“Pretentious, vile, and unworthy...” read the review for the Armpit Ballet as documented in Posit magazine.
  “Prrrrp,” emitted Ace, casting away in a mere noise the stupidity of the article. He threw the magazine aside, revealing to his television his royal red smoking jacket, green silk pyjama pants and fuzzy bear-claw slippers. His two pet saliva glands sat on each shoulder, wiping their holes of their slippery discharges with neat blue hankies.
  Ace’s cottage was a pretty little set-up; the view from the open window a panoramic sea of green grass and hillsides. The spring breeze made delicate conversation with the curtains whilst cooling Ace’s angular features. He took staccato puffs on his pipe and basked in the laziness of the day.
  In the early morn, O mon ‘capitan,’ he will be taking a nerdy troddle through the nekked pond of Magicspam, trawling for the slithering bacon eel, whose delicious moist flesh slides around the mouth of the pointed-at masticator with an ease incomparable to even the best edition of KY.
  He stretched and his arms felt like they were elongating ten inches as they strived to reach the wooden beamed ceiling. Later on, the task of staging a new Freudian Slit show would be the only small burden on his shoulders. “Oh those fiendish satanic cads with their silly pentagrams and swastikas... post modernism gone to the sewer in morally modified ghastliness.”
  He heard a buzzing outside his window and it placed an erratic hair on the celluloid of his morning. Momentarily flummoxed, he gracefully moved to investigate this new havoc. A black dune buggy was burning the horizon with a plumage of exhaust fumes. He had almost forgotten. He wanted to forget. Today was the day the Disgusting Brothers had come to sign their contract. The lads were of dubious repute. Ace quickly assigned his glands to their plastic cage beneath the sink. The buggy roared into his carport and he took a quick swig of white sambuca from its stretched, snake-like bottle. In a moment of what could only be described as a brief flicker of anxiety in Ace’s mind, he found moist towlettes in his pockets and eradicated his hand sweat.
  The Disgusting Brothers fell out of their buggy, ragged black leather jackets and scorched black jeans hanging off cadaverous frames. Stringy long hair stuck to their dirty faces. Their beady eyes gleamed with hatred and for some reason they were wearing pink baubles covered in glitter on springs on their heads. They got up and verified the existence of their genitals with cupped hands for a very long time. They always spoke in the guttural death metal voices they used on their records.
  “Gimme the fuckin’ car keys,” said Spac.
  “Okay, you motherfucker,” said Mac.
  Mac threw the black keys at Spac’s head.
  “I’m gonna kill you, you fuckin’ motherfucker! Let Satan be now!” yelled Spac.
  “Fuck you!” yelled Mac.
  Ace leaned against his white wall and bit his knuckle. Was it to be difficult to deal with this? He sort of wished his wife present but she was competing in a relay race in some alien country.
  He politely let the boys into his sanctuary. They stumbled in; Spac leaving a dirty long black hand smear across the wall as he tried to support his drunken self. Instead, he fell face-first into the pot of a tall plant, emerging with what looked like a shit moustache. Mac laughed and kicked him, producing a snot bubble the size of an engorged water balloon. Ace flinched. The bubble popped and partially crawled back into his nostril as it was infested with a tiny parasite.
  Ace smiled and performed a short kabuki piece as a greeting. The brothers gazed at him nonplussed and kissed each other with tongues.
  “Where’s a fuckin’ prostie?” grunted Spac.
  “Yeah, where’s the prostie?” echoed Mac.
  Ace humorously searched his pockets.
  “Sorry, no whores at this present time,” he grinned, “how about a beer, boys?”
  The brothers accepted the beers and proceeded to try and fuck them.
  “I don’t think that’s how it’s done,” said Ace cringing.
  The brothers realised this and drank the beers, but only after they had ejaculated jaundice into them. Ace attempted to direct them to the signing of the contract, but to no avail. The brothers instead lit prodigiously ashing Longbeaches and inspected Ace’s home. Mac accidentally knocked cups of tea onto the white carpet and Spac started a drunken argument with another pot plant. He tried to punch it, missed, and punched a dent in the wall. Spac put his foot in Mac’s mouth in order to elevate himself to top of Ace’s ornate bookshelf. He wanted to smell Ace’s beautiful china globe of the world. The bookshelf toppled down and onto the boys. They quickly recovered and found the small games room. Ace followed them like a foot-bound concubine. They became instantly smitten with Ace’s red velvet pool table. His eyes widened and he made rapid small steps to his kitchen to indulge in a little more sambuca. He returned to find that the boys had put out their cigarettes and were playing a gentlemanly game of billiards. Ace relaxed and raised the volume of his nine thousand dollar stereo to soothe his reddened ears with a brassy gospel sound. It was not long, however, before the boys broke out in argument again. This time it was over who was bigs or smalls.
  “Uh guys, it’s billiards,” said Ace.
  It was too late. Mac had punched Spac heavily in the mouth. Spac fell over the table and vomited with such a force that the spew knocked two white balls into pockets. Mac lost his balance and bashed his head on a mounted bowling ball.
  Ace dragged the two across and back into the main room. Though both unconscious, Mac’s scabby penis managed to pop half-flaccid from his pants and Spac’s tongue hung from his mouth, longing for it. Mac even lit a cigarette. Ace placed the contract on the floor and used the boys’ hands to sign it, albeit with a little flourish added to their scrawl. Satisfied, Ace shot them up with a little speed (which he kept handy for such occasions) and placed them in their buggy, still groggy. He started the ignition and waved them off. They zigzagged back to the horizon, leaving a matching black jet trail and the remains of Ace’s mailbox in their wake. Ace returned to his home to contemplate the damage. Fortunately, he had kept one of their credit cards.
  Rest now, Ace. Rest now.