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