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Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Dark · #1961330
Rico suave
         I can’t begin to tell you where it went wrong. I honestly don’t remember, but that hardly matters now, does it? I’m not sure I care anymore. I never remember anything really, just shadows and the occasional scream, nothing to hang your hat on. I was one of you once. Technically speaking, I still am. On occasion, I most certainly am not. One thing I do know is that it is a most prudent affliction. That’s how we’ve been able to stand beside you day, by day, eon by eon for who knows how long.
         Anticipation … An-tici-pay-ay-tion, It’s making me wait …
         Carly doesn’t know the half of it. The heat of it, the sizzle as I like to call it. It begins in your brain, you see. It's not like a migraine, but more like a volcanic eruption inside of the meat in your skull. And when the lava flows … well by then, you had better be somewhere safe, or someone, maybe even a loved one, will find out the hard way. Maybe you’re like me, though, and could care less and less about who, or what will become a part of your dance. Maybe that’s why I’m writing this today. I only have a few hours left until prom time, and me without a tux. That’s the least of your worries, my blog reading fans. The very least.
         By now, you’re wondering what in the hell your friend Rico the Buzz has been smoking. Winston lights. Hundreds, I swear, nothing more. I couldn’t stand pot or anything else much. Anyway, I’ve always preferred my lucidity to come naturally. You see, being me is a necessary burden, not a choice, and I’m very inventive as of late with my expressions. Take for example this website. About two years ago, I started this place as a way to express my disgust with the political elite of my current abode, Californ-I-A. Just a bit of a lark, I tell you. Well, little did I know how many of you were actually reading my blog. Since its inception, the Cali Den, as I like to think of it, has grown mighty, I must say. For a while, though, all we did was share our horror stories, remember? Things changed. You see, I knew the time would come when I’d have to make a choice. I’m not much for whining, so it was inevitable that when I was asked to run for office, I would have to step down from my binary pulpit, if only for a while. I chose a supporting role, one much more appealing for my kind, as anonymity is a must with my varied disposition. I may be Alpha by blood, but I need not rule the cattle. I can herd them quite fine, thank you very much.
         So now here we are again—the Primaries. If I were a betting man, I’d put my money on the other guy, or in this case, gal, as Sherry Winters will undoubtedly have something far more interesting to talk about tomorrow than the failed education bill of her soon to be predecessor. Shocked? Call me a traitor if you must, but Governor Van Buren wasn’t much of a leader if you ask me. I only put him there as an amusing counterpoint, as most of you seemed to think that this has-been actor would rule with a ready catchphrase for every peril he’d face. Hell folks, he can’t even speak your language that well.
         So it’s time for One Last Rico Exclusive: Arman Van Buren only smokes the dirty cubans to placate an oral fixation for something far more phallic. But who am I to judge? I’ll leave that courtly pleasure for the ballroom below, and by the clock on the wall, it appears that the crimson waltz will begin shortly. A warming has begun, you see.
         And so fans, enemies, and those of you who just happened to stumble upon this bit of nirvana, I’d like to say Thank You. I had hoped to finally meet all of you tonight before I segued into my ecliptic coma, but the need to feed is well … consuming. After you’ve met my better half, I’m sure you’ll have wished you were a Democrat. They only taste like chicken.
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