The Minimus 7 Letters, Part 3

by Minimus 7 / M7

shrift,

Should I send these in?

daft cooters

3.8 billion years of ennui

duck my sick

brutish odors

uncle clyde and the fluff girls

it’s the fart that counts

two dicks ferguson

lava twat chung

rectilinear smile

any excuse for trephination

vacu-peen

unsolicited enemas

jactitations of the saints

circulator of funk

cluster fuck event horizon

Two that aren’t mine, but rule anyway:

“Negative vibe merchant.”–neil

“Enormous falsie basket.”–william s. burroughs

well,

end of stick.

 

eke,

I like the word frozen in its standard sense and in the sense of frozen…a sort of neo-African Buddhist movement.

So how come A’s so damned funny lately?

On the interzone internet, I found a concordance for NAKED LUNCH.

Every word in the book was listed and the page numbers were referenced.  One could click on the page number and it would appear since the whole book is located in cyberspace now.  As you might guess, I found all of this very fucking admirable—thumbs up all around.

I also read an essay in which the author thought that those who don’t appreciate NAKED LUNCH simply aren’t able to get past all of the sex and drugs.  Personally, I think that many people simply are not able to understand a book with an absent plot line.  Of course, the upcoming generation will find NL perfectly readable as their minds will be wired in such a way as to make short unconnected bursts of information usable.  Essentially, NAKED LUNCH is a hypertext document.  The “links” exist in the psyche of the reader.

One thing that has always interested me is that the human brain hasn’t really changed in many thousands of years, but the human mind has gone through many large shifts.  For example, right now we are wired to thrive within a bludgeoning sphere of information while remaining steadfastly unaffected by nuance.  In large measure, we determine our own wiring.  It’s ironic, since so many people are so unhappy with their wiring–especially the addiction to drama.

This wind is so strong.  All of my cardboard caricatures are getting blown over.

Personally, I prefer the straw man fallacy to the ad hominem.  The beauty of straw man is that when you set up a fake argument (which is easy to knock over) as a person’s real argument, they are often so stupid as to think they are actually defeated when you haven’t engaged the real issue at all. (By the way, don’t try this with A.)

Then again, intellectually bruising the weak lost its charm long ago. And within each square on the grid, we’ll place a different form of cultural blindness.  We’ll concentrate the most virulent forms in the center and that’s where we’ll drop the bomb.

After considering it in my mind, I have decided that Spanish is my favorite language.  It is quite pretty when spoken or written well. It is more efficient than Germanic languages.  It is relatively easy to learn.  Even though I have studied East Asian languages, I do not like the “music” of them.  I do not find Japanese or Mandarin aesthetically pleasing and I find the difficulties in using the writing of these languages to be immodern and ridiculous in the extreme.  One symbol for every different word–as if!  I like the phonetic Korean symbology, as it seems to be an elegant solution.

Also, in Spanish, much information can be conveyed very quickly once one of those hot chicas get going.

“Words are a virus.”–Burroughs

perhaps this end will never come,

dangle.

 

no good food here joe

Cautiously pulling into Peenpeen after a long night of running from the law, Cappy Dick felt relatively sure that the revenuers would never look for him in this god-forsaken spot on Hwy. 39.

Peenpeen was the kind of town where all of the dogs were skinny and all of the women were fat.  But, it lacked streetlights and people knew how to keep their mouths shut.  It was a perfect hidey hole for Cappy Dick.

One could even get a decent meal in Peenpeen at the no good food here joe cafe.  In the phone book which Peenpeen shared with 5 other pissant little Oklahoma towns, the no good food here joe cafe is simply listed as “Cafe, Hwy. 39, Peenpeen.”  At one time, a Korean immigrant (illegal) had been the fry cook and proprietor of the cafe.

The place got it’s unusual moniker because when Kim saw a customer he didn’t like, he would grab him by the collar and shuffle him out of the restaurant while screaming “No good food here, Joe!” in his highly accented speech.  Kim called everyone, male or female, Joe.

In fact, the no good food here joe cafe had the best food in the whole state.  Kim grew all of his own produce and he even raised his own foul for his excellent fried chicken and his astonishingly good moo goo gai pan.  He had a wife who people rarely saw because she was always in the kitchen washing dishes.  One day, a roughneck who was seated at the counter eating the cafe’s incredible lamb and couscous referred to the Kims as “that little gook and his little gook wife.”  A huge metallic clatter emanated from the darkened recesses of the kitchen, as if a pot had hit the cement floor.  In a flash, the beaproned Mrs. Kim leapt over the lunch counter like an antelope.  As she hit the floor behind the hapless roughneck, she placed her menacingly sharp butcher knife against his right kidney.

As the point of the knife ushered him out of the front door, Mrs. Kim spat out “No good food here, Joe!”  Mr. Kim laughed and laughed and laughed.  (So hard that kimchee came out of his nose, actually)

These days, the Kims’ daughter runs the place with her arranged-marriage-fresh-off-the-plane hubby.  She speaks perfect English and calls everyone in town by their real names.  The food is still spectacular, but in these calmer times, post oil bust, it’s quite unusual to witness knifeplay in the no good food here joe cafe.

“Words are a virus.”–Burroughs

“…and the cure kills the patient, Joe.”–Martin

 

plook,

I may get to eliminate a yankee today.  All in all, people are good…but not him.

According to a web site I consulted, you are a swine if you believe the following:

-people suck

-nothing is forever

-there is no god

Being a swine is a good thing because at least you are not fooling yourself.  Also on this site are such articles as “Why Pornography is a Positive Influence on Society.”

Also seen: working with a computer is nothing more than sitting on you ass while watching TV and typing.  (babysue.com)

We should have a cooperative website.  We could have a story a day and a poem a day.  We could rag on everybody and piss people off.  We could be all cynical and wise about the state of our trashy old pop culture.  We could laud to high heaven those few things that we really do like.  We could perpetuate the tyranny of information.

More and more I realize that Burroughs was right–“Buddhism is not for America.”  We just want to tear things down too much.  We never want to leave things BE.

I recommend www.fadetoblack.com. The bits about cults and their beliefs, celebrity memberships, etc. were especially good.  Also funny was their rating of the stupidity of talk show audiences (scientifically determined).  All talk show scripts examined were shown to have a language usage level no higher than 2nd grade.

anyway, bite,

big bad culture demons

 

clep.

non-adherent::noun–person who does not subscribe to any single doctrine, philosophy, or course of action.  Is able to manipulate disparate cultural elements at will.  Can reproduce in the normal mammalian fashion or can hijack the DNA of others towards the non- adherent’s own ends.  Each neuron in a non-adherent’s brain is a melding of the qualities of primate neurons and incurable retroviruses.  Non-adherents can only be distinguished from average humans by behavior, not by appearance.  Non-adherents are considered very dangerous and should be shunned at all costs.  In close proximity, they can control your mind.

Websters New Dictionary of Cryptotaxonomy, 2nd ed.

Like the dic says, these buggers can be distinguished by their behaviors, so we have collected poetry, essays, and piles of words that we suspect were created by non-adherents.  Though they may have no coherent shared philosophy or thrust, you may sense a certain thread in this work, as if these words are carried upon a wave or a tune which has been buried deep in the back of your head from the beginning.  Sources from which these works are taken include crappy little avant-garde newsletters, scribblings found in the back of Gideon Bibles, student poetry reviews from small private colleges, graffiti collected by our roving experts, poetry readings from coffee houses worldwide, mysterious mass mailings which seem to appear from nowhere with no discernable postmarks, dream journals obtained during burglaries of non-adherents’ lairs, and shopping lists found in grocery store parking lots.  When the authors are unknown we have given them appropriate non-adherent names.

–The Watchers  May, 1998

THE WHITES MUST SUFFER

by Tycho Mondorzez

Grief is food.

We must thank the whites of this world for feeding us so much.

But, I’M QUITE FULL WHITEY!

Close the kitchen now,

    or we’ll burn the fucker down.

Graffiti on a Prison Wall

by Tycho Mondorzez

I saw that crooked cross tattood on your arm so i had my posse hold you down face down now i found your ass how you gonna try ‘n keep me outta there TODAY?

(Tycho was executed by firing squad in 1986, but not before passing his lethal DNA collection onto some other twisted hate fucker.–ed.)

untitled shopping list

by Felice Porter

feral obnoxious hacksaw

tripwires of the obvious

ovoid hypocrisy

tepid meanderings thru many aisles (green or brown)

something to clean a butt with

tri-phased puke gun

fleshly dilemma

canister of hell

(found by a Watcher in a suburban grocery store parking lot, the above was written on hotel stationary from a very swank place in Copenhagen.– ed.)

The Phoney

by rectal infectant

floating along a fragrant river

on my palate of bouyant weeds

  i sense a shattering state of natural

   discord

navigating by hologram, i escape

the clutching tide

  to learn the fate of my

   ever excitable

    neighbor

i steered using the lowest volume

my paddling was quite direct

  yet, unhurried

   finally i came upon

    the scene

it was simply a goose

pursued by a sap with

  his pants around his ankles

   erection in tow

    bobbing head

nothing interesting

ever happens

  on this river

   i sighed as i casually

    directed the lens

     and pressed [RECORD]

“If you call my home again, you will learn by experience what the inside of your colon looks like.”–message left by rectal infectant on the answering machine of a large midwestern telemarketing firm

(The Watchers have never been able to positively identify rectal infectant, so this nom de plume is of our choosing.  We can identify his work by the common thematics and structures.  The only way rectal infectant’s poems have reached the public are through mass mailings.  Sometimes a thousand random people throughout the country will receive his “gift.”  Sometimes every household in a small town will get a sheaf of scribblings stuffed in the mailbox.  The Watchers are 92% sure that the telemarketing firm message was left by our people’s poet.)

One Last Score

by Sarah Looper

I saw you recoil in shock as I released the dull blade of my sigh.  I have you hanging on my every mood, don’t I?  You are always scared that I might disapprove or be unhappy or pay attention to some other poor loser.  Take heart!  For now I’ll continue to control you by gesture and innuendo.  As long as this game pushes away the dullness, then I’ll revel in your pathetic tantrums and your ridiculous demands.

But, don’t fool yourself.  I neither like you nor respect you in any way.

dream journal entry

by Sarah Looper

I saw my father waving to me from the deck of the ocean liner as it pulled out of the harbor and I just had to laugh because that big gay fucker stole my vibrator and now I’ll never get it back.

Sponges vs. Swordfish

by Sarah Looper

Quick

Take up

Your new head

Before someone else does

After you screw it on

Call me, I’ll have a look

I can’t wait to point and laugh

Yes, you’ll be angry at me

But I can’t help it

You are so stupid

Just your face

Makes me

Smile

Conversation with Cherry

by Sarah Looper

You’re new in town?

You don’t say!

Just moved out of your parent’s house?

Well I’ll be!

You’re originally from Peenpeen, Oklahoma?

Tell me all about it!

You’re a confused girl right now?

I’ve been there sister!

But you know you have a crush on Lisa Loeb?

Well who doesn’t!

You think I look like Lisa Loeb?

Wow! I’ve never heard that before!

You sorta have no place to stay?

Well, good luck with that!

You can’t wait for me to drag you home and cram my fist between your legs?

I’LL GET THE CAR!

(So many of Sarah Looper’s works are included here because she is quite infamous in the Pocatello, ID lesbian grande artiste cafe’ poetry open mike scene.  She has extensive “contact” with the public and The Watchers are highly concerned that many innocent humans will become infected.–ed.)

Haiku #16

by Miminus 7

splendid! or did she…

i see, it wasn’t triumph

puke issues from you

Haiku #47

by Miminus 7

hello little girl!

you didn’t have to rack me!

I’m no pedophile!

Haiku #446

by Miminus 7

sitting here for days

i waited for you to look

my smile has melted

(Miminus 7 is the most well known of the non-adherents, even though the general public has no knowledge of the non-adherent “movement.” Miminus 7 can be seen weekly on the “Miminus 7 Happy Family Show” on Bravo.  Bafflingly, this hour of total boredom and stupidity is currently Bravo’s highest rated program.–ed.)

printed on the back of Nusrat CD:

For the martyrs of the daggers of submission the unseen brings new life every morning. by experimenting with Burroughs style cut up technique I derive: for the dagger of the life of submission the unseen brings new martyrs every morning for the dagger of the life of the unseen the martyrs bring new submission every morning for the morning of the life of the unseen the martyrs bring new daggers every morning for the unseen of the martyrs submission brings new life to every dagger for the life of the dagger of the unseen every morning brings new martyrs for the unseen morning of the dagger martyrs bring every life for the submission of martyrs unseen daggers bring new life every morning for the morning of the unseen daggers bring the submission of every martyr for the new to the unseen of life morning brings the dagger of martyr’s submission for the dagger of the martyrs every morning brings the submission of the unseen life

Conclusion:  The original sentence was specifically formulated by someone to be treated in this fashion.  This is a meta-statement containing dozens of interlocking layers of meaning and subtlety.

Once again, face value is only a small part of the story.

Homage to Miminus 7

by rectal infectant

Quit copying me, you dick!

(written in an unidentified substance on the side of Miminus 7’s house.–ed.)

Shimmer of Fate

by Calendria Dey

I was already stretched beyond all belief

but still, I kept getting tauter,

and wider

Feasting, filling, fueling, fisting,

I ascended the stairs of mourning and

tearfully proclaimed my nonchalance

Beasts of hope nipped at my heels

but I paid them no mind as I

continued climbing

Tearing at the sheets of water I stepped into a sort of darkness with

the roar of gravity in the background and I left it all behind all

the tortures all the boredom all of the death I had passed through

the baptismal curtain and, for that heated moment, I was clean

because I had been ripped free from the annulus of fate.

Then all of the memories came back

my chin fell against my chest

I tumbled over the rail

(Calendria Dey was one of the first artists to be identified by The Watchers as a part of the modern non-adherent movement (as opposed to the Renaissance Non-Adherent Movement.)–ed.)

THE SURFACE TENSION OF REALITY AND THE HORROR OF CULTURAL GENETICS

OR:  WHY I WRITE THIS SHIT

by The Bind

    The other day a colleague of mine at the tofu factory asked me what I was always scribbling in my notebook.  So, I let him read my stuff for a while.  He looked through many of my poems, my essays, my sketches, my fragments.  Typically, he looked up from my journal eventually and said “I don’t get it.”  Of course, many writers have had the experience of opening their secret vaults to a confidante only to be slapped in the face by their blindnesses.

    I suppose that there are two sorts of writers.  There are those who write for some segment of the public and there are those that give nary a fuck what the minions of the human DNA overlords might think.  More clearly:  some write for no reason and some write because they are word whores.

    Word whores are those who sell their art to the public.  There is nothing inherently wrong with this, but one must understand the nature of this culture.  Our culture of late 20th century america is nothing but a complex of distinct yet interconnected viruses.  Any material or information that is injected into this culture is immediately taken up by the organism and incorporated within its bulk.  But, being viral in nature, this culture can only create by hijacking the mechanism of healthy creatures.  So, any words that are injected into the system are immediately taken apart, examined, interpreted, and USED by the elements of our viral culture.  Once your art is “out there” you will never get it back in the same form because those fuckers will rip it apart, steal anything that might be useful and heave it onto the trash heap where it will lie shivering and bleeding from the anus.

    So, I don’t publish.

    Then, why write?

    I write so that there will be a treasure trove of cultural genetic material in this world that has not been exploited by the virus.  I write to preserve a core of reality that does not conform to the smooth surface as dictated by the masses.  By creating a form of untainted genetic reality, perhaps we can one day restore to humanity a sense of dignity, self worth, and individual determination.

    All of this begs a question.

    Am I not a part of the virus too?

    .

    .

    .

    One is part of the virus only by conscious choice, blissful ignorance, or blithe apathy.  Since none of those apply to me, I term myself a non-participant in this culture.  I do not adhere.  I do not steal cultural genetic material.

    I just write.

    (This could be considered the only description or critique of non-adherent thought actually written by a non-adherent.  Both The Bind and Calendria Dey were active in the late 1960’s and formed the core of early non-adherent thought.  Both used extensive viral imagery in their work and the only reason we get to read any of this is through sheer chance as neither author ever sought publication.  By 1975, some non-adherents were attempting to publish on a small scale.

Though they accepted The Bind’s assertions about the viral nature of our culture (even if they had never read any of his work), they chose to form “magic bullets” or “inoculations” from their art.  Rather than trying to create an untainted treasure trove as Calendria Dey and The Bind did, their goal was to inject their work into the public forum on a small scale, using the culture’s greed for fresh information to hasten its downfall.–ed.)

Nautica Palais

by Everett Kinski

I was out in the middle of the ocean anyway so I just dove in and swam strait down until I reached the bottom and My Dick was in the water, you know I mean all of me was in the water…way under the water, but anyway my dick was in the water too.

Then I just sucked up all of the water in the ocean with my dick I sucked it all up, all the briny water, the fish, the whales, the green sludge, the boats, the nets, the submarines, EVERYTHING But I didn’t get any bigger because I am some sort of hyperspace pelvic box and EVERYTHING will fit in there just fine.

Anyway, I had taken this big hit and I just sat there for a while with my dick dragging in the newly exposed salty mud with a few tiny shrimp shyly exploring my hairy nut sack with their delicate antenna.

After I supposed that the oceans of the world had circulated around in that endless place enough I opened the gate of my loins and just took the biggest piss ever and within a few minutes EVERYTHING was back to normal with little men on little boats and plankton and sharks and reefs and all that.

Floating, Aching…

by Everett Kinski

Covered in thick velvet ropes, I found you so inviting, yet, as I approached you stared me down and forced me to slowly back away.

Anchored, Resilient!

by Everett Kinski

Spent after the longest of nights when you found the ease to request all that you had been denied before.

(Everett Kinski could be considered the most mainstream of the non-adherent artists up until 1988.  He was an adjunct professor at a small private college in Oregon at a time when most non-adherents were dishwashers or pizza delivery drivers.  But, in June of 1988, Kinski abruptly quit his job, hitch-hiked to Seattle and set himself on fire at the grand opening of a brand new Starbuck’s.  All of his work except for the above was lost with him.–ed.)

Fear Ray

by Claudia Lee

Everybody in the bank grew silent as I walked in via the very tall doors. All of the business of the world came to a halt and all heads swiveled on their swivelnecks to catch me in the frame of vision.

At once, the patrons and the bankers started to shimmer, to shake imperceptibly and I heard many gasps and sobs.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said

“I forgot to turn off my Fear Ray.”

A simple click and all was forgotten as the hubbub resumed and I took my place in line.

Sammy the Idiot

by Claudia Lee

I often got frustrated with Sammy but I always convinced myself to forgive because Sammy was an idiot and it just wasn’t his fault by any meaning of that loaded term.

Exasperated at the

    broken dishes

    dashed hopes

    shattered promises

    emptied accounts

    inbred relatives

    professional wrestling

    low-rider trucks

    and inappropriate urination,

I started to get mean and I eventually tricked Sammy into killing himself but I convinced myself to forgive because I am a psychopath and it just wasn’t my fault by any meaning of that loaded term.

Yo Soy Gringa

by Claudia Lee

We were so terribly in love that it was painful in the belly when we were apart. I would cling to you like a bramble when you wanted to step away for a moment, but gradually we began to trust that our benign little universe would smash us together again after a short absence.

Even if you were only gone for a few minutes I started to fantasize about how I would greet you when you walked back through the door.

It was often fun….naughty.

One afternoon you begged me to go to the lake with your buddies so that we could all have a grand time cooking weenies and getting high.

When I expressed my disinterest in the plan, you called me a bitch and slammed the door on your way out.

The spell was broken.

Oh, I continued to play along like I still cared.  I accepted your tearful beer/pot apology when you finally got home that night.  We still did it.

Over the ensuing couple of weeks, you felt like everything was JUST FINE.

Then, late one night, while your chest was rising up and down so deeply, I leaned over you and (as I thought “Maybe I am a bitch but that doesn’t mean you have to say so”) smashed your angelic face with a dark red brick over and over and over until you didn’t look so lovely at all any more.

I hopped a plane and seamlessly blended in to the urban sprawl of La Paz for a few years.

My Spanish is now perfect.

(The above marked the end of a period of very “angry” poems by this author.  Although all of the events were fictional, one can easily see the underlying hate of this work.  Below, you will find the beginning of a body of transcendent musings which move beyond the dichotomies of love/hate, alive/dead, etc.  No one is sure what triggered the change in Claudia Lee’s work.–ed.)

the sky is so wide

by Claudia Lee

there was nothing better to do

(as if there ever IS)

so i ran along the earth

so that the world could get used

to my running

maybe even get

a little complacent

and then

rather than just running along the ground

i changed my angle a bit

so that

my feet started to clutch the air

(traction is so important)

and while the world was not looking

Tommy Tickledick sells his soul.
Tommy Tickledick sells his soul.

i started to dash into the air

and i ran around in the sky

and there was nothing that the

world could do about it

because

i knew how to make it happen now

and i was going to run straight up

into the sky

anytime i felt like it

and i felt like it all

of the

time

because i wanted to sniff

lightning ozone

and braid rainbows

and chase hawks

and get dizzy

from being so

high

 

red

by Claudia Lee

yes, i see your masque

of hate

but it doesn’t matter

because i know that

you are beautiful

underneath

because

so am i

even your violence,

your thrashing,

your pores clogged with filth,

your boils

will all fall away with a flicker

once you forget

to be angry

 

jobsac,

You must be empty to do the miraculous.

You must be miraculous to do the empty.

There is hope for the youth of this nation.

Last night I rode with Yvonne and Alison to OKC and back.  We also visited Yvonne’s brother David. In his room, he had Ayn Rand’s book about capitalism, the Tao Te Ching, and a Kafka collection.  I told Y and A about the insult intensifyers and they think that this is incredibly funny.  Now I can’t get them to stop doing it.  I also told them about the carrot coming out of the ground with “Mars, Bringer of War” as the soundtrack.  They thought that this was hilarious.  We had an impromptu haiku competition on I-35.

I told them that it would be fun to throw a hand grenade into the pickup bed of an asshole driver.  Yvonne said that that idea was demented.  I said, “No, demented would be forcing him off of the road so that he had a slight accident–maybe a bit of a concussion–then you drag his bloody but alive body out of his truck and……..”

They got the point.

We complained about the Baptists a lot, too. My throat is still a bit raw from laughing.

I told them to come to Sunday dinner some time.  I’m sure that they would enjoy reading the green book. There has been a lot of stuff on the aikido list lately about what to do about knife-weilding attackers or people who can punch and kick really well.  Your idea about just running like a sumbitch the moment trouble is apparent shows your correct assessment of the modern landscape and proper self-defense.  I hereby promote you to the rank of pussy willow!  Flee with honor!  (Or at least flee with your life).

These dingbats actually believe that they are going to face down a knife fighter or a karate champ.  If worse came to worse and my exit were blocked, I would try to make the bad guy stumble or trip and then I would flee like a squirrel.  I would like to know the statistics about how many people are cut or shot as they run away.

padweip.

strube,

Countess Melanie certainly didn’t belong in Peenpeen, but there was nobody around to tell her to leave.

God, I would love to face down my moral dilemmas and kick them right in the nuts. I can well imagine their little yellow and grey bodies writhing on the turf as they claw at their throats to get to their testicles….cause I would kick HARD.

This morning, the alarm interrupted an incredibly droll dream I was having about stacking plastic food containers and putting them in the cabinet.

A2 is off to San Antonio.  She borrowed A’s boots and cowgirl hat because she’s going to a ho-down.  Remember what you said about A2’s facile willingness to accept “forced entertainment?”  If you were going to a business meeting in another town where you would hang out with a bunch of strangers, would you ever take boots and a hat so that you could fit right in at the HO DOWN?  Spot the looney.

I have noticed that middle aged female students here at OU are usually stressed out and bitchy.  Maybe it’s because nobody wants them.  Older university students usually think anyone without a PhD who isn’t currently in college is an idiot.  Academia….as if.

It would be so great to just quit when the baby comes.  Maybe we could make that work, I don’t know.

sparkling against the blackness of the evening my own star struggles through the gassy miasma of deep space

acuff.

 

waxy buildup,

“And, alas, my dear Gustav, I lie here on my deathbed, coughing my freaking lungs out, and you have never even given me a proper blow job.”–Kafka’s last words.

“Emily Dickinson….what a hack!”–Jack Ruby’s last words.

“I want to take the wishes of all those hopeless morons out there and transform them into a mystical fantasy forest.  And I’ll have a little cottage in the middle of the forest, and that’s where our innocence will live.  And then I’ll walk through the forest with a flamethrower and I’ll burn every single wish to the ground.  And then I’ll burn the cottage of innocence, too.  THAT would be heaven to me.”–Mother Theresa’s last words.

ah aint reedin’

stubborn mildew.

 

spugnitious,

Surrounded by petulant losers, Franz slowly stuffed his handkerchief back into his breast pocket. The deliberateness of the motion sent the room full of stale Victorian Euro-trash into a fit of desperation.

An imperceptible vibration roused the Mugwumps.

“Oh FUCK, not again!” thought Franz.

In one frenetic moment the room became un-together and the ripping and screaming began.

Gallows were erected in every corner.

Bayonets were fixed.

Franz wept.

The Mugwumps opened their cello cases and produced an array of 24th century weaponry designed to control the bodily functions of others at a range of up to three miles. They had the HeartSplode 2000. They had the Orgasmaflux. They had the Vomiculator. They had four types of hamstring pullers. Cruciflex Home Exercisers were liberally distributed. Franz erected a shield and serpentined into the drawing room. Mildly narcotic secretions dripped from the chandeliers. Forty Brownshirts, all decked out in pink peignoir and black strap-on regalia, emerged from the kitchen. The Stooges began throwing pies.

Disgusted by the spectacle, Franz released the dobermans.

skoom.

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