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J rose from his bed shortly before sunset. As the piercing feeling that typically follows excessive substance abuse crept in with its usual ferocity, he began to try and remember what had transpired the previous night. After several minutes he reached the conclusion that he had been hammered. It was at this point that he began to contemplate how he could spend his day. After quickly dressing himself, he left his accommodation in search of a bar to quell his throbbing hangover.
J liked to dress in single-breasted black suits with a white shirt. The only freak bar that was open that day was a dingy little establishment on the industrial fringes of Melbourne. Masked in a grey haze of chemical pollution, it was called the Sister Cirrhosis Bar. In times of the segregation of The Weird, certain pubs were allocated to the unusual. This particular bar was designated to the deformed and mutated. As he entered, he saw all types of human anomaly. Midgets, mutards, huge fat people, anorexics with extra appendages and limb deficiency victims all sadly sipped drinks (like the Libido Lounger or the Machismo Mace) and puffed on rollies or cigars. The bar was dim and seedy and nothing seemed palpable in the nightmarish tableaux. The freaks did not mind if anyone normal came into the bar. It mattered not to them. They didn’t even glance at J when he strolled in, looking unusually mediocre.
He sat himself down next to a girl. She was tall, in a red bikini, and obviously a body-builder. She bulged with oily muscles. It took a while to determine if she was a freak or not, until he noticed a quite obvious rectum implanted in her forehead. She was a mutard.
He asked her: “Wanna come back to my plankton infested bed and make wild jelly crystals out of nothing?”
“Piss off you dirty bastard!” she cried, as a huge ogre with red hair and a big see-through pot belly came over to investigate the commotion.
“You are sssssooooooo beautiful!” the ogre roared.
Unfortunately this remark was directed at J. He got up and ran for the door while hastily finishing a yard glass of Chariot Ale. The ogre undid his fly, howling with pain as he ripped some of his red pubes out of a now bald hermaphroditical slab of skin he had hiding down there. Out of the fly came the third longest dick J had ever witnessed. It grabbed him, the eye of the penis smiling as it sunk its teeth into J’s neck. He had only seconds to live. He searched around the room and found a large pot glass from the Flying Horse Brewery. He slammed the pot glass down fearsome quick on the bleeding scab of gland on the penis’ neck. J looked around as the red pubed ogre screamed in pain and shouted: “Boudicca was a lesbian and came from the wrong side of the tracks! Wooooooooohhhhhhh!!!!!”
In a manic state of suspended knickers, J made his way from the bar into the boulevard below. With grim determination, he made his way through the throng of crowds doing their Sunday morning shopping. Passing a second-hand store, he stopped and bought a Kafe Gavani, which can come in handy sometimes.
He continued down the Boulevard of Broken Hymens. He spotted two old prostitards who now kept their hymens in bottles of vinegar. One of them offered him some “fun” for the price of five dollars. J decided not to take up her offer, thinking at the time that he would rather fuck a corpse (which, of course, he had done as recently as yesterday) than do this prostitard.
Dark contemplative thoughts. The hushed movement of wind on the shore. Malevolent brooding clouds covered the sky as J was in hypnotic awe as to the beauty and power of nature and all those who are borne from the one pimple farm in the ponds of Venus and those with blue papier-mâché cigarettes and alienesque dialects from the writings of travel authors on winged tin foil surf-boards and doodled in the meanderings of future’s past with the philosophies of those with and without limbs on a remote ranch in Austin, Texas. He thought of the genitals of murder victims kept in small protoplasm-covered safes in the slightly upper mezzanines of the Cigar Ash Desert, where the cancerous bulls of Labia roam the wilderness in search of the small paper clips of the outer region of the superego.
J broke from his engrossing train of thought to find himself going hell for leather, masturbating over an old Jizzbucket review in an issue of Posit magazine.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
  
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