"Ouch, ouch, ouch," screamed Empress Cornhola. The deranged horse shoe crab went right for her, it's glaucous, gangling peepers shooting gamma rays of Sicillian-like reciprocal malice. They only get like that when you do them wrong, and it's always wrong to piss them off. Not sure which ethnicity the crab was kin to, but it charged up the greasy sand in high-steps, jagged maw working like a guillotined risible yet traitorous jester, it's non-weight-bearing limbs, with their small, medium and large claws flexing, through the slaves and beach combers right to the Empress. Looked painful. She was screaming something awful. Must be some wild shit dumped into the Pacific Ocean, because the crab was cursing in the King's English, and, to boot, the asshole was even making some sense.
"You fucking bitch," the crab began, as it doled pain to the Empress. "You and your asshole slaves dumped skag on my family's pier retreat. We have kids under your shit eating outboard slave yachts. Now they're all dead."
The blame game won't bring that horse shoe crab's kid's back from junkie hell. That brick of smack was a drop in the bucket compared to all the rest of the shit, not to mention love letters straight from Chernobyl and the Fukashima reactor. Empress Cornhola was providing valuable service while taking her journeys, to which she is fully entitled, by providing therapeutic supervised work therapy for recovering dope fiends. They get methadone, and are required to row the barge. When they quit being assholes, they get a certificate, and then the Empress gets her next few hundred drug addled rowers. A social service agency refers more dope fiends to the Empress, and life goes on. They want egg in their beer, they go to hell.
"You fucking bitch," the crab began, as it doled pain to the Empress. "You and your asshole slaves dumped skag on my family's pier retreat. We have kids under your shit eating outboard slave yachts. Now they're all dead."
The blame game won't bring that horse shoe crab's kid's back from junkie hell. That brick of smack was a drop in the bucket compared to all the rest of the shit, not to mention love letters straight from Chernobyl and the Fukashima reactor. Empress Cornhola was providing valuable service while taking her journeys, to which she is fully entitled, by providing therapeutic supervised work therapy for recovering dope fiends. They get methadone, and are required to row the barge. When they quit being assholes, they get a certificate, and then the Empress gets her next few hundred drug addled rowers. A social service agency refers more dope fiends to the Empress, and life goes on. They want egg in their beer, they go to hell.
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