I got up out of bed, and my wife did NOT stab me in the face with a steak knife, although it was there on the bed so I went to the shower and STABBED the shampoo and I did not slice off my own balls to start a new religion called Waldorfism. Ball-sacrifice is homage to the pecan. We worship, thee, pecan.
I head down the hall and a guy has a shot gun running at me and I stick my finger in the barrel and pulls the trigger. Not loaded. We do this every day. Ninja in the elevator, old lady is a Muslim ISIS warrior! Hide!!
I see the land lady and mentally I am debating flipping her off. I never do. I go out, but drugs, shake the dealer’s hand. Antonio Vasquez at 10235 S.W. hood view Drive, Muluka, North Dakota 53404 Apt.3. He is outside on that THERE DECK at 8pm every day because he deals CRANK, Shank, Shaw, and has a home tap of Coke. Coca-cola. You can shoot him dead with a Glock 9 banana rifle. It would piss his family off, but his innards and bullet blood spray sound like ART don’t they? Of course, screw Antonio Del Mar Vasquez, right? Because you just HAD to make sure my character Antonio dies sloppy you are now imagining sloppy slithering snakes that are pink icky and sticky. Or maybe I just got home! I’m okay! Goodnight!