This one is not for the faint hearted
It's like a showgirl's worst nightmare. Drunk at 12 AM with the family Asking her whereabouts.
Not this guy, he wouldn't be caught dead 4 inches deep in a hooker on sunday, lest he
catch a disease, but that never bothered him, it was the clergymen he was worried about.
Figuring where he was, at some stiff and foggy bar in the dead of night, middle of winter, in
the city of Pittsburgh. The BAD side of Pittsburgh. Sounds of cars blowing by and gunshots hammering into the mist.
Pounding back the Bushmill's he ordered, entranced by the neon lights.
With echoes of an old tune, dithering from a crusty jukebox, at 10 cents a pop.
He can't help but think "What is my endgame? Have I really lost touch with reality?". Glaring down at his notepad,
a drawing of a pair of breasts staring back at him. The poor fuck was just lonely. He heads to the latrine and urinates like a garden hose, his consumption is catching up to him.
He comes back and finishes the beverage, but starts to feel rather ill.
"That's funny, I've never gotten sick from drinking" he whispers to himself, before collapsing on the floor.
Suddenly he wakes up in a daze
in the back of a van, with a large and ominous man at the driver's seat.
There is an aroma emanating through the cabin.
Smells like ether. The man knew he was about to be violated, and not
for the last time.
Blackout and revived again, under the main highway bridge, where th homeless camp had been setup a week ago. He gets up, and clutches his behind, searing pain resonating below.
"I have got to stop seeing that Laurelei" He remarked.
"She must be one bad broad, since everytime I see her, I end up with a mule in my caboose".
His wife, god forbid she finds out, was always wandering
the shops and galleries looking for a snog and a shag.
When she isn't fuddling about with her own sexuality, she is usually found in the brothel, paying men to use her as a public latrine.
So it's no surprise
that the debauchery laden outskirts of the hometown have turned against the holiest of wise folks.
The gift of the Magi would be proud to find out that both parties were not only lying to each other, but giving
in to the very same desires. If only they could work through communication, their sick fantasies would ride the tidal wave of reality.
What about his landlord? He knows all too much in my humble opinion,
but at the incentive of doubling the rent, Steve implores him to keep quiet about his endeavors.
The Misses was bribing the shady bastard too, hell you would think the crusty prick was Bruce wayne with
all the wonga he is raking in from an unsuspecting couple.
Sunday bloody Sunday, you can cleanse your soul for a communion wafer and a sip of cheap booze, but jesus is always watching the two miserable fucks.
The real sin is temptation. Forget about adultery, the mere idea of being ploughed in a convent alley is enough to make the lord's piss boil like holy water.
Hard to forget you participate in mass when you're snorting
coke off of a hooker's tits.
As was said before, God was always watching these two twisted individuals. They are a good argument for armageddon.
Why, who knows when he decides to launch an asteroid right up the
planet's brown chute, demolishing everything and banishing every soul into oblivion, right next to the rancid bowels of Hell. Hopefully soon, I think I saw steve shoving a shampoo bottle up his ass for pleasure.