J wandered off, bored with the demons that were now in hell and belting each other over the heads with various body parts from members of the audience.
“What to do? What to do?”
He looked over to see an old abandoned factory. A hastily erected poster glued to the wall spoke to world: “Rodrigo Testico has knowledge of the past!”
J refocused his eyes to find the poster had disappeared. In its place an image of domestic harmony circa 1950’s Middle America.
“Fuck it,” said J, “I’m still hallucinating.”
He continued wandering around the now abandoned area and with a flash, a vision appeared before him. It was The Divine in the form of two levitating Day-Glo abortions both with multiple soup spoons extending from the skulls of their fluorescent bodies.
“Welcome,” they said in unison. “You, J... lead a very... interesting life.”
The one on the left continued, “Yessssss... I think Angel Stanley had it right when he said ‘You are one sick cunt.’”
“Oh I agree,” concurred the other.
“You know J, It’s better to remain silent and be thought a fuckhead, than to speak and remove all doubt. Germy failed to this. That was his great mistake.”
“So what does the initial impact of a gherkin slice against a fast food outlet’s window mean? Consumer dissatisfaction?”
“Perhaps... entertainment value?”
“Then again, a toe’s rest from the bindings of a thong could hold meaning.”
“Or a Wisconsin moose masturbating under a dark green leather bitch with a garden hose inserted in an as yet undiscovered orifice located between the testicles and the left ventricle.”
“Well,” said J, “personally... my morals are stickily. I don’t enjoy subversive acts like other folks. I’d much rather eat the margarine out of a hymen that is untouched by the trappings of success. Why don’t we just go to the desert?
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
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