Thursday, April 22, 2010
"Alaska Is Inflammable"
by Ash Lomen
"Woo Hoo, winter is here again..."
~ Jeffrey Lewis
Chapter 1 - So Lonesome I Could Cry
There was once a girl who lived deep in the snowy wastes of Alaska named Sam, for the most part Sam was a normal girl, into the intricacies of Micronesian politics and edible cowboy hats… but she also had a strange deformity that set her apart from all other young women. In place of the dainty hands her genetics had promised her, Sam had horse hooves. Clydesdale hooves to be exact.
Sam had been featured on many a TV special and written about in over 200 medical journals, of course none of this had helped her win over any dates in high school. All the cute boys made crude jokes about "hoovejobs" and all the nerdy boys cared more about her as a science project than an atrictive young woman.
Needless to say, Sam was very lonely.
Chapter 2 - Why Don’t We Do It In The Road
One day, while roaming a stretch of highway just barley visible beneath the constant snowfall a dark-skined man in a black leather jacket appeared out of nowhere and begin speaking Italian to her. The man was very handsome and didn’t seem to notice Sam’s hooves (which she no longer bothered hiding behind her back when approached by strangers). The only word she could make out from his foreign babbling, being an avid fan of The Sopranos, was “Moolie”.
So what if this guy was a little racist, he seemed to be flirting with her, and after all, she could always lecture him after she came. She did something that surprised the hell out of even herself; she wrapped her hooves around his neck and kissed him.
They made love in the middle of the road on a soft blanket of virgin snow.
Chapter 3 - Love, Love, Love
It turned out the Italian gentleman’s name was Luco, and he enjoyed the intricacies of Micronesian politics and edible underwear. Everything seemed to be working out brilliantly for Sam. The man wasn’t even a racist, he simply had an affinity for Eggplant Parmesan, which Sam cooked up for him with great joy.
He never mentioned her hooves. He kissed and licked them like any lover would kiss a partner’s hands during sex, and he put his tick calloused palm atop them in to comfort when she fretted like any good boyfriend would. But he never brought them up in conversation.
Then again, Luco didn’t speak a word of English.
Chapter 4 – Blow Up The Outside World
Everything was going so well… until Luco asked Sam to scale the peek of Mount Rothbale with him. He conveyed the message with a series of fanatic hand gestures, and a topographical map of central Alaska they had been rolling joints on.
Sam would follow Luco to the peaks of hell.
And so they climbed Mt. Rothbale together, hand in hoof.
Chapter 5 – Trick Mirror
When they reached the summit Luco looked at Sam with tears in his eyes, kissed her and turned.
His last words were spoken in perfect, unbroken English, “I know what you are.”
He blew her one last kiss and skydove from the summit.
Chapter 7 – Pardon Me While I Burn
The skin near Sam’s hooves began to peel back, reveling raw tissue and surprisingly inhuman musculature. She shed her pale skin like a snake, kicked off her feet to reveal cloven hooves, and screamed at the sun with a forked tongue as horns sprouted from her head.
The Sun went out like an overburdened light bulb… and all the snow around Sam began nonsensically to melt.
She felt alive for the very first time in her life.
Chapter 8 – If This Is Hell, Then I’m Lucky
Mt. Rothbale grew like a ripe pimple on the surface of the earth, pulsing up to the size of Manhattan, and eventually to the size of the entire state of New York. Hot lava flowed and destroyed most of Northeastern Canada… it dripped down the Rockies and across Mexico, never losing its heat… and set the entire New World aflame.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
"Don't Feed The Men Who Feed The Ducks"
by Ash Lomen
City Park in New Orleans was strange enough, but The Men Who Feed The Ducks were so damn peculiar that even the normal nocturnal denizens of the city; elder vampires running bike paths, Uzi wielding nutrias passing blunts with Crips, alligators caught up in copulation with birdwatching pederasts, and slick police with slicker batons that reeked of blood and shit, all steered clear from the group of young Japanese men throwing breadcrumbs upon the roots of ancient oaks.
It was rumored that this gang of men who came out only at night were decedents from those mutated by the bombing of Hiroshima and that they worshiped Tasaki Miike as The Messiah. They were many armed and possessed other various appendages, many of these ”limbs” that shot out from the hooded leather overcoats The Men wore to hide their various deformities were not even discernable as human… or even mammalian.
What they were doing in City Park, god only knew.
It was also rumored that once a drunk mugger had tried to approach The Men with a baseball bat. The tallest of the three supposedly turned and ripped of the assailant's face off with a single whiplike tentacle.
I shrugged this all off as some sort of ancient Japanese custom.
One day The Men approached me with some drugs.
Strange little pods that reminded me of orange tick tacks. Hell, they could have been orange tick tacks for all I knew… but I was already high so I decided to buy them for the price of 400$ a pop. I figured that I would buy two in case the first one didn’t work.
The Men Who Feed The Ducks whispered conspiratorially among themselves.
The tallest spoke, “We are not sure if you are ready for this level of… let’s say “enlightenment” yet…”
Another of The Men procured a simple metal pipe that looked like it had been made from spare plumbing equipment, “Take a hit of this.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” The Men said as one.
I produced my own 50 cent lighter and fired up the bowl, the hit was flavorful but smooth-
I scrambled my webbed feet up an embankment of rocks, and hopped to a thick oaken branch not all that far away. I dropped to the ground and fought some geese and another duck for some breadcrumbs. The Men Who Feed The Ducks billowing longcoats loomed before me, bringing to mind the image of doomed skyscrapers and loose sky rockets. Soft explosions.
I was happy.
When I woke up I was naked and swimming in the murky lake just a few feet away from where I took that first hit. The moon was high in the sky, it's reflection rippling like floating cum across the dark water. Tasaki Miike sat on the water’s edge, wearing only a leather thong, and nursing a baby nutria with two tales and a third eye.
He said something about the “end being only the beginning” and smiled, but I could swear I heard that fucking line before in some shitty 90’s alternative rock tune.
My eyes exploded like bloodshot stars going supernova.
I woke up for the last time cradled in my Mother’s arms, covered in afterbirth. I could see a young nurse collapse when she saw my extra limbs.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
"Love in Ruins"
by Sam Reeve
“But you said you were interested in polar bear swimming, right?” Ash says.
“This really is not what I had in mind when I said we should go to the beach some time,” Sarah whines. She is shivering in her bikini, ankle deep in the Pacific Ocean. Goose bumps are crawling up her legs and making her tiny leg-hairs stand on end.
“Yeah...but not for our second date. It’s hardly romantic!”
Ash doesn’t really understand where she’s going with this, so he grabs her and pulls her into the cold water. She screams and flails about, continually complaining about being cold as ice. This makes Ash smile.
“Oh god dammit, I’m cold as a corpse! This date is shit,” she cries.
Ash gets an instant boner at the mention of corpse.
He pulls her onto the sand and starts to make out with Sarah. He’s very inexperienced, and starts to lick her face. She whines about that too. Then he tells her to lie very still, which makes her a bit suspicious.
“Let’s just look up at the stars for a bit,” Sarah says, pushing Ash off of her.
“But there are no stars out tonight. The forecast said it would be cloudy all week.”
“No, look there,” she points. “There are some clouds moving out of the way.”
Ash looks up in horror to see the stars and moon revealing themselves. He thought the full-moon was going to be the next day. He realizes it’s happening now!
“Oh, see, now this is romantic! There’s even a full-moon. Look Ash,” she points and turns to him. She screams, seeing that he is now a giant fucking shark!
Wereshark Ash eats his girlfriend’s head, and then wriggles into the ocean. He cries big shark tears into the ocean, and swims around eating things. Octopi are his favourite aquatic comfort food.
“Dammit, not again,” he thinks.
The next day Ash wakes up on the beach covered in slime and sea weed. He is also naked. About a hundred feet away is the body of Sarah, only without the head. If it weren’t for having a private beach area for his beach-house, Ash would be screwed. Despondently, Ash screws Sarah’s dead body on the beach while crying. Then he goes to eat some breakfast inside.
Weeks later, while masturbating to pictures of dead people on the internet, Ash notices a flashing advertisement that urges him to donate money to help people recover somewhere from a natural disaster or something. He thinks for a minute about all those poor people stuck inside fallen down houses and all the dead people...and then the idea hits him.
The next full moon, wereshark Ash swims as fast and hard as he can, heading for the disaster area, which is conveniently a small island. On the way he eats some teenaged night-swimmers and an old lady who is walking her dog on the beach. He leaves the dog.
The next day, once back in man-form, Ash sets out into the ruined capital city to find his next “date”. There is so much to choose from when he arrives that he doesn’t know what to do.
“It’s like a free buffet,” Ash whispers to himself with a joyful tear in his eye. Then he gets going on the bodies.
First, sneaking into a ruined stone church, Ash finds some crushed nuns. They’ve been slightly mangled by the falling stones caused by the earthquake, but this does not deter him. Keeping an eye out for relief workers, he makes sweet love to those dead nuns. Just as he’s screwing the last of the dead nuns, she opens her eyes. Apparently she is only severely injured, but still alive. This freaks out Ash, so he punches her in the head to kill her. It does the trick.
Over the course of the next three days, Ash screws more dead bodies than he can handle. He falls asleep each night with a large grin on his face, dreaming about all the bodies he would find the next day.
On the fourth day, Ash moves on to a smaller city near the one he had started out in. The first building he happens upon is a destroyed office building. Ash’s eyes glisten when he thinks of the sexy dead secretaries there must be in the ruins. Further down the road is a Red Cross truck and tent, around which are milling nurses and injured people. They seem to be ignoring this building.
Going around the back, Ash notices there is part of the office building that is still standing. He climbs in through the shattered window of what seems to be the only office left standing. In the corner of the room is a nurse in a Red Cross uniform. Ash was not expecting anyone to be in the building, but he instantly knows why she is there.
The nurse is straddling the corpse of some dead guy in a suit. His face is all puffy from decomposition, and the nurse is riding his dead body while slapping him and telling him he’s a bad boy.
The nurse, whose name tag says Joanne, screams and stands up when she sees that someone has caught her. Being a suave gentleman who knows what the ladies want, Ash decides to be spontaneous.
He rushes over to Joanne and gets on one knee. “Will you marry me?” he asks, smiling up at her with his nasty, yellow teeth (he never brought a tooth brush and has been away from home for five days).
The nurse looks baffled, and is totally speechless. She nods her head “yes”, understanding the situation somehow.
“I never thought there was someone out there...” Ash trails off, looking deep into Joanne’s eyes.
Joanne smiles, and grabs Ash’s hand. She leads him to the other side of the room, where there’s a bunch of furniture and junk that fell through the ceiling.
“Behind the filing cabinet is a dead secretary,” Joanne says, pointing. At this, Ash knew she was definitely the one.
Ash joins the Red Cross as a volunteer, and travels with Joanne around the country for the next month. She finds out about his weresharkism when he eats another volunteer on the beach during the full-moon. It frightens her, but the next morning while Ash is weeping naked on the beach, she comforts him by saying she accepts him anyway.
When they get back to America the two of them get married, and Joanne manages to get Ash a full-time position with the Red Cross. Ash and Joanne travel around the world together, saving disaster victims and defiling the corpses, and live happily for the rest of their days.
Monday, April 19, 2010
by Ash Lomen
(On a dare from Garrett Cook)
It was a hot sunny GayDay in Disneyworld, the southern sky clear and the sun high and beating on the collected backs of the faggots that walked my cobbled streets. I could only imagine what kind of sickly fag-germs they carried on the bottoms of those designer shoes. Fucking GayDay, when did this company get so goddamn liberal. Like I needed to ask. That fucking commie bother of mine, probably a secret fruit himself.
I remembered the days when I was corporeal, and still a lad, my ear pressed firmly to the earth listening for an oncoming train that I could pelt with rocks and accuse of buggery.
Rocks, not a bad idea.
I concentrated all of my metaphysical energy.
A rock pelted the back of Wilson Dent’s head, almost bouncing harmlessly off the puffed surface of his pompadour, but instead imbedding itself, penetrating his hair. It was hard enough hunting down an ectoplasmic target with nothing but hollowpoints, but being mistaken for gay AND having his beloved hair assaulted was just too much to take. He loved his hair, which DID NOT make him gay! And why would gay people attend a GayDay at Disneyworld just to throw rocks at other homosexuals anyway. It just didn’t make any sense.
Dent didn’t care, one too many stray stones meant for a gay head had gotten lost in his expansive pompadour.
Dent moved his hand towards his gun, and in the middle of the theme park, turned to face his assailant.
When the man turned and pulled the gun the milling sodomites around us scattered, and I knew right then that was no queer I had just pelted in the back of the head, that was Wilson Dent, the world famous assassin of unkillable targets who was reportedly so vain he fell in love with… and married… his own pompadour (well perhaps he was some kind of queer). Still, he could kill a man at a hundred yards with a blunderbuss, and that long barreled revolver now clenched in his left fist looked pretty damn accurate. His hair was mesmerizing, like the unshaven bush of my first love, Sally Rutherford… back in high school. Or was that Billy Rutherford?
For a moment I was afraid.
Then I remembered I was a fucking ghost.
Dent turned and fired the gun into thin air, wounding a young groundskeeper and a guy in a Donald costume. He didn’t care about collateral damage; he only cared about his target. Still, unloading all five chambers didn’t seem to do a damn thing to the old ghost he could barely see through the dim distortion of heat.
I again concentrated all of my metaphysical energy (even knowing it would give away my position to those who knew how to look) and this time balled it into a fist. I struck Dent with a blow to his nose, sending out a red spray and breaking his stylish glasses into his face.
(Many years ago)
Dr. Cohen looked nervous, “The cancer is progressing sir, if you want to proceed with the c-
“Shut up you shiftless Jew,” I turned to my brother.
“In case this procedure doesn’t work and I die. Let me finish! In case this procedure doesn’t work and I die. I don’t want you making any deals with the fucking chinks. Shut up. Listen to me. I don’t want their filthy chink hands on my precious Mickey… and if they somehow do get a hold on this company. I want you to kill me. I don’t give a shit if I’m already dead. I want you to find the right man for the job and KILL ME.”
The doctor sputtered, “He’s on a lot of drugs-“
“Shut up you shiftless Jew,” my dear brother said, for once in his life sounding like a fucking man.
He turned back to me, crying now, “I promise you Walt. Disneyworld will be built... with a train around it just like you always wanted. The company will continue and I will carry out your final wishes. I won’t let those fucking ricedick commies get a hold of our sweet Mickey, and if they do... I swear to Satan below me, I will kill your fucking ghost.”
We clasped hands and then (I’m not ashamed to say) cried into each other’s arms.
I even got a little hard.
Officer Sprocket was searching Disneyland for the gunman involved in the hate crime. The descriptions had varied since all the men present had a different and highly detailed explanation of the Gunman’s hair. Officer Sprocket scratched his bald head with a bit of longing.
Then he pushed aside a stray pile of crates and got the surprise of his life. When he told his superiors what he saw that day he was pulled quickly from active duty.
After all, who wants a guy carrying around a badge and a gun who has hallucinations about "The Ghost of Walt Disney" taking it up the ass from a young man stroking his "magnificent" pompadour?
Saturday, April 17, 2010
"Normal" by Edmund Colell
I am normal, thinks Rex Edward. And so is my wife. We are not deviants.
His thoughts muffle and turn off as he listens to the moaning, groaning, and mooing above him with each vocal sound punctuated by bed springs squealing and headboards banging. His heart rockets to his throat and he begins shouting, “Ugh! Oh yeah! God the corn bits in your ass feel so good on my cock!” he then slaps his arm and says, “Oh God, oh fucking God, I just want to tear up that ass in my teeth and suck up the blood that runs down your pussy!”As he shouts these words he looks out the window, turning back as rubber-suited and vibrator-baton-wielding police goosestep along the sidewalk by the crumbly block at the base of the apartment complex, where Rex takes shelter under the better-maintained floors taken by the more sexually-adventurous tenements.
After the rubber police pass by, he puts his hands together and prays: “Oh Ha-cack, Lord of the Limp Penis, why have you forsaken your people?”
Mrs. Edwards walks out from their bedroom, fully naked. “Stop it, Rex. Ha-cack is dead and we as a society have killed him.” She then sniffles and rubs her breasts with one hand while rubbing her clitoris in a circular motion with the other. “Now please, you need to fuck me as hard as you can just this once or we will be evicted.”
“But we were going down to the beach today, remember?”
She quickly walks over to him and shoves her breasts in his face. “Shut up,” she hisses, “and fuck me.”
As Rex puts his face in his hands, she opens a box labeled “EMERGENCY” where she withdraws a plastic-packaged syringe and a bottle of solution. Ripping the packaging open she draws five milliliters of solution and flicks out the air bubbles. “Take off your pants, Rex.”
He sighs and undoes his fly, then slides his boxers down. He then swallows and says, “I’m ready, Lupita.”
Lupita takes his penis in hand and shoots the solution into a penile vein as soon as she finds one, then watches Rex’s subsequent erection. “C’mon,” she says as she pulls him up from the chair by the collar, “we don’t have much time.”
“Can’t we at least light a candle, first?” Rex asks, and Lupita slaps him.
Over the course of several minutes Lupita beats the headboard with both hands and reaches over several times to knock lamps and other breakables off of the nightstand. “C’mon, bite me!" her head wails, "Scratch me! Oh Christ, stop with the gentle kissing and touching and give me some bruises! Turn me over! Stick it in my asshole! Beg me to call you the ice cream man!”
Soon enough, Rex ejaculates and rolls off of her. “That was pretty good,” he says, “I haven’t had sex like that in a long time.”
Lupita lies there, her face locked and mortified. With a croak in her throat she says, “That’s it? That’s…” her eyes fill with tears and she covers her face in her hands as she starts to sob. Between rasping breaths, she says, “You… sack of shit!” as she gets up and slips into her fishnet outfit to walk outside, face still covered by her hands. A second after she closes the door, she thrusts it open to say, “When they give you the acid I hope it fucking hurts!” and slams it again.
Rex sits up, dumbfounded and feeling the blood slowly drain back into his body before sinking into his stomach. However, that scene doesn’t make his stomach drop as quickly as the subsequent vision does: a trio of rubber police outside, beating Lupita with their vibrator batons and masturbating. Several others storm into the apartment complex, and they bash down the door with a butt-plug battering ram. Rex throws-up his hands and shouts, “I swear I’ll fuck her harder! I swear I’ll fuck -- ”
His plea is cut-off by a ball-gag being inserted into his mouth and the rest of his body being tied-up with clothes lines before a leather hood is placed over his head.
When he wakes-up and the hood is taken from his head, he finds himself in a room with a gray-haired man wearing only a thong with a pouch for his dick, with the rest of his body covered in cherry-scented oil. “Are we awake, Mr. Edward?” he asks.
Rex scrunches his eyes and nods, tears forming in the eyelids.
The old man giggles and says, “That is good. My name is Mr. Hector. Or,” he pulls on a bull mask with a D-ring joining the nostrils, “you may call me The Prime Steer. And boy-oh-boy am I going to fill you up with the best artificial insemination you will ever get impregnated by.”
Rex’s eyelids peel far away from each other and his jaw drops as he watches The Prime Steer pull a dropper from a case behind him.The Prime Steer giggles and says, “Oh yes, I believe you know what this is, Mr. Edward. This is lysergic acid, or LSD. If you have been a good citizen until now, you should know that this is going to be execution by acid. We dope you up until your brain melts, then once you see nothing but hallucinations we will put battery acid in your eyes and allow you to die with nothing to comfort you but the images in your brain.”
Rex gulps and jerks his head back and forth as The Prime Steer pulls the ball gag back far enough to shove the bottom of the dropper into Rex’s mouth and squeeze off a few hits. Rex, feeling the drops hit his mouth and the mucous disappear, slowly watches the walls breathe, calming down as he synchronizes his own breathing with theirs.
“Tell me how you feel, Mr. Edward,” says The Prime Steer as he begins to rub under his pouch.
“I feel dry,” Rex replies.
The Prime Steer stops touching himself and walks over to smack Rex. “Don’t be so goddamned plain about it. You’re killing my new stiffy.”
Rex shakes his head and sees the bull-head, with the rest of the body morphing into a collection of fleshy knobs. “Ha-cack! I knew you had not left me!”
“Ha-cack?” asks The Prime Steer.
“Lord of the Limp Penis, defender of those who have boring sex, patron of the Missionary position!”
“You disappoint me, Mr. Edward. Let us skip right along to the battery acid…”
Suddenly the intercom breaks out by saying, “Sudden influx of inactivity, Prime Steer. We’ve reached a critical mass of sexual boredom. Hell, even I can’t get wet!”
The Prime Steer freezes at the news and realizes that his entire groin has started to recede into his body. He then whips the ball gag from Rex’s face and stuffs it down his own throat.
Many hours later, as the effects wear off, Rex pulls himself up with his body still tied to the chair, and he steps over the bloated blue corpse of The Prime Steer whose last spurts from erotic asphyxiation have puddled on the floor. He spies a knife on the counter, smeared a little with blood. From erotic knifeplay, he figures as he saws through the clothes lines. Outside, he sees that everyone is sitting on the sidewalks, listless as they flop their penises around and pick at the lips of their dry vaginas.
With a smile, Rex turns to the sky and shouts, “Ha-cack o-lye!” which translates to “Ha-cack blocks all!”
Thursday, April 15, 2010
"I'm fuckin' dying here man!"
~ Mr. Orange
"I'm fuckin' dying here man!" Asher screamed out before he made his final move.
The boy's swing was hardly even a proper punch; the wild haymaker was instead more akin to an invitation. I blocked, gave him a swift uppercut to the gut, turned him, and wrapped my garrote sweetly around his slender neck, tightening the wire just enough to draw blood. For a serial rapist (even under the name of God), he was quite a pretty young man.
“Time to meet that liberal God of yours Captain… I hope you know that I have killed every man, woman, and child in that village to bear the testimony of your crimes at Heaven’s Gates.” I told him, just like reading it off a fucking card.
“There is no afterlife you fool. There is no God.” He said.
“Only half right." I pulled the wire tight and decapitated him.
Having met the Devil herself in the flesh, I had a feeling he would eat those words soon enough. I unscrewed the small vile in my pocket, swallowed it, and died all over again.
I loved my job.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
~ John Darnielle
I tossed back my blood-slick hair and stumbled out past the old ramshackle outpost/outhouse that served as a storage base for my friend Randall’s eclectic collection of drugs. I was naked under the setting Georgian sun and baked on some homemade substance Randall assured me was “just acid boy”.
I ran in a blur of skin, barefoot over dead leaves and packed earth, across the clearing and under the overpass to reach The Arcade. My childhood surged like bile from the pit of my stomach and gave me some strange sort of emotional heartburn.
The Arcade was a filthy place of electronic ghosts, dusty and radiant all at once. The concession/ticket stand had been turned into a crash zone where Billy and Sally (at least that’s what I thought the newswoman said the names were) lay naked in a tangle of limbs. I thought about waking em’ up, see if either of them wanted a good ride. The mood I was in right then I would have stuck my dick in a crawfish hole.
I distracted my lust with the light of a nearby SEGA "MERCs” Machine. Little blue man shooting little blue bullets. Bloodless kills.
I vomited across the control board of this rare and relatively pristine piece of gaming equipment, a sour liquid the grey color of a pregnant sky. I figured the machine could take it.
“Rich, what the hell are you doing?” It was Randall.
I turned back, vomit still dripping from my jowls. I didn’t want to say anything.
I looked down to see Billy and Sally flayed at my feet, both partly cannibalized.
That wasn’t vomit dripping from my jowls.
Randal had given me a shot of Lorazepam in the neck to calm me down (he was always handy with stuff like that) and I slept soundly under the arcade lights to wake in the morning with a dry mouth.
“I don’t remember killing them.” My first words of the day.
Randall was still there, “I know.”
Dusty daylight choked the unnatural luminance of the Arcade. I could see the bodies and closed my eyes.
“Why did I... do that.”
“That wasn’t just acid boy.”
“What the fuck was it?”
“I don’t really know… you want some more?”
I lit a cigarette, and laced with blood and being the first smoke of the day, it tasted delicious. I felt good for the first time in a few years. After the smoke, we both walked back to Randall's mother's house to get high.
Billy twitched sporadically in the dirt behind us.
The Arcade was still glowing.
Anarchist Billionaire was not worried.
"No, I don't think so gentlemen. I might owe you four hundred million dollars in back taxes, but last year I bought the likeness rights to George Washington..."
His sidekick Buxom Pornstar Lawyer finished his thought.
"And we're suing you for copyright infringement! One hundred thousand dollars for every bill you printed in the last year and every quarter you minted."
"But we can't afford that!" the goverment whined.
Anarchist Billionaire whacked the government with a shovel and laughed.
"Ha ha ha, then I guess this country's mine!"
"Curse you, Anarchist Billionaire," said the government as they signed the contract printed on Buxom Pornstar Lawyer's chest, effectively giving Anarchist Billionaire control of the country.
After giving half the country to the Crips and half to the Bloods, Anarchist Billionaire left for his moonbase, where he made love to several women far too attractive to talk to any of us.