fiercest cannibal camels to pieces in under a second. My shoes left bloody footprints in the carpet as I rose up the stairs, my heart pounding in fear of what I was about to see.
A sense of eery calm was in the air as I walked into the room. On one side there was the intruders, standing over the kneeling, broken members of my family, they had been tied up with thick rope, their mouths covered in duct tape. On the other side was Mr Sausage, covered in the crimson life blood of the vanquished, casually twirling his legendary junior hacksaw in his right hand. He smiled the smile of a warrior.
I looked each member of my family in the eye, knowing that these moments before the end of this twisted mexican stand-off may be the last time I see them alive.
My mother motioned the attackers to let her speak, these words could swing the outcome in any direction. As they tore off the tape preventing my dearest mother from speaking, she appeared to be scared. She told me, “You're movin' with your auntie and uncle in Bel-Air." I whistled for a cab and when it came near the license plate said “FRESH” and it had dice in the mirror. If anything I could say that this cab was rare, but I thought, "Nah, forget it. Yo, holmes to Bel-Air!" I pulled up to the house about 7 or 8 and I yelled to the cabbie, "Yo holmes smell ya later!" Looked at my kingdom I was finally there, to sit on my throne as the prince of Bel-Air."

Coral 'Lezzlee' Madge, Newcastle-under-Lyme, UK

"To my dear friend Mr. Sausage, for whom i would not be here without.

It began in Autumn. The vivid colours were a vibrant backdrop for the scene about to unfold. A hardboiled cop walked the beat, eyeing the streets, with his maverick partner in tow. He stopped. The words "I'm too old for this shit" float out from his tired mouth, as he lights another Malboro. The chalk outline said it all. Another body.

In Sausville, something was up. Fifty bodies, fifty weeks, zero leads. The cop took a drag and stamped out his cigarette as he surveyed the brutality. Another Pepperami needlessly wasted. Not enough one bite was taken before it was so callously disposed of. The boot marks were still clear as day on the Pepperami's face.

The cop called his partner over to witness the damage. "Looks like it was the Peperami Wideboys again". The partner nodded. The wars between the factions had been raging through the streets for as long as anyone could remember. This wasn't an isolated case.

The Originals, from Lower East Side, battled furiously with the Peperami Hot unit. The Firestick posse were head to head with Barbecue Crew. It was all out warfare and noone in the town could escape. Peperamis of all creeds would fight in the streets, in bars and shops, and noone could, or would do a damn thing about it.

Until he came. The one. Mr. Sausage. Like a whirlwind of crotchpunches he vigilanted his way onto the scene, neutralising trouble like Immodium on Diarrhoea. He was all over the gangs like flies on shit, laying bodies to rest at every corner. He was feared and revered, idolised but critisized, he was famous yet an ignoramous. He was Mr. Sausage.

Noone knew him, he was elusive, a shadow living in the night. Rumours said he knew a secret form of Kung Fu, based around his being 'a bit of an animal' but these claims were never substantiated. All we knew was when gang warfare spilled onto the streets, Mr. Sausage would be there, cape undulating in the breeze, and things would be settled. With blood. And often semen. Noone knew where the semen would come from, but it was there.

I had run into a little trouble gambling, throwing dice in the alley with Leroy. I owed him money and damn was I gonna pay, I didn't even have two pennies to swing a cat around. So it came to that fateful night. I was hustlin some pool down at Tony's place, like i do everyday, when they came in. The pianist stopped. Voices went silent. Fireboys. The most notorious of Peperami Mob. We all knew it was time.

No man should ever go down without a fight. Walking towards the behemoth creatures I knew I had no chance against them, but I fought anyway. Or so I thought.

When i became conscious it was clear I had little to do with the absolute carnage around me. Bar fights in Scotland paled in comparison. The place looked worse than Michael Barrymore's house post party. And that was when I heard him. Mr. Sausage was breathing feightly, wheezing, and lying twisted and broken on the floor. The remnants of Leroy's heavies were scattered around like potpourri, with the shadowy figure of Mr. Sausage laying dying in the middle. I ran to his side, "what happened?" I cried.

"They came. They beat you" he coughed. "I arrived as soon as I could. I was confused when people projected images of dicks into the sky, I thought I was needed elsewhere. I did all I could, but they got me". It was his time, and I began to weep.


I'll never forget his last words. "Here's looking at you Douche". "



Emily Berrelsniff, Lodgecombe Farm, Nr. Ashburton, Devon, UK. EX31 5TH

"Mr Sausage saved my bacon!

It was in early 2006 during a time when all the hills and farms around my way had been frozen. There were many hazards playing havoc on all of the folk round here.
On this particular day, my pigs were out of their shed and tumbling around in their pen. The weather had gotten so cold that some of the pigs had frozen solid. Patrick (the semi-aggressive pig) got hold of Mark (the terribly aggressive pig) and because they are both so ugly and sweaty, they got lodged together. Stuck fast in a mixture of pig blood and the slobber. They were stuck fast!!!

Mr Sausage flew in wearing his orange cape. His fine physique is always a nice thing to see when you haven’t had the warmth of a man for so long. Nothing had prepared me for his visit.
Quick as a flash, he dislodged the two pigs with a single rasp of his stale breath. The bacteria and sheer temperature of his breath disintegrating the mixture of general slime and mucus
.
Mr Sausage did not ask for any payment, although I would’ve been happy to oblige any form of repent. However; he was slightly miffed when he realised that one of the pig’s had left a slime-trail down the front of his favourite tracksuit bottoms.

If Mr Sausage hadn’t turned up, I would have two less prime Pigs in my stock, and for that I am eternally grateful.

King regards


Emily Berrelsniff. "