I was afraid to gas up my truck, you have to be careful these days. The road tramps control most of the CHEVRON stations up to the old border, the ramp-beavers control diesel and alcohol sales among the island people … but I needed fuel.
The tramps would ride those choppers, chasing tail … looking for hooker love and LSD moderation in the gaslight realm of sector-23 …
The tramps owned enough ammo, they had swords and clubs. They carried sticks of dynamite in a bandoleer, per the biker club custom, and they would feign use of these explosives when looking for fast love on a Saturday night …
But I needed fuel and vodka and beef jerky and a girl named Rhonda for the night. Her eyes were brown and her skin pale and almost translucent. Maybe it was the chemicals, the vaccines … but it seemed like all white skin had become almost see through in recent years, since the vaccine promos and krokodil love campaigns.
BUT I REALLY NEEDED FUEL.
I’d been out on the road for 9 days, looking for “Cocaine Freddy” and his gumpis-gang of bare-headed bald ass freaks and crypto-nerds.
He used to hang out near the river, not far from where they dump the bodies. He got tired of the hydrogen sulfide smell, got tired of the dead animals in the water, the raccoons with green glowing eyes …
He would talk to Debra, his hooker woman, about leaving …
“Where we gonna go?”
“We go north …”
“Where there’s still juices, where life is not yet dead …”
She’d look at him, with a crooked smirk, she’d nod her head and and whisper curses to the gods and he’d grab his flask and drink two swigs of white lighting and get back to hunting … looking for the spice that gives life it’s proper bowel movement.
I needed Freddy …
I didn’t know where he’d went, but I needed him.
My truck needed diesel, and he had his connections.
“Wanna see the vat?”, he asked me one time.
Wanna see where “Cocaine Freddy” and Debra and his roadside shabby folk would harvest the the greases of the world?
The corn syrup?
The MSG bodies and carcasses of lost lovers. People gone missing during the second storms, the winds of never ending mockery …
PEOPLE GO MISSING …
But the vat? – that’s where they go.
I just need to fill my tank.
After years of hustling and wandering, I was ready to meet HER – Queen Wendy … Queen of the broken lands, leader of the witch tribes of Sedrowoolley … the last of her kind. A true woman, with nice breasts and a nice ass and a sparkling disposition and 2 .357 revolvers strapped to her athletic hips.
Her blonde hair was almost yellow in the sun … she needed a man … a man with a truck full of diesel. I needed crack … cocaine … meth … some kind of hope. I needed to touch her and to win her and to dominate her bodice, as I thrust my man sword into her fertile valley. But she wanted diesel, for her witch army, for her peoples … for all the weapons and tanks and helicopters she’d captured. I needed her.
- Doubt: what does it mean?
- Turnip hustlers swiggle their drinks, biding their time with sunset hookers and brilliant bartenders and those miserable freaks that guzzle the unction of northern wines … Terrible twins, mad barbarians moving their armies from Ballard to Maple Leaf? Consequence free eating, at the dog park – frantic moms too tired for their husband’s excuse … What? He came home late again, and didn’t come? What did you expect woman? A careful study of lynx fur will reveal a path between ground that is wet and the volcanic hearts of torrid masses filled with cocaine water and pcp wine.
- A tale of TWO ZeroHedge.com’s … the origins of Dr. Freckles, the Flash Crash, Market Watch, Dr. Freckles, and the summer of 2012 – working at COSTCO .. and their PINK NOISE …