J wandered down the Boulevard of Broken Brown Bottles, staring at the derros passed out in the gutter. He was distracted from the idea of infiltration and considered filtration as a solution. These derros sure must get dehydrated. Then he completely forgot what infiltration meant. And thus, the cunning plan of the three demons had been thwarted by the hopelessly short attention span of our drug-fucked protagonist.
Mutant hookers approached J but he ignored their advances and continued on his way. He stopped and watched the savage murder of a man and his dog by three of Germy’s pigs. The man’s only crime had been to frotteur against an innocent group of policemen at a bus stop.
J was in the midst of implementing yet another stupid idea. He had staked out where Germy’s motorcade would be passing the next day. He had located a convenient spot for his assassination attempt from a nearby Telecablex building. In the ensuing chaos he would make his way to the Psychoville Laboratories and steal the Mono100. He would then become the greatest rock’n’roll entity ever known to man.
J felt his stomach rumble with ravenous hunger. He rented another hotel room and dialled up some large ribs and garlic bread, plus a slab of Pink Moscow. While waiting for the ribs, he was so hungry he was sexually aroused. Finally there was a knock on the door. The naked delivery girl from Puny Versal’s Ribs and Bonk on the Run licked her lips as she handed J the foil container.
“Thanks lady,” said J and slammed the door in her face. He peeled off the cardboard lid and let the aroma of suffering animals and delicious barbecue sauce assail his nostrils. He noticed something written in black pen on the lid. It said:
To my lover of barbecued ribs,
Happy Valentine’s Day
(Big Heart)
Anytime you want to frotteur on Melbourne’s public transport system
Just let me know
Yours eternal
Mary S
J felt all warm and fuzzy and started hoeing into the delicious ribs. Ribs, ribs, ribs. Soft tender ribs. My god! Mmmmmm sauce. Yes, yes, yes! J let the sauce smear across his face and drip onto his bulging crotch. He stripped the meat right down to the bone and licked it erotically.
“My god. Ribs. Jesus Christ, I love you.” he thought.
“It’s like that sometimes,” thought J.
Small details become blessedly important. Most of the time, to most people, the ribs are just ribs. But to him, they were everything. J had had a similar experience after his very first sleepless drunken night, when he was seventeen. He had wandered into the kitchen where someone had just cooked a bowl of rather greasy spaghetti. He had stared at the spaghetti for what seemed like hours, talking to people who wandered through the kitchen without lifting his gaze from the spaghetti. He wished he could control it. He supposed that he should be grateful that it happens at all.
After six hours contemplating the existential nature of his meal, J decided it was time to bust a move. He grabbed his crotch, threw one elbow out to the side and said: “Chica’chi’cheeeya.”
He felt better.
J checked out of the hotel with the aid of his trusty coat hanger and made his way toward the Telecablex building on the corner of the Boulevard of Broken and Bobbitted Men and the Boulevard of Batty Boys. He paused at the street lamp that he would use as a landmark when Germy passed under it. Staring up at the window that he planned to shoot from, J had a sudden flash:
“...The fires are burning deep within the cave of Kali, the natives are hungry wanting the ir meat, their drums are beating ever and ever on, a drone of want. Hot lava carousing across the floor, tsunamis deluge on the shore, quoth the raven: ‘Nevermore.’”
He paused as he felt a hot spurt of cum dribble down his leg. Chaos had always excited J. Even nonsensical verse sent him wild!
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
  
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