West Memphis Saturday Night

My liver was soaked on top of a nose full of cat’s croak when the truck driver with a neck tattoo that may or may not have been of Merle Haggard first spit and then staggered.

There is nothing in life as dangerous as a loose woman, a distant second and third being dog-legged next of kin and jealous husbands and boyfriends.

I was the king of sin and sleaze from the seven seas to Tastee-Freez when I met that thick gal with ham hocks in knee socks, and I’ll never forget the way her bingo wings jiggled with the creak of the box springs.

There are those who choose to live the life of a true romantic, those I-40 lotharios who dare to dream, and yet those dreams do regularly involve staring down a hog’s leg amongst lot lizards, buzzards and the over-fed.

Damnation

Wenches will be more cloying in their desire to be domesticated and chairs shall become slightly more uncomfortable as the date of our destruction nears.

The world shall burn, an incessant hellish buzzing as all Man shall live within the collective rectum of a dread legion of locusts with the faces of men and the wings of demons.

Mushroom clouds and black shrouds will greet the unholy pilgrims and saints of sin as the earth beneath us liquefies into a tentacled mass consuming unspoiled milk and rectifying all but the unresurrected.

Feast becomes famine as the children feed an army of false prophets and liars into the whirlpool of fire, thorns and briars will purify the tainted, damned and the dire.

A rambling chaos in which legs become arms and our souls are farmed, chicken nuggets and gizzards will be harvested as geese become lizards.

Watery low alcohol swill and gray tasteless cheese will placate the masses as Satan and his minions claim Dominion over a prized dimensional domicile of abandoned Pizza Huts, fruit cups and yeasty sluts.

Goatees and masturbation fees will become mandatory as crutons found in futons feed a multicultural bureaucracy which will be tasked in auditing our respective karmic depreciation. This will be supervised by the nefarious three-headed goat which shall determine whether a straight-line or accelerated method is preferable.

Alias Super Caligula Part I: Sex with Catfish People in Florida Cracker Country

My long awaited magnum rope-a-dopus, a tale of forbidden love, tragedy and circle jerks - Alias Super Caligula

The sixth result for "catfish" on Wikimedia Commons

Those feverish nights of Macau, where the opium drool of topless ghouls had left me nostalgic for that dreary Marseille house of lecherous congress of which the tales told are quite the longest. This the den of unequivocal sin with nightly sermons preaching a piety of the pornographic variety, and where one must abstain from bleating cries as the teenagers whip thy.

In this blighted hole of a dozen venereal vectors I still found myself haunted by the spectre of her vaginal nectar, she a Flemish blackjack dealing trapeze artist that had honed the trombone after snorting paprika amongst the ghosts of Costa Rica. 

    

I learned she had been subjected to the dreaded squaw cactus torture particular to the pompadoured Nudie suit Reno mafia, and in my ill-advised adventures in vengeance I found myself deceived by French killers, baited by throngs of wanton women and poisoned by spider venom.

I survived but awoke in a Maltese pit of vicious vipers and Corsican pipers, yet my own snake charming technique of imitating mating parakeets with clicks within the cheek rendered these painted clowns of grotesque frowns dead from bites by cobras and the fanged rites of Zozobra.

Nevadan felons and rhinestone watermelons led the trail to another honey trap bordello in those dank forbidden swamps of wampus cats and swollen rats east of Tallahassee.  Dusty ways through musty yellow hallways echoed the horror of chickens clucking and banjos plucking as I jack flapped the shucked lovelorn born of corn. 

I was forced to kiss the rouged cheeks of bestial catfish freaks, part human yet choked in the chatter of cooking batter.  This the utmost unspeakable – sex with catfish people in Florida cracker country.

Wide mouthed whiskers of gilled drifters excited the chicken fried fervor of our aquatic restaurant servers - the fate of lost ears and limbs of unsuspecting fishermen I had doubt no more. And yet these lost soles alerted me to the orchestrator of the assassination of my Flemish fixation.  

Austrian pimp spymaster.  Dark glasses and stringy hair slicked back with molasses accentuating the sneer of cheap colon, cigarettes, stale strudel and staler beer. Frotting hire and cocaine supplier of his trusted Afrikaner counterpart, Die Kakkerlak, and numerous sycophantic assassins for both East and West.   

Name.  Johann Schön.  

Alias?  Super Caligula.