Alias Super Caligual Part III: The Wasabi Breaks

Bear witness to the dark middle portion of our saga, that archetypal depressing mid-arc episode so relished by internet cretins. A concise yet clammy contraption of romance, international intrigue and suggestions of popes in bondage - Alias Super Caligula.

I awoke pierced by barbs of the warbling drarbs in the land of Holy Frijoles, a drunken evening slept off in the back of a dump truck filled with cactus stumps in a desolate desert filled with jealous jezebels and jingle bells.

The dread of execution plungers or genuine hunger led to my jail break from a Mexican prison where the guzzling of Mezcal and slurred vowels numbed the sting that the Cholla cacti bring. Spark plugs and whiskey jugs led my way to a saloon to ease the throes of the jitterbug joes.

Another Mezcal with a brackish dash of horseradish and I had collected my senses and mended my fences, calculating my arrest had been prompted by the very best – Super Caligula.  And yet this fiend of the rectally reamed had left hints in a local church and steeple of his career of evil - glass shards and tarot cards led to further clues of scented soaps or photos of grinning popes tied up with rigorous ropes.

Blackmail paraphernalia from a brothel in Westphalia sprinkled liberally from Baja to Wichita, and further north where I stumbled into a trap of mud flaps and nylon straps.  Shanghai’d in a bathroom by truckers in the heart of Dayton amongst a stench of bacon, I was led to meet the personification of my grim damnation – Super Caligula.