Forty Shades of Green
Like an out-of-control missile test, Clunge veers wildly off the usual, predictable and well-worn course with his latest work and rockets off on a totally different (and hopefully lucrative) tangent. Rather like Mission From God, in which Clunge shamelessly blagged a lift on The Da Vinci Code bandwagon, Forty Shades of Green (2012) is an obvious cash-in on the popular Scandinavian crime thriller genre, with a more than significant dosage of mummy porn lobbed in for good measure. It therefore ticks all the right boxes and will doubtless have a generation of fifty-plus cougars swamping their knickers in no time at all. More Randy McNob than Andy McNab, Forty Shades of Green will doubtless become a future classic.
On the run from both British intelligence and the IRA, former high-ranking assassin and sexual predator Coleen O’Rafferty absconds to neutral Sweden with several million pound’s worth of laundered provo drug money – money that they want back. O’Rafferty spends her ill gotten gains with abandon, making no secret of her new-found wealth. Not content with merely screwing the IRA over, she wantonly screws just about everyone else into the bargain.
The bright emerald green Ferrari powered through the picturesque but featureless Scandinavian landscape, the engine note screaming as the driver changed through the gears. She must have been touching one hundred and twenty before she noticed the blue flashing lights in the rear view mirror. ‘Shit!’ she hissed before slowing and pulling over. The policeman eyed up the smart sportscar before strolling over to the driver’s side and gesturing her to lower the window. She looked up, her gaze being met by a Norse god. Tall, blonde and blue-eyed, he was just how she liked her men. ‘My, what a wonderful car. It’s the finest I’ve ever seen. But you were speeding madam, and our vehicle ID system shows that this car is registered in Oslo and should be black, not green. Would you care to explain?’ ‘Certainly officer. It used to be black as my father’s hat, so it did, but I thought it needed a lick o’paint. Here’s my license.’ The copper stroked his luxuriant moustache and scrutinised the document with a quizzical raised eyebrow.’
O’Rafferty slowly unzipped the front of her tight-fitting lycra jumpsuit and smiled. ‘Phew, it’s hot in here. I could do with some fresh air, mind if I get out?’ The policeman nodded and smiled knowingly. He knew what was coming next – literally. They were soon pounding each other into ecstasy, his firm rod smashing in and out of her hairy cleft like a fleshy shunting engine. ‘Begorrah, that’s fuckin’ lush so it is.’ she screamed to replies of ‘Ja ja. Fantastiche!’ After several minutes of pure animal grunting savagery she erupted in an orgasmic flourish, her lady garden gushing like a grid in a downpour as the moaning uniformed adonis withdrew his meaty manhood and sprayed her face with hot semen, like a race horse having a piss.
Naked, except for his socks and cap, the policeman suddenly looked in horror as O’Rafferty drew the derringer pistol she’d secreted between her ample sweaty breasts and emptied both barrels into the copper’s swede – which promptly exploded in a bloody firework display of gore. Still erect, the decapitated copper fell backwards, arms flailing wildly. ‘Sorry feller, you knew too much.’ laughed O’Rafferty as she wiped the policeman’s man fat off her face. Having had her way, she quickly dressed and dragged the twitching, virtually headless and now flacid corpse over to the police car and stuffed the body into the boot. Releasing the handbrake she pushed the car over the nearby cliff edge and into the icy waters of the fjord below. This would soon be on the TV, the radio and in every public bar, and no doubt legions of divorced, autistic albino coppers would be after her arse in short order, so O’Rafferty made her way back to the Ferrarri and floored it. Journey's 'Don't Stop Believin' shattered the peaceful nordic vista.
Clunge rocks! – Hustler Magazine
This book is a disgrace – Mary Whitehouse (deceased)
I agree – Svenska Polisen Review
New depths plumbed – Practical Mechanics
That’s my retirement sorted – John Menzie