One morning

Catherine de' Medici at the gates of the Louvre

Have you ever humped the brains out of a noblewoman? Neither have I. Rank cunt was no noblewoman. Perhaps the history books have recorded her in a bad light. Maybe not. Regardless, Catherine de' Medici was one bulbous bonk of a fuckwad. She used to moan like a diseased cow, shuddering when my veiny parking cone sausage broke out her two front teeth from behind. You see in those days, if you lost your teeth, there wasn't much to be done. But as Medici was a powerful hoe, no one knew the difference. I crafted her some wooden teeth from my excess tuna cheese, painted them with my horrid schlop splatter and the rest is not history. I left a steaming morsel of dungaree donut on her forehead and jerked the moldy cheese log to an old issue of Time magazine.

If you asked me today how the hell I got mixed up in all this bullshit, I couldn't pretend to tell you. Paris back then was a different place, you know? No sweet stanky inky pinky doodoo nonos littering the streets. No turkish prosts to pee into. No warm fucking baguette syrup squeegee for the sperm Tupperware. It was dangerous. I mean, every fucker seemed to be on edge and rightfully so. There was this real big wedding taking place earlier in the week and all these assholes WERE at one another's throats. The Huguenot's who were Calvinist Protestants, hated Catholics like penis on a platter in a kindergarten class. Paris was a violently anti-Huguenot city, and Parisians, who were extreme Catholics, found their presence in the city unacceptable. Even if I cornholed the king during the bachelor party...and his moist ostler faggot.

a FEW DAYS prior my fucked up tale, I took a pop shot at Coligny. Admiral Gaspard II de Coligny was the Huguenot leader. This dink couldn't hold his liquor for shit and was really annoying. Anyway he was in town for the wedding and Cathy wanted Coligny dead and I don't mean from old age. The hit was in exchange for some sweating cocaine. So I took the deal. Coligny took it like the fag that he was and I blamed it on some turgid asshole NAMED cHUCK. I had been drinking. When I took the shit, I mean shot, it was a glance shot and ricocheted off this fucking gargoyle statue and ended up severing Coligny's right index finger. I began to shout from frustration but released a sopping wet belch instead. All these idiots went scrambling around and screaming their heads off like retards in a harry potter gift shop. "Stop that man!" someone cried so I bolted from this fucking villa thing and my stupid pumpkin breeches are around my ankles so I fell on my fucking FACE. FUCK. I screamed out "JUMANJI!!" and lay waste to the crowd with a volley of skin-crawling flatulence, then I disappeared into the back alleys that snaked the city like cum from a chip and dale creamery.

Medici was pissed. Nana cooze. I called her Cathy and that pissed her off something awful. Lol. She was a real conniving cunt and loved LOVED blowing smoldering farts in the tub the would make your cheeks balloon with puke if you weren't careful. Cathy was a Medici and if you don't know the Medici's then you don't know your history. They're pretty much the Bilderberg Group. Well she's hollering and whooping up a storm and has my cravat by a claw, when I suddenly blurt out "Where's mom? Is dad at the factory?" SHe stopped shouting and furrowed her gnarly brow, then said, "Whut." To which I replied, "Where's my mother and father?" Cathy seemed intrigued. "Whut." She said again. When I sensed curiosity I darted from her weakening grasp. She was beyond startled. "Wait, where are you going?!" Bounding down the stone breezeway, shoeless, pantless and hard, I bellowed over my shoulder, "TO FIND MY PARENTS!!" I didn't go back to Cathy's sweet womb ever again after that night, but what ensued thereafter was some sexy, fucked up dogshit let me tell you.

This is the night of 23–24, August, 1572.

WOOOOO!! WOOOOOHOOOOOO!!!! I'm screaming my fucking head off, hanging from some god damned stone gutter thing about three stories in the air, pissing all over these helmeted dongles running asunder, murdering every Protestant in sight. Man I was having a good time. Smoke and blood were in the air. There was vomit, shit and guts in the streets and women and children burning alive in piles the size of my dick flanking the fair city of lights. It was my kind of party. AND ALL on the eve of the feast of St. Bartholomew. It was, after all, the Anglican Communion and I loved me some sacramental wine and giblets. So I am literally hanging from the rafters and hollering and hooting and shit and the whole fucking city is going nuts. So I decided it was time to go and find that ssstinky fishSTICK, Coligny and finish him off. Maybe deepthroat him. Well the duganberry was holed up in this little palace shack with his hurt lil finger and bum bum. The king was kind enough to offer me a legion of his swiss guard (bunch of tight wearing motherfuckers) and we headed over to Coligny's sex pad through the chaos. It was beautiful.

So we burst in through this mammoth door and I'm screaming, "WHO THE FUCK INSTALLED THIS GOD DAMN THING?? SOMEONE COULD GET HURT!" because I hurt my nono sacks on the knob because I was thrusting so hard to bang it down. Everyone was so bewildered at my craziness and there was this weird pause in the battle as they stared at me, so I just started murdering fools with my shit stained mace. Coligny was still in bed, and he was calling out to his guards to "Sieze them!" but he was also crying like a little bitch. I bounded over this frobble of a man who was in a ball, whimpering in a puddle of his own puke, and onto the bed where I sang, "I PROCLAIM THIS BED MY FUCK TOWN." Then I thrust my dagger into Coligny's breast while reciting lines from the "Air Force One" script through my teeth. Coligny squeezed his eyes in pain and his lower lip shuddered like a running lawnmower. I came. All around me there was sword play and death as the king's men took out the Huguenots in the room. A torrid leak of smelt was making its way from my ass crack and causing some real terrible smells, so I wrested the Admiral from his bloodstained bed and declared, "COLIGNY NOW BELONGS TO MY SEXUAL PLANTAIN." Then I chucked the dying man from the two story window and into the streets below where he was summarily beheaded by an angry mob of catholics. My duty was done. It was time to collect my reward. "SWEEEEEET CHEWY!!" I began to scream. The kings men had had enough of me. They cleaned off their bloodied swords and left the room shaking their heads. I hurriedly crawled from the room, whinnying like a mad horse and they quickly got out of my way.

For the next week, I spent my time in delirium, bludgeoning to death anything and everyone with my hong kong bingo pole. It was a wild haze. I tried so hard to make my way back to Cathy for my sweet sweet chewy, but I simply could not make it through all that shit. In the end, the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre took the lives of some 5,000 protestants. All because Cathy wanted just a lil extra power so she convinced the KING to strike first before the Huggernuts attacked because I had tried to kill Coligny but I did anyway and this fucking mouse of a king was good with it so he did it even though they were friends or lovers or something. One night while I was ENOYING a poopoo platter buffet from her warty vagina, she told me in detail how she wanted to rule the world. I recall spinning violently and ripping a real horrible fart into her open piss cave. I filled her up so much that shit clouds were puffing out of her ears. We held each other into the night. Well, she thought she was holding me. Once she passed out I snuck out and shoved a dead AND ROTTING marsupial into her arms so I could get loaded at the local transvestite club. Came to about a year later missing one of my arms, neck deep in horse urine behind some food cart on the beach in St. Tropaz. 

Dyatlov Pass

The Dyatlov Pass Incident

You don't have to be fucking Steph Davis to know that I have some mountaineering experience. In 2010, I'd nearly summitted Everest. I spent some time in the late teens working with Sherpa dumb-dogged shit heels. A grand scheme moving heroin from Pakistan into Xinjiang, China. Trick of the trade was, I'd shoot the heroin into my limp noodle hose somewhere along the way and replace the dope with my alone time slime. Then I'd abandon the buyers after feigning retardation. Did it for years.

So when Igor Alekseievich Dyatlov approached me with the fine job of leading a team of Ural Polytechnical Institute assholes into the Northern Ural Mountains for some fucked up ski-trip, I told him to "go fuck {him}self." However, I accepted after he offered me his dog goat and hist sweet scumbag of a mother-in-law. She has a mustache like Stalin, but I let her shove some blini up my sex tunnel, while I force-fed her rolled up bits of dog goat shit.

I'd brought with me a portable dvd player I'd plundered from a doped up faggot in Tulane, which was fairly novel for a bunch of retarded buttholes from 1959. I only had one dvd though, and it was fucking Single White Female. I was actually watching the piece of shit and jerking the horse howitzer real hard when Dyatlov humped into my shithole rat fuck apartment near the Kama River. He offered me this shit piece of paper with handwriting that looked like he'd scrawled it using his dingus. You see this was before thE whole god damn fiasco in April 1959, with that fucking overhaul of the credit system. Some wing wong decided it would be a good idea to transfer operations run by the Selkhozbank, Tsekombank and municipal banks to the State Bank. That Kruschev was a real bonehead and I swear to god he used homeless fecal smear to wash his bottom. I was in the middle of the scene where Steven Weber is brushing his horse hair nono rags against Bridget Fonda's butterball thighs, so I very politely rolled my eyes upward at this mumbALOId cocksucker, snatched the bond from his crippled claw and said simply, "Try any sleight of hand with my money and I'll cut your throat." But by the time I cashed his shit check, he and all eight of the party would be dead.

This is late January, 1959.

We started out in the wee hours of the morn toward the mountain of the dead. We all go on this god damn train shit car that smelled of vodka and cigarettes. I was so bloated and hungover that I was vomiting this vile tincture of lung butter and rat filth non-stop. I recall one of our party lunging at me and begging me to stop. But you know me, I whipped him silly in the clowncakes with my flea penis. He screamed and I cried and the others turned their heads in their seats like fucked-up sealions, befuddled by this RADICAL behavior. Someone in the party uttered something to the tune of "Oh god" and I spun like a crab on steroids and howled at them that I was " THE KING OF ANGELS" and then I produced a rotting frog head and I chomped on it like a god damn corn dog. One of the men threw up and it looked and smelled like borscht. I just kept screaming my inanities whilst harassing the clown car matron with my pecker pump for more drinks.

After what seemed like forty years, we arrived in the shithole called Ivdel. Place looked like Disneyland if it were designed by Franz Kafka and then shitted out by Crang from the Ninja Turtles. I'd arranged for this piece of shit wagon to pick us up and drive our asses to Vizhai.

So it went on like this for sometime before I aimed us in the direction of Sverdlovsk Oblast. "You fiends!" I kept bellowing. Again and again, I would shout this unprovoked and indiscriminate. I also couldn't help cawing, "BAD BABY BAD BABY" whilst slurping on the burb horn. Christ.The goal of this faggot expedition was to reach Otorten (Отортен), a mountain 10 kilometres (6.2 mi) north of us and I'll tell you right now, I was fucked up. Instead of food or anything really, I'd brought with me fourteen gallons of Zima wine cooler AND I was sucking it down like it was cum from a cow. MOOOOOOOOO!! I had this dinky boombox that I'd pilfered from a real choice cocksucker at a Walgreens in 1998. Unfortunately, the only god damn tape I had for the fucking thing was a warbled UB40 greatest hits mix. "Can't help falling in love" was the only song that would play and somehow the piece of shit tape stuck on repeat not to mention I'd passed out heavily the night before and bashed my fucking stupid brain bucket on that boombox and busted the volume knob so it was stuck on high. I didn't mind though. This one asshole, Yuri, he was complaining nonstop. Waaaah Waaaah the motherfucker. Whereas not one of these dicksmears could quite comprehend the origin of this "magic box" and so asked no questions (fairly sure the very real fact that I'd had my corn blower hanging through the zipper of my over-pleated chinos didn't help) this asshole wouldn't shut the fuck up about it. "Why do you play this music again? What does this music have to do with our hike? Why do you play this?" Fucking cream hole.

Well it went on like this for some time until we finally started our march toward Otorten from Vizhai on January 27. At some point in the night, after the others had retired, I slipped into Yuri's sleeping bag and gave him a heavy dose of heroin. I shot it behind his left ear while he slept. He slipped into coma almost immediately and I spent the remainder of the night boning him in the ass. The next morning when he came to, I was still asleep. He then apparently vomited violently all over my naked muffins and went scrambling from the camp muttering something about his brother. The others were plenty confused, but no one was suspicious of me. I explained that "he might have chowed on some bad powdered eggs." They bought that. But Yuri was gone. He was too fucked up to go any further. This also meant that I could play my UB40 tape again. And that was cool. So I did. Non stop. I mean I would get looks here and there and I could read their expressions. I knew it waS driving them all bad shit crazy, which just tickled me so pink.

It took us three days of trekking along the base of that god damn mountain before we reached the edge of a highland area and got our snotty asses ready to climb. It was funny, as a prank I'd discarded all the food in a small ravine when no one was watching. I replaced it with lumps of animal turd I'd collected along the way. It was hilarious. This assfunk, Nicolai (god what a fucking retard) he goes in for dinner and shrieks like a fucking mouse rat when he pulls out his poopy paws. I seriously LOLd. When he pulled out his hand covered in rat shit, he rolled over in the snow like a sack of potatoes and began whimpering like the little pussy faggot he was. We all laughed cuz it was so god damn funny. I did a crab-like pivot and sharted in his ear and the others REALLY enjoyed that one. Although I couldn't tell if it was nervous laughter because I'd unprovokingly threatened them the night before with a small pistol I'd stolen from a cop in Vizhai. It's ok though because I'd been drinking Zimas like the fucking fucked up alcoholic troll that I am.

So by the 1st of February, the others were pretty weary of me. It went from an occasional gasp, or plea, to non-stop side glances and general avoidance. I got to farting something awful the last couple days on that mountain. My skivvies had blown open from the explosive gas and this real nasty vile was leaking down my legs like a fucking firehose. One of the two women with us vomited at least twice after taking a peek at my mansucker. So we started through the pass, but I'd brought with me a mason jar of Polonium-210 that I'd opened up early in the day you know just to huff as I walked. The UB40 was really starting to get on my nerves so I chucked that fucking boombox into a crevasse and said a short prayer before jerking off. It was during this point that I decided to murder them all because honestly I was pretty fucking bored. So I drew out in crayon new directions, which deviated us west, upward towards the top of Kholat Syakhyl. Igor Dyatlov suggested we head south to the treeline about a mile to the south of us for better cover. It was starting to snow fairly heavily by then so visibility was pretty piss poor. But fuck that, I was wearing black out sunglasses and a fake mustache so I didn't give a flying fuck. Well with the fucking weather getting worse and us now going the wrong way, I figured it'd be a swell time to get the tinkertoy spinning.

So we set up our tent and I make some hot dog porridge, cow mucus with lung butter ramen and iguana semen mixed with vinegar then a nice little cat LIVER and feces mousse that I'd fried up, you know just as an appetizer. We ate. Four of those pussy assholes barfed. The others didn't really even eat much after their first gagging bites. One of them threw his dinner on the ground and bolted into the snow where he fell to his knees and barfed his guts out. I don't know what the big deal was. I thought the food was perfect. So there were a lot of panting, gagging, stomach groaning and retching noises coming from our tent that evening from the few who'd eaten my dinner.

During the night, after we'd bunked down, was when I decided to strike. I quietly undressed. The stink coming from my growler made me lightheaded and this bitch next to me sorta scrunched her nose and moaned a little in her sleep. I then slowly slid on my elvin heels and began to sing. I chose Utesov, this bullshit jazz singer who a few years later would go on to become the first pop singer to bE awarded the title of People's Artist of the USSR. He was a mumbaloid motherfucker, but I figure if I bellowed out some of his crap, it would be more likely to freak the others out. Immediately you could hear the others squirming in their sleeping bags as they woke to this insanity, I turned on my flashlight and held it under my chin like a fucking mad man. I was shaking my hair and getting really into it when my ass began talking. The flatulence thereafter was mind-numbing. Someone belched. I heard another chorus of vomiting. Everyone was struggling in the tent and I heard low squealing. I just sang louder and began twirling my pecker like it was a fucking helicopter rotor. Dyatlov started first, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING SIR? WHY DO YOU DO THIS NOW?"

I'm not sure who it was, but one of these dinks is screaming their head off and flailing like they're falling from a building. It got serious then because I started pissing during this nasty dick spin so it was like a fucking industrial sprinkler with backflow device fucked up. I remember it was steaming. So everyone is screaming now. I mean really screaming. So one of these idiots pulls their knife and slashes their way out of the tent. "OH MY GOD" he said as scrambled into the night. The tent collapsed at this point and they all poured out, one by one. Screaming as they stumbled away into the snow. I bounded from the shredded tent like a fucked up maniac, hose still twirling like a god damn length of sweaty nunchuck. I could hear them all, still screaming their brains out, the one guy still going "OH MY GOD OH MY GOD." I lunged into the snowy darkness with alarming speed and tackled the first idiot I hit. It was Rustem Slobodin. He spun beneath me, and his eyes were wide in terror. I bashed him hard with the butt of my flashlight then frantically shoved snow down his throat until he stopped moving. He died with his eyes open.

I shined my light down the hill toward the woods. I saw Dyatlov and some other piece of shit struggling in the snow. I dove at them head first, but I'd switched to Bonnie Raitt's "Something to Talk About." Dyatlov was begging me to stop. Between the awful gagging noises he was making he would also holler, albeit muffled, "PLEASE OH SWEET MOTHER OF GOD IT SMELLS SO BAD!" (Referring to my ass of course.) I held each of their faces in the snow and sat on their heads, smothering them to death. I could barely make out the shapes of three others although I knew there were still five faggots out there. I charged the three and when they spotted me they went apeshit. "HOLY GOD SAVE US!" I again switched up my music choice, this time going with ABBA's "Take a Chance." Again, visibility was super limited, but all I had to do was follow Lyudmila, the woman's screams. It didn't take me long to catch up with them. The two bros were mumbling something about getting back to camp. I knocked their heads together with such force I accidentally crushed one of their skulls. Then I threw them over the edge into a deep ravine.

Lyudmila was on her back, hands in the air, shrieking some bullshit about her mother. I backhanded her and tore open her britches with my talon hands. My lips snarled into a menacing grin as I revealed two incomplete rows of molding teeth. She began to sob heavily. I took my time with her. The 23 year old blonde beauty. Her sobbing was really ruining my drive. After the brutal performance, I gouged her eyes out (they slid out neatly under the blade of my knife and made little popping sounds as the optic nerve split), cut the tongue out of her head and threw her alive into the ravine after her buddies. I chucked one of her eyes and her tongue over the edge as well, then popped the other in my mouth to chew on. I peed over the edge and it smelled like McDonald's as my mouth filled with Lyudmila's Vitreous gel.

I spent a good twenty minutes searching for the last two of our party on the Mountain of the Dead that evening, but had no luck, so I split. They were found later frozen to death, in their underwear, having had no time to dress when they were so startlingly awoken by my horrible helicoptering. I looted a pair of skis and headed down chugging Zimas the whole thrilling way. I did hit a cedar tree about the time the sun was coming up and may or may not have broken a few ribs. But that shit didn't matter, because I felt alive.

There are plenty of theories about what happened that night in February, 1959. But now you know.
I spent the rest of the year pretending to be a yogurt salesman, but it was actually just HORSE semen.

The Plague

The Great Plague of Vienna

FINGER MY PINKISH GREEN BUTTHOLE. The year I spent in Vienna was a fucked up year. Trust me. The Black Death had already gripped the city. Everywhere you went there were piles of the infected dead. At night, pillars of fire lit the skies as town-doctors burned the bodies, salted with that disgusting mixture of herbs and spiceS. I'd been trolling the east-end, near the floodplain, sort of where the fucking airport is now. Two nights previous, I'd thumbed a young rat-dufus musician from Mödling right in the anal flavorberry. He was playing these pipes that sounded like a cow having a splintered broom handle shoved into it's terror hole whilst being burned alive. I approached him slowly, a deranged smile on my fucked-up face. A bit of turd drool spilled over my lower lip when I revealed two incomplete rows of rotting teeth. He stopped playing, albeit slowly, and nervously gazed at me from beneath his brow. I said, "Satan’s successes are the greatest when he appears with the name of God on his lips." His eyes widened as he took a step back. He giggled uncomfortably, then took a swifter step back when I pealed back my eyelids with my claws and began whispering the dialogue from an 80's Taco Bell commercial. He really began giggling now, except it was more like a scared but inhuman squeal, and he was curling his fingers in and out over his dumbass pipes or lutes or toots or whatever the fuck they were. He started to mutter something inaudible, so, basically unprovoked, I lunged at him with breakneck speed, my dingle kong flopping in the winds like a diseased day old subway tuna sandwich. He crumpled immediately, that terrible giggling spraying the air like graffiti. I relentlessly rained blows upon him with my moto-penis and shoved several hard cheeses into his rectum. In time, he fell unconscious, so I tore off his stinky beans and sloppily devoured them in front of two small children. They were crying. I grabbed up one of the lil buggers and chopped on an ear. The kid shrieked, so I threw her into the Danube before cawing like a crazed crow until the remaining child ran from me and my crooked crook-dick, howling like Harry from Harry and the Hendersons when he's pretending to be a fucking fire engine or some shit. The musician was heaped in a pile over his pipes, sorta moaning, emitting here and there a very weak giggle. I bashed him in the head with my elvin heel and he rolled over with a fart. Then I rubbed on his crawl wiggler until he jizzed diarrhea. He looked like a pile of elephant shit in the dying light of the day, lying there in the street, in a puddle of his own red blood. I finished him off by shoving a can of Trader Joe's red salmon into his throat, then tap-danced Puttin' on the Ritz on his FUCKING chest. He flailed like a mentally retarded orangutan for a good ten, fifteen minutes as I went through this horrible routine. Passersby bellowed and waddled off, gesticulating like retards, pointing in my direction over their shoulders. A cop even tried to intervene. He was wearing a kerchief over his mouth and was waving a little stick at me. "Unhand that man!" he shouted in German. I spun like a wild top, my teeth drippings with goo and my EYES red with blood. I bounded from the dufus toward the flatfoot. The copper hollered something about Jesus and fell to his knees, his hands shielding his face. I landed right on top of his god damn head, an awful "CRUNCH" sang through his body as he doubled over under the wait of my hell cannon. He emitted a brutal cloud of flatulence, to which I could not help abarfin'. The musician was still now, he had expired, SO I BUTT-FUCKED THE CORPSE NATURALLY AND GENTLY WITH BALM FROM SOME OLD CHINESE FAGGOT IN NAPLES.

This is February, 1679.

About an hour after the murders I sorta came to in an awful haze. My eyes were foggy. I felt like a horse had surgically removed the top of my skull and then pounded on my nude brain with its smelly demon cock. The musician lay at my feet, a rancid puddle of urine had collected under his battered body in the shape of the Olympic rings. I stood with a fecal puff that caused a nearby transient to bare his teeth and hiss in pain. I wiggled my hips and shook my booty in his face until he belched, rolled his eyes into the back of his head and scurried away.

I needed a drink. 

Most of these shanties and shit-holes were boarded up, loaded with diseased rat fleas lodged in clothing, carpets, rags, grain, and shit. Those fuckers survived from six weeks up to a year and left welts the size of taters all over my balls. I popped a few of them juicy fuckers scrambling around on a rotting window sill and they burst in my mouth like gushers of hell. Even the fleas were terrified of me.

Well after a wizzz that drowned a small weeble village, I stumbled into the only open tavern I could find. I barked like a dog for twenty minutes before this idiot came shuffling in from this dank cave like back room. He smelled like anal. Twenty-nine pear ales. That's what I ordered. This dumbass, a doofus smile from ear to ear, but eyes rolled upward - looked like Corky from Life Goes On and Lawrence Fishburne mixed together with a dash of Herve Villache - lazily sloshed the ale into the 29 steins, said nothing, actually he smelled more like a camp outhouse after a busy summer of never being emptied. He wouldn't or couldn't look at me, just kept that moronic smile on his face and his eyes on the ceiling. I still can't figure out how he could see what he was doing. And when he was done, he shuffled back into that back room, where I began hearing stomach-turning, guttural moaning and farting noises for a good hour or so straight. I remember I called in after him at one point asking if they had a pool table or ping pong and every time I would speak the moaning and farting would get louder and more violent to the point where I had to plug my ears. There were also these awful splatting noises, like a garden hose spraying against a brick wall, accompanied by grotesque gagging noises and wining, so I gave up on the pool. Just kept wincing and spilling my pear ale when another outburst would occur. Fuck it stank. The moaning and shit sounds from the back room were just as mind-numbing as ever and I began to feel sick.Well, when someone started whispering "Grandma, is that you? It me it me it Tim Tim," from out of that god forsaken hell hole of a back room, that's when I decided to step out for a smoke.

The bells of the city were ringing fucking nonstop - it was driving me into a murderous rage. God damnit. NON-FUCKING-STOP. GOD DAMNIT. I was about to take a puff of heroin or PCP and get wet in the anal, when this dink of a motherfucker ran right into me. The pansy piece of shit was wearing this ridiculous conical mask and boots that made him look like a dumbass duck. He groped at my taters, whimpering like a puppy and tried to give me an enema. He couldn't have been more than four feet tall. I tried batting him away, but that only seemed to agitate him and he began frantically rubbing these ointments on mY ass that smelled of human feces. I beat him to the ground with an angry fist before he went skittering away laughing like a poisoned hyena. "What the fuck," I managed before disappearing back into the bar. The horrible moaning noises had ceased and I was down to my last drink. No one else was in the bar. I took a stink squirt where I sat. The crack of my pants filled like a balloon and the greenish plop of turd squished through my breeches like spoiled yogurt through a squeezebox. From somewhere in the shadowy corners of the bar, I heard a woman barf. I turned my head this way and that, but couldn't see anyone. It didn't matter, though, because by this point I was talking loudly to myself about the Savings and Loans Crisis of the 1980s and how "William Black was a piece of shit!!!!" It was fairly dark outside by now, so I pissed on the bar (a high-pitched hissing sound followed by greenish steam or smoke rose from the piss) then I headed back into the night without paying.

I still had those god damned pipes with me so I figured I'd play a tune or two for the townsfolk even though there wasn't a living soul on the streets save a few dark figures scurrying through the alleys with rags over their faces. In the distance, you could see the lights from the fires of the dead. Their reflections fluttered and flickered in the busted windows of closed shops and homes. To my right stood the blackened foundation of a small church, still smoldering from whenever the vandals had chosen it. It was at this point that I got into a terrible bout of shouting "nigger faggot" over and over again I couldn't stop! I'd scream it in between terrible notes of hell from those god awful pipes. They tasted like sweat and smelled like urine. Well it went on like this for a few hours until I found myself walking along the river. Tired now, a nine inch turd hanging from my breeches like a rotting tail, I rolled into a piece of sushi and collapsed in a gutter flowing with shit and period blood. The mixture bubbled around my face and I gargled a little lap or four for good measure before belching human jizz and losing consciousness.

I'm not sure what idiot needs to keep his day job, but at some point in the night I was mistaken for dead and hauled by rat cart to the burn pits. I awoke in a festering mound of deceased plaguers. God damnit it smelled like a lump of shrimp burps left to mold in the hot hot heat for a weak inside a tin can. I vomited immediately, then tried to roll out of it and my face went right into the tortured nest of balls and penile of a dead nude old dude. I barfed again and devoured the moist meal of putrid frank and beans. I threw up sixteen more times before shitting myself. An hour later, I finally crawled from the horrid bin of shit. Fuck me. I struggled with the hangover from hell for a good three days before moving on to Switzerland where I spent four months banging blonde bimbos and working as a casino manager in Zurich. A few months later I was fired for replacing chips with groin fungus and clown cakes.