I had cottoned to the compadres of my Kansan cocaine distributor, and in doing so had gained an unwholesome insight into the lurid insanities of a profession most unwelcome in its irregularities.
That same late winter night most dreary I dreamt of rock quarries teaming with Vaseline and awoke screaming within a scream, confessions of the lost souls of Saturn in a fractal pattern justified my hesitation and quantified my premature ejaculation. Further night terrors ensued, invoking the esoteric diction of my erotic fan fiction lubing the stiction for premarital emu friction.
I had enjoyed the patronage of a mad scientist with a cuckolding fetish, a position to which I had accustomed myself after a prolonged indebted servitude to a proto-feminist Amazonian cult to which I fathered a litter of Borgians. This particular Prometheus had funded my expeditions on his perverted conditions to which I had but little choice to acquiesce, he the groom of an exceptional gloom exacerbated by a bride of the choicest pride, a morbid Mennonite most malicious in her maladjusted mania.
Six months later I had found myself on the lam in the desert of New Mexico fleeing a Reptilian debt collector whenever the voice of the Devil himself appropriated my AM band with his Satanic soliloquy - namely an excerpt from the loathed apocrypha of the accursed Borgianomicon.
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