-
The owner of the creepy Chinese pet store fled to the basement amidst the onslaught of the giant insects. The loud droning of the beating wings of an enormous butterfly overhead his store made him shart himself. He shuddered and mused that the butterflies were always the worst when this sort of thing happened. The horrifying things a giant butterfly could do with its proboscis... He muttered to himself that he never should have sold the gross slug and cockroaches to that camel dick sucker who clearly forgot one of the rules.
Rummaging around the dusty shelves he espied what he was looking for. A dark green glass bottle shaped like an amphora with a wide cork stopper. The label was worn and faded, but he could just make out the Chinese characters for "paisley" and "fleur de lis." He swirled the jar to check if it still contained anything. It did, to his immense relief. The next item he needed to perform the ritual was in the credenza upstairs: a swatch of hideous casino carpet from the seediest Downtown LV gambling joint.
-
Old Hop Sing found the swatch and recalled the day he'd acquired it...
'Twas a bright and cloudless day in old Las Vegas.
Upon entering The Western casino he'd wandered slowly, trying to ignore the odors and the dripping bodily fluids shed by its patrons, the dregs of humanity.
One drunken bum asked if he could loan him some food money, saying "I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today:" Hop Sing bowed and said "O so sorry, you not my casino friend."
The bum edged away and continued to write down slot meter readings in his little book, muttering "someday I'll figure this shit out, then those AP's will have to respect me."
The Chinese checker checked the floor for his prize, confident that he'd found the most likely source for the "missing link."
And then...he espied something, something which made his yellow heart skip a beat: in the dank, dark corner of this House of Pain a black autistic woman who looked a lot like that Huxstable woman on the Cosby show was shitting and pissing on the much-abused casino carpet.
Her mound of digested Church's chicken lay atop an inch of crusted vomit, urine, blood and Tang, the astronaut's beverage of choice.
She finished her business then veered toward Bingo; the inscrutable oriental marveled at the magnificent sight on the floor.
"Ah so" he mused as he removed a chunk of carpet with his tailor's shears; upon sniffing it he nearly fainted: then exclaimed "Eureka, I've got it!"
Several bums came at him with avarice in their glassy eyes, intent on taking whatever "it" was away from him, but he threw a handful of nickels in front of them for distraction.
He quickly wrapped the casino carpet in multiple layers of aluminum foil and beating a hasty retreat he returned to his lair by rickshaw, intent on magic, mayhem and Mu Shu pork.
-
Hop Sing measured a teaspoon of liquid from the amphora and mixed it with fresh pee in Sponge Bob Square Pants collectible glass tumbler. He then poured the mixture on top of the carpet and the long since desiccated turd. Now for the magical Chinese incantation:
"Ching chong, ding dong,
Come forth, Nathan
and heed my song!
Kung pao, moo-shoo,
Karen Nathan
I'm calling you!
Dim sum, hot pot,
O vile Karen,
virgin harlot!
Spring roll, egg roll
Karen Nathan,
VCT troll!"
The hideous casino carpet swatch at once became engulfed in green flames and the figure of Karen Nathan appeared before old Hop Sing. Before she could react, he threw a fist full of nickels in her face. She writhed and screamed as her flesh melted where the nickels had hit her. Hop Sing completed the ritual by shoving a player's club card in the gaping maw of the flaming demon. The demon known as Karen Nathan exploded in a thousand points of light, and then all went dark in the pet shop. Hop Sing ran to the window to survey the carnage outside. The bugs were gone, though the street and sidewalks were littered with body parts.
The old chinaman vowed never again to sell pets to Koran thumping faggots.
-
Mohammed hung up the phone having just requested another ten million dollars from his family to fund his baccarat play.
His queer as queer could be lover took a break from sucking his toes and asked "Say, I've always wondered...where does the money come from? I mean, your people are in North Africa and isn't that all desert?"
"My people have been slavers forever; by report my ancestor enslaved Noah after the rain stopped. Plus we now run guns, heroin and counterfeit casino player's cards."
The swarthy camel fucker paused then said "My family doesn't care how much money I lose, there's plenty out there, and besides the reason I allow myself to experience massive losses is to launder my family's fortune through the casinos, Resorts World in particular."
This unexpectedly candid admission both surprised and placated Jules who continued to lick and suck with the skill only years of experience could teach.
"OK, and forgive me for asking, but you bragged once about buying an eight figure mansion in Las Vegas, but we live in a tent downtown. What happened?"
"I lie. I lie a lot."
He stirred the Dinty Moors beef stew atop the sterno stove, adjusted the tent flap for privacy, and pretended his paramour was a camel...
-
Mohammed Dawg and Jules Kewl had waited years for this moment, and now they finally held in their arms a baby of their own. The birth parents, Tasha Donathan and Dean Kentry, had signed away their rights so that they could continue smoking crack 24/7 without the interruption of a needy infant.
"What should we name him?" Jules asked.
"Let's take a walk and find inspiration in the streets," Mohammed suggested.
They strolled their infant along the sidewalk in the seediest part of Tampa. In the damp space between two buildings they saw one hobo robbing another of his tattered jacket. Jules shuddered. "I hope we don't get robbed here. Mohammed, why did you have to wear your flashy Middle Eastern jewelry?" Jules huffed in annoyance.
A short while later they passed by a lady hobo changing her tampon right there on the sidewalk for all to see. Mohammed remarked, "It must be rough being a hobo on her period," He tossed the woman a package of baby wipes from the baby bag Jules had slung over his shoulder.
As they rounded the bend to head to the bus stop, they espied a man busking for change outside a McDonald's that had been closed by the health department. He was singing Taylor Swift hits off-key and keeping beat poorly with a makeshift drum: an orange Home Depot bucket turned upside down. "That man is a terrible singer, even worse that Taylor Swift," Jules remarked snidely. Mohammed shrugged in agreement. Then he got out his wallet and peeled off a few c-notes for the untuneful vagabond.
Finally the bus arrived and Mohammed and Jules enjoyed seats at the front of the bus where parents with bulky strollers are privileged to sit. The cooed at their son and marveled at his sweet, round, black face. So enrapt were they in their baby they didn't even notice the passenger with the hideous handbag farting profusely. They got off at their stop and chatted amiably during the stroll home.
"Well, Mohammed, what inspiration did we get from the streets," Jules inquired in a pouty tone.
"Let's see, we witnessed a robbery, a period, and a singer. How about Rob Period Singer?" Mohammed said.
"Okay, but let's just put a dot instead of the word Period," Jules added.
And so the loving gay couple named their son, Rob.Singer.
-
Flush with happiness at having named their little pickaninny the happy gay parents removed the blanket covering little Rob.Singer only to discover...
"Oh my fucking God!" they trilled.
Rob.Singer was gone!
That god-damned bitch with the hideous handbag must have pulled a switcheroo on them: their startled eyes espied only an empty box of Church's Chicken in the stroller.
Meanwhile, Karen McIntasha decided to play a prank on her long suffering mammie.
She snuck into their rat-infested hovel while mammie was watching "America's Got Talent;" the kidnapper dropped her nasty undies and laid a Wide Load on the kitchen floor.
And then, for the coup de grace, she took little Rob.Singer out of her hideous handbag and immersed him in her droppings where he happily froliced and wallowed like a pig in...you know...
"Mammie,I and I's home" she said, knowing her mammie would come out to see her.
Mammie hobbled in, a glass of Fireball in hand, and nearly spit her dentures out at the sight.
"Lordy me" she yelled "Chile, you jus' shitted out a baby, and here all 'dis time you says you be virgin."
Karen McIntasha smiled and said "I and I's can't waits ta shows dis lil' bundle o' joy ta all mah casino friends."
Rob.Singer took it all in, then much to their surprise he popped a monster stiffy and said "Be sure to have them enable the double up function...."
-
McIntasha, that's gold, solid gold. I will never look at apples the same way.
-
Tasha, won't you come back and help out with my Fictional Chone Wilson story? It's got the gay romance subplots you crave.
-
"Look mammie, da baby, he talks!"
Mammie took a huge gulp of fireball: its blast of cinnamon soothed her frazzled nerves and helped her to endure the daily trials and travails presented by her rather bizarre daughter.
"Too bad he caint mop de floor" muttered mammie.
"I and I is takin' him to de 'sino mammie, sees you later..." and with that she put the shit-covered bundle of joy in her hideous handbag, adjusted her makeup and took the city bus to her favorite gambling palace.
Entering the maw of the Hole of Pestilence she espied a recent casino friend.
"Hey Emeril...quit autographing cook books and looks a' what I and I's gots here."
Emeril Lagasse put down the pen and groaned: "Oh fuck me, it's that degenerate nit-wit Karen McIntasha, the damn fool who still thinks I'm a wop."
The proud yet clearly autistic child stealer removed little Rob.Singer from her hideous handbag and proudly displayed him to Emeril.
"He looks and smells like shit, Karen...didn't your mammie teach you how to change a diaper and wash an infant?"
Rob.Singer looked at Karen and nodding his wee head said "Yeah, get with it, woman...this Portugese purveyor of gustatory bullshit does raise a good point about the state of my current hygiene but fuck it... lead me to the VP machines."
Karen got very mad: she slapped little Rob.Singer and said "Don't you back talks yo mammie, and by de by, Em-rill he be I-talian!"
"You really are stupid, woman, and you most certainly are not my mammie, bitch, and ..."
But before he could finish the slur an enraged Karen McIntasha grabbed him by the feet and with the power and speed available only to the nearly-insane she spun around several times and hurled her little bundle of joy far across the casino floor, spinning like a black discus.
The stinky projectile came to rest in the lap of a jaded high limit slot player; Judge V. blinked in shock at the intrusion and said to his nubile companion "Look, somebody threw away a perfectly good slave."
With that he wrapped the infant in his robe and said "Let's go, I gotta get back to the plantation and put this new one in the slave's quarters. He'll grow up to be a good field hand."
Tasha espied this and burst into tears, knowing that her little bundle of joy would never again be a part of her life.
"But 'dat's OK' she murmured, "I and I's still gots all mah casino friends."
Unknown to the players in this tragi-comedy Jules Kewl had espied the entire goings-on from his perch at the black jack table: he farted conspiratorially then dialed his husband and whispered "Hey Mohammed...guess what?"
-
"What?" Mohammed replied. He hoped his husband would say 'chicken butt' but Jules did not have much of a sense of humor.
"That baby we adopted and named Rob.Singer speaks in complete sentences like an old man. He's here at the casino. Some guy who looks like a 600 year old vampire just took him. I think our baby might actually be a grown man who just looks like a baby. What if he is the notorious criminal Babyface Boz who is wanted on every continent? Think of the reward money!" Jules said in excitement.
"Now that you mention it, it was pretty strange that we got little Rob.Singer as a casino comp rather than through an adoption agency. You tail them while I track the Air Tag I superglued to the bottom of his foot." Mohammed replied.
By and by the gay couple managed to track down their "son" at a very creepy gothic plantation style mansion. Disguising themselves as potted plants as if in a Scooby Doo cartoon, they sneaked into the foyer and eavesdropped on a very heated conversation between the vampire looking man and their "son."
-
Mohammed farted softly and said "I need to get back to the tent and make sure our Dinty Moore isn't burning. Keep me posted."
Jules Kewl kissed his beloved goodbye and continued to espy the goings-on.
"You better untie me and let me go or I'll call the cops" demanded Rob.Singer.
Judge V. ignored the noise erupting from the little nig-let; he continued to chop up his pile of Peruvian flake, took a few deep pulls, then smiled.
"Shut the fuck up: MeThinks the moron doth protest too much."
The jacked up jurist reminded the wee black dollop of grease and bullshit that "You've been thrown away, used, discarded, shit upon and pissed upon all of your life; at least here at Tara you'll have a purpose, albeit not one to your liking. But for now I'll begin your 'training.' "
He rubbed his hands together, gave an 'evil laugh' and wrapped the bare end of a wire around the munchkin's 9 1/2 millimeter johnson.
"Little nig-ltets need to be seen, not absurd:" and with that he introduced electricity to the party.
Jules Kewl espied the sadistic yet oddly mesmerizing action and becoming tumescent he phoned his Arabian Blight, whispering "Ho-ho. Mo."
"Yeah, we're gay...why is that so funny?"
"No, that isn't it. Judge V. is zapping our little angel of darkness, frying him up like a piece of brown bacon."
"What, he's killing him?"
"No, he's got a wire hooked to a car battery hooked to Rob.Singer's baby-cock and boy am I jealous."
"Of course you are: masochism becomes you. But how is Rob.Singer holding up?"
"Not good. He's crying like a baby about how Judge V. needs to shut it all down."
In his aroused state Jules Kewl inadvertently knocked over the potted plant with his stiffy, a clumsy move espied by the Man Of The Manor who quickly nabbed, trussed and tickled the intruder mercilessly.
"Well now" drawled Judge V. "It looks like we have a new field hand" He called out to his man-servant: "Igor, this one needs 'special treatment:" bring in the horny donkey."
Igor smiled then shuffled away toward the stable, saying "Yes, master..."
Jules Kewl shook his nubile rump with anticipation while Rob.Singer muttered "A Newell...a Newell...my kingdom for a Newell..."
-
Back at the tent, the Dinty Moore Beef Stew was indeed burning. Mohammed offered it to a passing raccoon and pondered what to do about dinner. Jules was so whiny wben he didnt get dinner. Suddenly the raccoon returned. The striped creature stood on its back legs and clapped its front paws together, as if it had once been someone's well trained pet.
"Sorry buddy, I'm all out of food," Mohammed said to the raccoon.
The raccoon shook its head as if saying no. Then it made some odd vocalizations as if trying to speak. Mohammed was becoming a little uneasy.
"S-sorry, buddy. I don't s-peak raccoon," Mohammed stuttered. The raccoon stood stock still and gazed at Mohammed. Mohammed could hear his heart pounding. Finally the raccoon cleared its throat and said,
"I need to show you something past the drainage ditch. Please, it's very urgent. I can make it worth your while." And with that, the raccoon produced a can of Dinty Moore. Mohammed sharted himself in excitement.
-
Mohammed put the stew on the sterno stove, fired it up and cautiously followed the 'coon toward whatever it was the little rascal wanted to show him.
"It's fucking weird, is what it is" mouthed the little guy.
Yes, indeed it was weird: Mo espied a skinny guy in a wizard's cape and hat wielding a bloody katana, severing head after head.
"Who is that?" queried the Arabian Nubian.
"From what the 'possums tell me he calls himself "The Lizard."
"Apt." thought Mo, noting the reptilian appearance, "but this is Downtown Las Vegas, Land of the Lost, Domain of the Damned: anything goes here."
The despicable desert douche watched in amazement as "The Lizard" mounted his bloody slaughter.
"You are guilty of talking POLITICS!"... WHACK; and "You dared to question a mod's judgment: to Hell with you!"...WHACK; and "You dared to call a lying asshole a liar: to the fiery furnace with you!...WHACK."
Mo soon tired of the shenanigans, interesting though they were to behold.
With that he eyed the 'coon then asked "Say, you ever do three ways? You sort of remind me of a pint-sized camel."
"Sorry, no interspecies fucking for me," and with that the 'coon twitched his nose and disappeared in a puff of smoke.
Mo called Jules Kewl for an update: "Funny, no answer. Guess I should go check things out."
You'll be sorry.........
-
Choné Wilson ripped the page from his typewriter and crumpled it. Instead of throwing it in the wastebasket, he smoothed it out, recrumpled it very tightly, then smoothed it out again and folded it into a neat square. This was his new source of toilet paper ever since he had quit the casino carpet design business and pivoted to writing cheap thrillers. To wit: he was poor.
His last novel, a gay romance bodice ripper featuring forbidden love between two characters named Jules and Mohammed, had not sold well and Choné's agent had dropped Choné like a hot potato. I don't know if you have ever dropped a foil wrapped baked potato fresh from the oven, but it is not exactly like dropping other objects, such as acid or a new rap album. Anyway, Choné knew he had to go in a bold new direction and incorporate gore, plantations, hobo living, and other gross stuff, or else his writing career was finished, just like his casino carpet design career. Then what would I do, he mused, troll on gambling forums all day? Probably yes, he concluded. Well, such is life.
Just as Choné was about to restart the chapter he had just discarded, there came a knock at the door. Who could that be? He espied through the peep hole a man in a black balaclava holding a red balloon. Normally this would have sent Choné leaping off the balcony on the opposite side of the apartment, but something else caught his eye through the peep hole: The masked man was also holding a gleaming machete in the other hand. Choné had always wanted to own one.
The knocking continued as Choné rummaged around in the credenza for his 24 oz can of bear spray and steel toed work boots. He flung open the door, sprayed the man in the face with one hand while kicking him in the balls with the other. The man dropped the machete and let go of the balloon as he shielded his face and screamed in agony. Choné grabbed the machete in triumph, but was sorry to see the red balloon drift away into the heavens. Oh well.
And now for the fun part.
-
It was then that Chone espied today's date on the calendar: "October 31st."
Oops...Halloween!
Chone farted effusively and apologized for fucking up the seeming trick or treater, but then asked "Say, aren't you a bit old for this?"
The crumpled visitor shook his head, paused, and said "Got any milk? Gotta wash this shit out of my eyes. I recall from my desert dwelling days that camel milk is good for cleaning camel and goat semen and piss off my face."
Chone provided milk: soon the unwanted visitor was firing on all cylinders, at which point he grabbed the machete and lunged at a surprised Chone, causing a nasty flesh wound.
"Allah Akbar...that'll teach you" he screamed, lunging again...but Chone was a quick study.
He grabbed the closest thing to hand, namely an unread copy of Rob.Singer's infamous tome on VP play, and smashed it into the attacker's face: instant lights out.
Curious, Chone rummaged through the mystery man's pockets and found a note, to wit:
"Mohammed: As my attorney you've done me many great services on gambling forums, but I have one final need which I beg you to fulfill. There is a forum member who annoys me and I want you to cut his head off. Thanks, and as always I'll repay you with sexual favors....yours, Karen McIntasha."
Chone mulled this over then he grabbed a shovel and beat the unwanted visitor to death, dragged his body to the back yard and threw him in the sty with the pigs and the hogs.
"How ironic, since Islam prohibits eating pork: I guess being eaten by swine is cool. Whatever, asshole. See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya."
Chone smiled broadly as the opportunistic oinkers quickly dispatched their unexpected snack.
"So, this bitch wants to play hard ball, eh? Two can play at that game..."
He booked tickets to Miami and gathered the necessary tools...
-
Boarding the plane to Miami, Choné was seated between two fatties. Oh no, not this story line again, he mused. Doesn't that fucking scorpion ever write an airplane scene that doesn't involve being squished between two fatties or the cabin filling with fart gas? No, dear reader, the scorpion does not venture far beyond his safety zone of being squished by fatties and inhaling copious amounts of gas. Anyhoo, just as Choné was about to be squished into oblivion, the big butt flight attendant walked by and crop dusted the entire economy class with her noxious egg toots. The fatty in the aisle seat fainted and fell into the aisle, saving Choné from a most indignified death.
Another flight attendant made an announcement in that weird stewardess broken English accent, which sounded like a mix between Spanglish and Chinglish.
"Atterntion Derlta possenhers, dee-oo to bodget kyerts, our peelot has oonly hard haf dee amont off flight training hours. Esspec a bompy ride dees afternon. Thairnk you for chissing Derlta Arlines."
The flight was indeed "bompy" and by the time it landed in Miami -- 3 hours late due to the pilot getting lost -- the entire cabin was filled with the haze of flatulence.
-
"Ah, Florida" mused Chone..."Or should I call it 'New Jersey South.' "
He hadn't seen this many angry Cubans since watching "Red Dawn" in reform school.
"What has these assholes all stirred up?" he wondered.
Chone bought a Miami newspaper and espied the headline: "Mad pooper on the loose: police baffled, CDC mandates hip boots."
"What a fucked up city" he quickly concluded, "but I came here for revenge."
Chone had never seen Karen McIntasha, neither in the flesh nor via photo, but he'd know her when he saw her, thinking "How many negresses in Miami talk with a Jamaican accent, gamble at the local casino, carry a hideous handbag and look like that Huxtable woman on the Cosby show?"
Chone took a rental car to the casino and looking around he immediately espied something encouraging: a woman who met all the criteria was badgering people for money while continuously espying slot machines in search of unused credits.
Chone let loose a stealthy squeaker while approaching her; he tapped her shoulder, saying "Hello Karen, how're things at Walgreens these days?"
"Oh you mus' be one o' mah many 'sino friends I and I has got. Cans you gimme a hunded bucks? I and I'll pays you back tomorrah, I and I swears it."
"Sure, anything for a casino friend. C'mon out to my car, I'll hook you up there."
He'd parked in a dark corner of the lot; opening the trunk he said "I hid the money in the trunk: will you get it out?"
While Karen was bending down and reaching into the trunk Chone grabbed her legs and threw her bodily into the trunk, slamming it closed.
"Gotcha, Karen McIntasha" he yelled before motoring off toward the Everglades...
He decided to let her know the deep shit she was in: "My name is Chone..."
From the depths of the trunk came a moan, then sobs, followed by screams: all was right in the world.
-
I'm going to summon Abby with some math curios:
12 x 42 = 21 x 24
12 x 63 = 21 x 36
12 x 84 = 21 x 48
13 x 62 = 31 x 26
13 x 93 = 31 x 39
14 x 82 = 41 x 28
21 x 24 = 12 x 42
21 x 36 = 12 x 63
21 x 48 = 12 x 84
23 x 64 = 32 x 46
23 x 96 = 32 x 69
24 x 63 = 42 x 36
24 x 84 = 42 x 48
26 x 31 = 62 x 13
26 x 93 = 62 x 39
28 x 41 = 82 x 14
31 x 39 = 13 x 93
32 x 46 = 23 x 64
32 x 69 = 23 x 96
34 x 86 = 43 x 68
36 x 42 = 63 x 24
36 x 84 = 63 x 48
39 x 62 = 93 x 26
42 x 48 = 24 x 84
43 x 68 = 34 x 86
46 x 96 = 64 x 69
48 x 63 = 84 x 36
64 x 69 = 46 x 96
-
Chone's i-phone rang.
"Hello, Chone here."
"Chone, my man! This is your third cousin twice removed: Zendouche. How are they hanging?"
"Uh, I'm a bit busy now, douche...can it wait til I feed the gators?"
"No, it really can't. Look, I'm confused and need your sage advice."
Chone pulls over, lights up a spliff and says "I'm listening..."
"So I'd always heard that a blow job is a great experience but you know me...too busy haunting casinos to deal with people...anyway I just had my first hummer and boy and I confused."
Chone smiled, recalling his first forays in the Game of Love.
"So douche, what did you think, did you like it?"
"Oh yeah, all except for the taste."
-
Karen McIntasha was mopping up on aisle three when her flip phone's ring tone, "The Mickey Mouse Club theme song" rang.
"Hello?"
"Hiya sweet cheeks. This is Zendouche, the GOAT calling with a once in a lifetime opportunity."
"I and I needs no 'stended war-ty, I and I gots no car."
"No, I'm not selling...I'm buying. I'm buying YOU a plane ticket to Las Vegas. I think we can make beautiful music together."
"I and I don't sing or play but I and I has a boom box."
"Cute. Anyway, I've followed your posts on WoV and VCT for years and I have an idea for a killer advantage play that only YOU can help pull off. So, what do you say...wanna get rich quick?"
Karen espied a scurrying cockroach and stomped it; she reached for a greasy chicken leg in her hideous handbag and while munching she passed some truly vile gas, permeating the air to a redolent degree.
"Goes on...what's I and I s'posed to do?"
"Here's the deal. Over the years I've discovered a few areas in the casinos that the eye in the sky cannot espy, "blind spots" if you will. The play is for you to shit on the floor in a blind spot and then sit down in your shit and moan and scream, yelling 'I've fallen and I can't get up.' I've already enlisted a local lawyer, the Hound, to do the legal work and a bent sawbones, PooPoo, to fake the medical records. We'll get a big payday from the casinos. We split it all equally, one-quarter each. What do you say?"
Karen scratched her ass then said "OK, but no funny bid'ness I and I be a asexual virgin."
"Not to worry, I only fuck couches. So you're in?"
""Sho 'nuf am. At last my ship's came in."
