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J was thrown into Trak Penitentiary amongst all manner of Genet protégé. Trak was an astonishingly tall institution. The bars, tiers and watchtowers stretched into the darkness as if to speak of no escape.
J shared a cell with Rodrigo Testico.
“Hey bud, I’m be Rodrigo Testico. And who is you?”
“Fuck off,” J softly replied.
“Man, ya’ gots an attitude. If ‘ya wanna get out bud, ya’ll gots ‘ta hang wid me. ‘Ya see, ah have some plan.”
“Oh yeah? What?”
“I could tell ya, but ah would gots ta waste ya fust, bud.”
“Oh, so what ya in here for Rodrigo?”
“I gots done fo traffickin’ Mono17.”
“Mono 17?!” exclaimed J, “but I thought that it was just a myth.”
“No, no, no. I know some freak dat brin’s it in by de kilo, bud. Real waaay coo’ opuhrayshun.”
“So how did you get done then?”
“One of my foot soldiers sold it t’a nine year old school girl n sho’ enough da cops be on our asses. Ah been here dree years an' been bu-fucked two-hundred and fifty-dree times. Mah bum hurts.”
“Is that why you talk like a nigger now?” asked J.
“Straight up, muthafucka.”
“Now let me get this straight, Rodrigo. Mono13 is just for regular recreational mutation. I should fucking know.”
“Yo.”
“According to the myth, Mono17 can create demon status along with certain demon powers. It can physically change you into a sort of demon thing, right?”
“Straight up, bitch.”
“Now, if there is ever a Mono19 created...”
“It may already be created man,” Rodrigo interjected.
“Yeah, shut up cunt. If there is ever a Mono19 created, you would become a minor deity of sorts, right?”
“Yeah mutha.”
“And Mono100 will actually transform you into God right?”
“Yep. You’s will become God. Or maybe a cousin uh God.”
Deep thought furrowed J’s brows and yet another idea crept into focus.
“How do I score Mono17?” asked J.
“Well mah op closed down afta de little girl thing... and da bucket thing... and da goat thing. De only suppliers now are de dree demons: Benedict, Troy and CAN. Real baaaad assholes. They are a group of gratuitous psychos and are joined in purple and blue flesh by an umbilical cord to Lord Satan himself. Benedict gots de spurious wit of a Hesse novel, Troy’s like dis Hillbilly Commando and CAN (Casual Act of Necrophilia)... well ah don’t wanna talk about him coz ah just shit mahself just dinkin’ about it.”
Unfortunately Rodrigo could not help himself. After a small thought he suffered the splats for six hours non stop. The fumes that came from his faeces worked as a potent knock out gas. J fell into a slumber for three days and three nights.
Semi-conscious dream sequence of J’s
Starry skies oh how I luv those starry skies,
and I suffer from piles, oh how I suf-fer from piles.
Is this poetry or a dream...? Poetry or a dream...?
I just wanna scream... just wanna scream.
Who done pooh?
Who... done... pooh?
J sprung up from his coma. Rodrigo had a developed rather nasty cyst covering half of his face.
“How did you get that?” asked J.
“I had a booga dat went wrong, bud.”
“Anyway, where was I?”
“You wuz ax’in about da demons, bud.”
“Oh yeah. Where do they hang out?”
“Nowadays it’s de aptly titled Club Bathos. On Mercury, of course. Big muddafuckin’ red joint.”
“Interesting. As soon as I bust out of here, I think I’m gonna hook up with those three demons,” J said with a glint of determination in his eye.
“Look bubba,” said Rodrigo, “Do ya see me lookin’ like a fuckin’ demon here? Dat stuff be dangerous. Dat’s why ah ain’t eva tried da damn shit. Some suckas smell it and OD.”
“That’s a risk I think I might just have to take,” said J with another glint of determination in his eye.
“How long be yo’ sentence?”
“About three words.”
“No, ah mean yo’ prison sentence, ya cockwhorecasian.”
“Ninety-eight years without parole. And get that fucking thing on your face lanced would ya?”
They headed off to the mess hall with the rest of the SCUM!
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
  
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