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Of course a couple of hours after disappearing she called me.
I picked up and right away she starts in.
“Why you don’ try to understan’ me, Cigano? I jus’ wan’ it some the company, cuz I tired for to e’smoke all alone. I’m up on Santa Teresa, if you wan’ for come an’ see me…”
Tuesday night. The streets are dead as a graveyard. The good old herd mentality, the sheeple mind. I hate it.
They all go out and clog up the beaches all at once, and they’re all out of their pens, all herded together like chickens. Now they’re all gonna have to go back in their pens all at
once tomorrow… the dreaded work day morning, and they’ll all go and sit in their fucking cars in their fucking traffic jams and honk their fucking horns at each other like bleeting cattle, as they all go to sit in their little boxes of tedium and mediocrity.
But now it’s night, the end of a day of slovenly, mindless activity, and they’re all drunk and slow witted and fat and ugly and corrupt and stupid, taking up space all milling around like cockroaches on a shit heap with their bratty kids and yappy poodles and their bicycles in their leisure clothes and their beer-bloated brains and football fireworks and all their fluffy sound and fury, as
they all work themselves up into a zombie stupor of vile idiocy so they can all go home and plop their fat asses down in front of their televisions and get their brains shit on by the big boys they will never see or even know are there, controling their miserable little sheeple existance from the boardrooms and main offices of the corporate mind-control prison they all live in from cradle to fucking grave. What bullshit.
So I split from the dark crashing night waves and I ride the bike up there to Santa Teresa, and there she is, sitting in a dark, weedy plaza with her dyke, who it turns out isn’t a dyke at all, but
just another young drug addict who’s escaped from the loonie bin and that’s why she’s got that ugly crew cut.
They like to do evil shit like that to rebellious, curious feral young girls in the loonie bin. Kill the soul.
It’s all part of a big, bad Babylon plan to suppress free thinking and rebelion against authority. And it’s especially important for the dark masters to repress all the holy powerful sex drive in woman.
Disable the goddess and stifle the heartbeat of the human spirit. Topple the magnificant monument that all women are born to be, and turn em through the brainwash shame game into an
androgynous race of mediocre, beige, sexually frustrated, tv watching, bible toting, fat-assed manly uglies like Narcisa’s sluggish old mother.
Shit.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.
NOTIFICAÇÃO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são inteiramente fictícios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos, foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência. As várias fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.