Three Breasted Hooker (Total Recall)

The Green (Shepherds Bush)

 In the battle for hearts and minds, we were encouraged to play-up the deformity angle. Sympathy was key, our revolutionary leaders told us, in the drive to gain support and crush the air-oppressors.

To be honest I wasn’t keen to go to the barricades. for some of us, genetic mutation just hadn’t been the disaster those warm-mongering hot-heads were trying to sell;

Quite the opposite in fact.

I mean, given the choice, do you really think I’d down-grade to a standard duo in the knocker department? Do me a favour! Check out that picture fellas and you’ll understand why I’m the most popular – and richest - tom in town!

And I was far from alone in scoring a prize in the asphyxiation lottery.

Take a couple of my regulars. They weren’t part the Quaid story so you may not have heard of them. But they were seriously deformed, and seriously lucky. 

For starters there was old five-dicks (I never asked their real names).

It’s an amazing set up. He’s got one that points north, one south, one east and the other west, a cock-cross if you will. The fifth, though – bejesus - is a monster the size of an anaconda, poking out the front like a thunderous field gun.

He complains a lot of urinal splash back and a constant urge to point one cock North, but I reckon that’s a small price to pay. That multi-directional hose catapulted him to chief of the Martian Fire Service within five years.

Debilitating? I think not.

Another regular really hit the jackpot. He was born with a rectum replete with aerodynamic wings. Then, as he reached puberty, he realised he'd also been blessed with a pneumatic sphincter. Can the mutant fly? You bloomin’ bet.

He spends most summers jetting off to Uranus under his own steam.

Anyway, reason for coming to earth is that I heard that having three breasts would make me rich beyond my wildest dreams - particularly if I headed for London.

So after getting felt up at Heathrow Customs, I headed straight for Shepherds Bush. Now I’m not the sort of girl who’s afraid to go in a dodgy bar, so I hooked up in this place: The Green.

I couldn’t tell for sure, but it certainly looked like some of those drinkers had been starved of oxygen at birth! I bought a pint of lager and sat at the bar with my knockers hanging out, waiting for the attention.

No one batted an eyelid. And no wonder, considering the other freak show that walked in.  An enormous broad (with her Westfield shopping bags) was staggering to the bar. She must have been 6’ 8” and built like a tank.

“Two pints of beer,” she said smiling at the barmaid.

“Certainly, madam. What’s your poison, real ale? Lager?” said the staff

“Two pints……

two pints…..

twooo oooooo oooooo pints.

Twoo……..ooooooooooo”

Then she started to stagger about at the bar, making dreadful noises, pawing at her swede. Those travel agents were certainly right about mutant action on earth!

Then stone me, her head came off completely.

Only, this is no headless lady. It was a massive bloke wearing an even more enormous bird-suit, for a reason that's too implausible even for a spoof pub review by a martian hooker with three tits.

The fella scowled at me, then turned and chucked the lady head-mask in my lap. It turned, look right up at me, smiled and said:

“Get ready for a surprise.”

“Already had one darling,” I replied smartly. “My Fosters is as flat as f*ck.”

Three breasted hooker’s rating for The Green – 4 / 10

Sputnikski