AUSHERMAN'S LAST CONTRIBUTION TO
| Calvary Cay The First Eight Years of the Twenty-first Century Retold in Crypto-Allegorical Smut by Stephen Ausherman |
FINAL WARNING: THIS PAGE MAY CONTAIN UNSUITABLE MATERIAL
| a remix of |
| World History MMIX |
IT BEGAN with the fucking dogs.
Samuel had his dogs, hundreds of them, but the two he admired the
most were a peculiar breed he called his twins. They had the heads
of jackals with the piercing eyes of huskies and the smarmy grins of
hyenas. Their markings were distinctly Doberman, while their hides
took on a more wolfish shag. They stood on hind legs like grizzlies,
only taller. And their ears—God knows where they got those ears.
Sharp and erect. Aerodynamic. They had the ears of pagan rabbits.
Samuel watched them with satisfaction. They were his prize show
dogs, his bread-and-butter dogs. He did not know if he could
control them. He'd issue but one command: Fuck. And they
obeyed. The brother fucked like a sewing machine. The sister
churned out puppies like a sausage factory. The twins were large
and hideous, yet strangely alluring and impossible to ignore. They
were a landmark on Calvary Cay.
Samuel had his dogs, hundreds of them, but the two he admired the
most were a peculiar breed he called his twins. They had the heads
of jackals with the piercing eyes of huskies and the smarmy grins of
hyenas. Their markings were distinctly Doberman, while their hides
took on a more wolfish shag. They stood on hind legs like grizzlies,
only taller. And their ears—God knows where they got those ears.
Sharp and erect. Aerodynamic. They had the ears of pagan rabbits.
Samuel watched them with satisfaction. They were his prize show
dogs, his bread-and-butter dogs. He did not know if he could
control them. He'd issue but one command: Fuck. And they
obeyed. The brother fucked like a sewing machine. The sister
churned out puppies like a sausage factory. The twins were large
and hideous, yet strangely alluring and impossible to ignore. They
were a landmark on Calvary Cay.
The twins never left the yard, but their puppies did. Puppies born the size of ponies dashed out of the yard
and ran amok throughout the island. They mauled other show dogs so as to take the edge off the
competition. They shat on their neighbors' lawns and porches. They raided hen houses and iceboxes. Then
they'd return home, bellies swollen, and vomit in the kennels.
Samuel kept his pit bulls in the kennels. They ate puppy vomit. It made them mean. Sometimes a few might
get out at night and tear through the trailer parks. They often came back bloodied. Samuel didn't always
understand whose blood it was.
Samuel's dogs barked throughout the day and howled throughout the night. Some people complained.
Others respected him for his dogs. Many got dogs of their own and asked Samuel for breeding techniques
and training tips. Sometimes he obliged. He could be generous that way. This made him feel good about
himself, as did the drugs he liked to shoot and shove into his every orifice.
and ran amok throughout the island. They mauled other show dogs so as to take the edge off the
competition. They shat on their neighbors' lawns and porches. They raided hen houses and iceboxes. Then
they'd return home, bellies swollen, and vomit in the kennels.
Samuel kept his pit bulls in the kennels. They ate puppy vomit. It made them mean. Sometimes a few might
get out at night and tear through the trailer parks. They often came back bloodied. Samuel didn't always
understand whose blood it was.
Samuel's dogs barked throughout the day and howled throughout the night. Some people complained.
Others respected him for his dogs. Many got dogs of their own and asked Samuel for breeding techniques
and training tips. Sometimes he obliged. He could be generous that way. This made him feel good about
himself, as did the drugs he liked to shoot and shove into his every orifice.
SAMUEL TOOK A FEW BUMPS to brace himself for the drive to the East Central, into the middle of
the barrio on Calvary Cay. His pit bulls followed him into Kari’s front lawn. He threw rocks at her
bedroom window and yelled out her name.
She soon appeared on the balcony. Moonlight cast a cottony gauze over her head. She leaned her left arm
on the railing and tucked her right one behind her back. "Samuel?"
He loved the way she pronounced his name: Sahm-oo-el. So exotic. Like spices, Samuel thought. Like
paprika, maybe even thyme. He sniffed and rubbed his nose, then shouted: "Kari! Let me in!"
"Go home, Samuel." She glanced around, saw her neighbors watching from their windows.
"You got someone in there? Who's in there with you?"
"You are so fucking paranoid. Now go away."
"Come on, what are you hiding from me? Is it that meth lab in your basement?”
“How many times have we been through this already? Why do you come here every week and tell me not
to make the crack when you yourself are coked out of your skull?"
"Hey, my product is legit, mama girlfriend. But that shit you push makes the kids crazy."
"You know I do not deal in that. I’m not like the others. I have done nothing but sell you what you want."
"Yeah, gimme some of that. In fact, double the delivery. My homies need it bad. It helps us cope with the
loss of the twins." And he pulled out a fat wad of Franklins.
Kari unlatched the front door, peered outside. She said, "You can come in for a moment, but you leave
your dogs outside."
Samuel stomped his boot up on the door, kicked it in. Kari fell back on the floor. The dogs ran past her,
barking and slobbering.
Samuel said: "You don't tell me what to do with my dogs."
"I have dogs, too." Her lower lip quivered. "They'll tear holes in yours."
Samuel tightened the crotch straps on his jumpsuit. "Your little wieners? They wanna fuck with my bad
boys?" He chuckled. "Fine. Bring it on."
Kari pressed her right hand to the base of her spine and sobbed. "What’s happened to us, Samuel? We
were once so close."
Samuel scratched his head. "I guess I don’t remember that far back." He sniffed. The house smelled of
black tar. He reached down to help her up. She offered her left hand and let him pull her to her feet.
"Was it so long ago?" She stepped close to him.
He ached for her, but pushed her away. "I don't trust you, mama girlfriend."
"But why not?"
"I've been hurt before."
"Not by me."
"No? How about that time you fucked that little punk named Q8. That broke my heart."
"You were ignoring me then. I didn't think you'd even notice."
"And the way you carried on for years with that bull dyke next door."
"Irene? Oh, please. All you wanted then was to watch me fuck her."
Samuel grinned. "Yeah, that was pretty hot." He lost himself in the images she conjured in his head.
"You have elaborate desires, Samuel," she whispered. "I can help you."
His dogs tore through the basement and the pantries. Their growls echoed throughout the house. The snarls
of other dogs joined in. Piercing yelps rang from the crawlspace under the stairs.
He narrowed his eyes at her, looked her over. There was something strange. "Why do you always keep
one hand behind your back?"
She shrugged. "No reason."
One of his pit bulls returned to him. Blood ringed its jaws and neck.
He told Kari: "Show me your hands."
She lowered her gaze and shook her head.
"Take your hand out from behind your back and reach out to me."
Trembling, she obeyed.
He said: "Sic 'em, boy." And the dog lunged, seizing her elbow.
* * *
the barrio on Calvary Cay. His pit bulls followed him into Kari’s front lawn. He threw rocks at her
bedroom window and yelled out her name.
She soon appeared on the balcony. Moonlight cast a cottony gauze over her head. She leaned her left arm
on the railing and tucked her right one behind her back. "Samuel?"
He loved the way she pronounced his name: Sahm-oo-el. So exotic. Like spices, Samuel thought. Like
paprika, maybe even thyme. He sniffed and rubbed his nose, then shouted: "Kari! Let me in!"
"Go home, Samuel." She glanced around, saw her neighbors watching from their windows.
"You got someone in there? Who's in there with you?"
"You are so fucking paranoid. Now go away."
"Come on, what are you hiding from me? Is it that meth lab in your basement?”
“How many times have we been through this already? Why do you come here every week and tell me not
to make the crack when you yourself are coked out of your skull?"
"Hey, my product is legit, mama girlfriend. But that shit you push makes the kids crazy."
"You know I do not deal in that. I’m not like the others. I have done nothing but sell you what you want."
"Yeah, gimme some of that. In fact, double the delivery. My homies need it bad. It helps us cope with the
loss of the twins." And he pulled out a fat wad of Franklins.
Kari unlatched the front door, peered outside. She said, "You can come in for a moment, but you leave
your dogs outside."
Samuel stomped his boot up on the door, kicked it in. Kari fell back on the floor. The dogs ran past her,
barking and slobbering.
Samuel said: "You don't tell me what to do with my dogs."
"I have dogs, too." Her lower lip quivered. "They'll tear holes in yours."
Samuel tightened the crotch straps on his jumpsuit. "Your little wieners? They wanna fuck with my bad
boys?" He chuckled. "Fine. Bring it on."
Kari pressed her right hand to the base of her spine and sobbed. "What’s happened to us, Samuel? We
were once so close."
Samuel scratched his head. "I guess I don’t remember that far back." He sniffed. The house smelled of
black tar. He reached down to help her up. She offered her left hand and let him pull her to her feet.
"Was it so long ago?" She stepped close to him.
He ached for her, but pushed her away. "I don't trust you, mama girlfriend."
"But why not?"
"I've been hurt before."
"Not by me."
"No? How about that time you fucked that little punk named Q8. That broke my heart."
"You were ignoring me then. I didn't think you'd even notice."
"And the way you carried on for years with that bull dyke next door."
"Irene? Oh, please. All you wanted then was to watch me fuck her."
Samuel grinned. "Yeah, that was pretty hot." He lost himself in the images she conjured in his head.
"You have elaborate desires, Samuel," she whispered. "I can help you."
His dogs tore through the basement and the pantries. Their growls echoed throughout the house. The snarls
of other dogs joined in. Piercing yelps rang from the crawlspace under the stairs.
He narrowed his eyes at her, looked her over. There was something strange. "Why do you always keep
one hand behind your back?"
She shrugged. "No reason."
One of his pit bulls returned to him. Blood ringed its jaws and neck.
He told Kari: "Show me your hands."
She lowered her gaze and shook her head.
"Take your hand out from behind your back and reach out to me."
Trembling, she obeyed.
He said: "Sic 'em, boy." And the dog lunged, seizing her elbow.
* * *
But then one Tuesday morning Samuel
noticed something different about the twins.
They smoldered in the lawn as though
someone had deliberately incinerated them.
Worse, their throats were slit, their hides
torn open, their ribs exposed.
Everyone came by to gawk at the
horrendous spectacle. Some, out of shock
or disbelief or morbid curiosity, returned
four or five times a day.
noticed something different about the twins.
They smoldered in the lawn as though
someone had deliberately incinerated them.
Worse, their throats were slit, their hides
torn open, their ribs exposed.
Everyone came by to gawk at the
horrendous spectacle. Some, out of shock
or disbelief or morbid curiosity, returned
four or five times a day.
Samuel sought consolation in his pet goat, who (like the puppies) ate everything in its path. But it was not
enough for Samuel’s grief. So he slaughtered his goat and vowed revenge in a vague and ominous manner.
This he accomplished by cruising the streets and flashing gang signs at anyone who looked his way. He
was inarticulate in his signage, and few understood. So he drove to the mall and swore to the shoppers,
swore to them all he'd slaughter the crackheads who killed his twins.
The shoppers applauded.
That night he unlatched the kennel gates and walked away. A fury burned in his gut and groin. He drunk-
dialed ex-girlfriends and rubbed himself as they spoke. Most soon realized what he was doing and quickly
hung up. Some stayed on the line because they felt sorry for him, but by dawn he'd exhausted their
sympathies.
He phoned his posse. He said: "Whazzup, dawgs."
They were all like, "Oui?"
He said: "I'm up for some old school gangbanging. You rolling with me?"
They were all like, "Non."
He said: "Word on the street is Kari's turning her basement into a meth lab. You want a piece of that?"
And when they said no to that, he called them all a bunch of pussies and hung up. Way he figure it, if they
weren't rolling with him, they were rolling against him.
* * *
enough for Samuel’s grief. So he slaughtered his goat and vowed revenge in a vague and ominous manner.
This he accomplished by cruising the streets and flashing gang signs at anyone who looked his way. He
was inarticulate in his signage, and few understood. So he drove to the mall and swore to the shoppers,
swore to them all he'd slaughter the crackheads who killed his twins.
The shoppers applauded.
That night he unlatched the kennel gates and walked away. A fury burned in his gut and groin. He drunk-
dialed ex-girlfriends and rubbed himself as they spoke. Most soon realized what he was doing and quickly
hung up. Some stayed on the line because they felt sorry for him, but by dawn he'd exhausted their
sympathies.
He phoned his posse. He said: "Whazzup, dawgs."
They were all like, "Oui?"
He said: "I'm up for some old school gangbanging. You rolling with me?"
They were all like, "Non."
He said: "Word on the street is Kari's turning her basement into a meth lab. You want a piece of that?"
And when they said no to that, he called them all a bunch of pussies and hung up. Way he figure it, if they
weren't rolling with him, they were rolling against him.
* * *
KARI WOKE TO A WHITE SUN washing over the East Central. Her bed, stripped down to bare
mattress, seemed to exhale damp and raw breaths, an odor like a week's worth of troubled sleep. She
wore nothing but his old football jersey. It smelled of him: Stetson cologne and charbroiled beef.
As she sat up, the stump of her right arm turtled into its sleeve. Samuel knelt by her side, holding her left
hand to his bare chest. "Good morning, gorgeous." He leaned over her and kissed the twine stitches where
her arm ended, let his tongue linger on the knots he'd tied. "I always dreamed of having you this way."
She offered a faint smile. "You have such elaborate desires." She spread her legs and tugged at his crotch
straps.
"Hold on now, mama girlfriend. How about hooking me up with a hit of black tar, you know, to get my
engine going."
She groaned, rolled out from under him. "Is this all you want me for?" She padded down the hall, pretended
not to notice the blood and fur and teeth caked on the walls. She returned from the bathroom holding a dog
collar and chain, an executioner's hood, stripped extension cords, and alligator clamps.
"Are these mine or yours?" she asked.
"I'll, uh, have to ask my dogs about that," he mumbled as he tightened surgical tubing around his bicep.
He offered her the tender side of his forearm and said, "Fill'er up."
"Pump it yourself," she sighed, tossing him the gear. "You can no longer afford full service." She heard his
dogs' nails clicking down the staircase and turned away to gaze through the window. "The neighbors are
watching."
"Good. I'll give them a show." Samuel fastened the dog collar around her neck, tugged the leash and flashed
his gang signals, something like a thumbs-up or an A-O.K. But the passion never flared, the black tar
wouldn't take hold. He pressed his pelvis against her stump, but her cold dull flesh failed to arouse him.
His skull ached and his ears rang.
She checked the bedside clock. "How long is this going to take, Samuel?"
"Stop calling me that!"
"What shall I call you?"
"Shit, I don't know. Call me 'uncle.'"
She crossed her arms and pouted. "I will not."
"You will." He pressed his boot against her throat. "C'mon now. Say 'uncle.'"
She coughed out: "Uncle. There, I said it. Now tell me, Uncle Samuel, are you finished?"
He raised his hand to slap her face, closed it into a fist instead. "You shut up. This is your fault. Look at
you. You're hideous. You're a freak."
She stroked her stump. "You did this to me."
He cocked his fist back and unleashed it on his own ear. "Stupid," he growled. "Fucking stupid." He
punched his own ear until it bled. "Stupid." He pulled the hood over his head and, blinded now, ran into a
wall. "Stupid." He staggered back, then charged again.
"Samuel, if this is not working for you, can you maybe reattach my arm? Or get me a new one?"
The hood blustered with the suck and blow of his heavy breaths. "Yeah. Yeah, I can fix you. Just give me
time to think. I’ll fix you right up."
* * *
mattress, seemed to exhale damp and raw breaths, an odor like a week's worth of troubled sleep. She
wore nothing but his old football jersey. It smelled of him: Stetson cologne and charbroiled beef.
As she sat up, the stump of her right arm turtled into its sleeve. Samuel knelt by her side, holding her left
hand to his bare chest. "Good morning, gorgeous." He leaned over her and kissed the twine stitches where
her arm ended, let his tongue linger on the knots he'd tied. "I always dreamed of having you this way."
She offered a faint smile. "You have such elaborate desires." She spread her legs and tugged at his crotch
straps.
"Hold on now, mama girlfriend. How about hooking me up with a hit of black tar, you know, to get my
engine going."
She groaned, rolled out from under him. "Is this all you want me for?" She padded down the hall, pretended
not to notice the blood and fur and teeth caked on the walls. She returned from the bathroom holding a dog
collar and chain, an executioner's hood, stripped extension cords, and alligator clamps.
"Are these mine or yours?" she asked.
"I'll, uh, have to ask my dogs about that," he mumbled as he tightened surgical tubing around his bicep.
He offered her the tender side of his forearm and said, "Fill'er up."
"Pump it yourself," she sighed, tossing him the gear. "You can no longer afford full service." She heard his
dogs' nails clicking down the staircase and turned away to gaze through the window. "The neighbors are
watching."
"Good. I'll give them a show." Samuel fastened the dog collar around her neck, tugged the leash and flashed
his gang signals, something like a thumbs-up or an A-O.K. But the passion never flared, the black tar
wouldn't take hold. He pressed his pelvis against her stump, but her cold dull flesh failed to arouse him.
His skull ached and his ears rang.
She checked the bedside clock. "How long is this going to take, Samuel?"
"Stop calling me that!"
"What shall I call you?"
"Shit, I don't know. Call me 'uncle.'"
She crossed her arms and pouted. "I will not."
"You will." He pressed his boot against her throat. "C'mon now. Say 'uncle.'"
She coughed out: "Uncle. There, I said it. Now tell me, Uncle Samuel, are you finished?"
He raised his hand to slap her face, closed it into a fist instead. "You shut up. This is your fault. Look at
you. You're hideous. You're a freak."
She stroked her stump. "You did this to me."
He cocked his fist back and unleashed it on his own ear. "Stupid," he growled. "Fucking stupid." He
punched his own ear until it bled. "Stupid." He pulled the hood over his head and, blinded now, ran into a
wall. "Stupid." He staggered back, then charged again.
"Samuel, if this is not working for you, can you maybe reattach my arm? Or get me a new one?"
The hood blustered with the suck and blow of his heavy breaths. "Yeah. Yeah, I can fix you. Just give me
time to think. I’ll fix you right up."
* * *
THE SOLUTION CAME TO SAMUEL shortly
after his puppies came to vomit in Kari's house. The
puppies reminded him of their parents, the twins. He
recalled their churlish grins and their pagan rabbit ears
and the way they'd fuck. Thinking about how puppies
were made—that made him beam.
He raced out to his car and rummaged through the
trunk. Soon he returned with a long black plastic bag,
the kind with a zipper running the length of it. He
flopped it over the only chair in Kari's house that was
not yet broken or burned. "Get naked," he told her.
after his puppies came to vomit in Kari's house. The
puppies reminded him of their parents, the twins. He
recalled their churlish grins and their pagan rabbit ears
and the way they'd fuck. Thinking about how puppies
were made—that made him beam.
He raced out to his car and rummaged through the
trunk. Soon he returned with a long black plastic bag,
the kind with a zipper running the length of it. He
flopped it over the only chair in Kari's house that was
not yet broken or burned. "Get naked," he told her.
"Ooh, Sahm-oo-el, what have you brought for me this time?"
He couldn't tell if she was mocking him. He suspected she didn't always appreciate the gifts he
brought her. The 12-volt catheter, for instance. It seemed a bit meager compared to, say, the gold-
plated AK-47s she received from a former lover.
Samuel thought: She will love this. He unzipped the bag. He couldn't think of anyone in the world
who wouldn't love this.
Her smile widened as her curiosity grew. "What is it?"
It was pink and furry. It had soft floppy feet and spongy gloved hands. It had flatiron incisors and
soulless black eyes. Above all, it had ears, long and erect.
"It's the Easter Bunny," Samuel announced. "Put it on."
She shrank away. "No, Samuel. Happily I have done many naughty things for you, but this I will not
wear."
"Oh come on, mama girlfriend. Try it out."
Crouching back into a corner now, she shouted: "No!"
And slowly it dawned on him: The more she resisted him, the more he desired her. He summoned his
dogs. "You will wear this," he told her. "Not only you, but the bull dyke next door and every other
crazy bitch in this slum. I'll have you all in bunny suits. You will love the bunny suits. You will learn to
beg for the bunny suits." He shoved the bunny head over Kari's face
A pair of Samuel's pit bulls limped in, one with gouged-out eyes, the other missing its lower jaw.
The blind one cleared his throat and whispered: "Sir, it's getting bad down there."
"Stay the course," Samuel barked. "I know what I’m doing."
"But, sir. The costs—"
"That's the street-market value of freedom. Ain't no cheap substitutes."
"Actually, sir, we could—"
Samuel fumed. "You shut up! I am the Deciderator, so shut your heidi-hole and do as you're told!"
He punched down on the bunny head until it dug into her clavicle.
"This is what you are wanting?" she asked, her sobs muffled in the hollow head. "All the people of my
barrio dressed as Easter Bunnies for you pleasure?"
"It’s a start," he said. Then he stood back to admire his creation, this naked amputee with the pink
rabbit head, her two rigid ears longing to pierce the sky. And when she stood tall, the weight of her
new head snapped her neck.
It was perfect for her. More than that, he realized, it was perfect for everybody.
* * *
He couldn't tell if she was mocking him. He suspected she didn't always appreciate the gifts he
brought her. The 12-volt catheter, for instance. It seemed a bit meager compared to, say, the gold-
plated AK-47s she received from a former lover.
Samuel thought: She will love this. He unzipped the bag. He couldn't think of anyone in the world
who wouldn't love this.
Her smile widened as her curiosity grew. "What is it?"
It was pink and furry. It had soft floppy feet and spongy gloved hands. It had flatiron incisors and
soulless black eyes. Above all, it had ears, long and erect.
"It's the Easter Bunny," Samuel announced. "Put it on."
She shrank away. "No, Samuel. Happily I have done many naughty things for you, but this I will not
wear."
"Oh come on, mama girlfriend. Try it out."
Crouching back into a corner now, she shouted: "No!"
And slowly it dawned on him: The more she resisted him, the more he desired her. He summoned his
dogs. "You will wear this," he told her. "Not only you, but the bull dyke next door and every other
crazy bitch in this slum. I'll have you all in bunny suits. You will love the bunny suits. You will learn to
beg for the bunny suits." He shoved the bunny head over Kari's face
A pair of Samuel's pit bulls limped in, one with gouged-out eyes, the other missing its lower jaw.
The blind one cleared his throat and whispered: "Sir, it's getting bad down there."
"Stay the course," Samuel barked. "I know what I’m doing."
"But, sir. The costs—"
"That's the street-market value of freedom. Ain't no cheap substitutes."
"Actually, sir, we could—"
Samuel fumed. "You shut up! I am the Deciderator, so shut your heidi-hole and do as you're told!"
He punched down on the bunny head until it dug into her clavicle.
"This is what you are wanting?" she asked, her sobs muffled in the hollow head. "All the people of my
barrio dressed as Easter Bunnies for you pleasure?"
"It’s a start," he said. Then he stood back to admire his creation, this naked amputee with the pink
rabbit head, her two rigid ears longing to pierce the sky. And when she stood tall, the weight of her
new head snapped her neck.
It was perfect for her. More than that, he realized, it was perfect for everybody.
* * *
AND THAT'S HOW IT BEGAN on Calvary Cay, now better known as Easter Bunny Island—a
world recreated in just eight days, (not years, as old history books would have you believe.) Sure,
there was resistance at first, mainly in the barrio. Irene the bull dyke did not submit until pit bulls
chewed off both her legs mid-femur. But once she went down and accepted the head, the remaining
residents severed the limbs of their choice and donned pink rabbit heads quite willingly.
In the end not a pit bull remained in one piece, but it hardly mattered by then. Everybody seemed
ready for the change. And that was important: They made all the decisions for themselves. They
elected everything from which limb to lop off to what shade of pink fur.
The pussies in Samuel's posse took it a step further and made a fashion statement out of it. Supple
amputees strutted, sometimes hopped down catwalks wearing only the pink rabbit head. There
were modifications, of course, both creative and practical. Castration was the rage, mastectomies
très chic. Sure, it seems blasé now—in fact, it's hard to imagine a world without hare-headed
eunuchs at every turn—but back in the day it was all so avant-garde.
world recreated in just eight days, (not years, as old history books would have you believe.) Sure,
there was resistance at first, mainly in the barrio. Irene the bull dyke did not submit until pit bulls
chewed off both her legs mid-femur. But once she went down and accepted the head, the remaining
residents severed the limbs of their choice and donned pink rabbit heads quite willingly.
In the end not a pit bull remained in one piece, but it hardly mattered by then. Everybody seemed
ready for the change. And that was important: They made all the decisions for themselves. They
elected everything from which limb to lop off to what shade of pink fur.
The pussies in Samuel's posse took it a step further and made a fashion statement out of it. Supple
amputees strutted, sometimes hopped down catwalks wearing only the pink rabbit head. There
were modifications, of course, both creative and practical. Castration was the rage, mastectomies
très chic. Sure, it seems blasé now—in fact, it's hard to imagine a world without hare-headed
eunuchs at every turn—but back in the day it was all so avant-garde.
The festive de rigueur soon spread to the malls and
trailer parks. You'd think it would have died out
there. It didn't. Instead it persists like blue jeans in
days of yore. It's classic, timeless. Samuel was
right all along. Just as black-market Wranglers
brought down the Evil Empire, so too did bunny
heads and surgical modifications convert the hearts
and minds of those who would roll against us.
What's best is nobody fucks with anybody else
anymore.
As for Samuel, the last of his crippled dogs
devoured him and then promptly died of blood
poisoning, but he will be forever remembered for
the way we are now, this New World Order his
Father had prophesized. And the black tar, she
flows, she flows like a river of freedom.
***
trailer parks. You'd think it would have died out
there. It didn't. Instead it persists like blue jeans in
days of yore. It's classic, timeless. Samuel was
right all along. Just as black-market Wranglers
brought down the Evil Empire, so too did bunny
heads and surgical modifications convert the hearts
and minds of those who would roll against us.
What's best is nobody fucks with anybody else
anymore.
As for Samuel, the last of his crippled dogs
devoured him and then promptly died of blood
poisoning, but he will be forever remembered for
the way we are now, this New World Order his
Father had prophesized. And the black tar, she
flows, she flows like a river of freedom.
***
| This has been a special presentation from the Committee of Patriots for Truthful Intelligence "Outfitting democracy worldwide since 1945." |
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Dedicated to Wafaa Bilal
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