New Dystopian Fun Fiction, in continuing saga format. Look for more real soon.

A Primitive Way

Ona conga mandingo, everyone! It is tropical. Like a fruit punch. Long straggly straws dey hang down my long, long puss as me hat disintegrates, I am itching 'down there,' longing all the while for my Hunamunger, she fly off on her broom, fuck me sad. Government tourist agency pay me (lucky, lucky, lucky old me!) to sit in a plantation chair wearing white white white linen plantation suit. Lovey go run away, say I beat her. Oh, no. Many men beat-ums wifey. I no beat. I tell her I love her. I say, "You make your fine ugamaho, from crushed and sun dried feral pig. Dey get run over, we eat well. She say, "Why we no have no napkin rings?"

I say to her, "You roll napkin, Bugarama punish you. He say you are a dangerous and anti-social puke wombat. And you tell lies. But I smell the ugamaho cooking over a steel barrel. You are tolerable.:"

Her nostrils flared, she grab wooga stick, shake the stick at me three times. She hiss, "Ring. Ring."

"No," I say. "you no rings. You no roll napkins. We both wipe our snoots in pleasure."

That last time we co-habit.

2.

Gracious good luck, my Hunamunger has come back. She go away, cool her jets. At market she buy herself a new baby. No shitty nine months. She need that wiggling baby.

"When he is four," she say to me, so proud, "he will go to work sixteen hours a day at the circuit board factory."

All tiny children love vats of molten lead and eight by ten foot sheets of fiberglass. They are needed. Bad. To sharpen the cutters. No cutters. Many starve. Our baby will be very good with cutters.

When he die from lead poisoning, we are proud. We get new baby. We feel good again.

3.    (Frightening Academics, a digression)

Wacky pranky television crew with camera and small money ask nubile you go put this glowing warm lotion on nuveau chic dissident puss, tee hee, chubby thigh diplomat keel-ums on sidewalk, oooof, over. Girlie in hoosegow, two good kidneys, a liver, other keeshkas for market value. 

Now mail order wifey tell me yo ho, titters, you Brucie-ums, let Zina-kins put-ums sex oil on my fu manchu. Wrong'ums. No retard-ums. 

Me doctorate holder. Wiff bweeef caithe (lead poisoning, 'with brief case'.) Dey gimme a diplomatic pouch. Them say, "See, Brucie, you put-ums our crap in your bag, you fly-ums any-the-fuck-where."

I carry bag-ums. Dey call me de 'bag man.' Way proud. Fucking honor, in this world. Woman. She want kill me. Insurance. She no put lotion on my snoot.

4.

Lordy, dere be mala en se. One spouse, my troubled yet penis-companionable Hunamunger, acquired a new baby, we are in agreement it was a wise purchase, we should prosper, for all babies, on reaching age of four, will work in the circuit board factory. All day long she smoosh bananas and spoon-ums into wee baby gullet. I say, "Woman, you see baby go ralf? You make-um bambino puke, with your brusque handling of the ragawango spoon."

"Ha ha ha," we both laugh. She know she do wrong-ums. Everyone do things gross. We crap. We fart-ums. We throw spears at wandering missionaries who say we no buy babies. Ha! How we get good late model SUV? How we convince the government, all two men in white, white, white linen and a burgundy felt fedora, they stay fat long as we make circuit boards for the NSA? We X missionaries. We buy-ums little factory laborers.

I play song. I play,on my two remaining stings, some shit by Stevie Ray Vaughn. Spears perforated my guitar, a gift, from a Haitian wizard. A real smug jack off. He buy shit-head guitar off the fucking internet. Made in the Phillipines. Sounds like two out of six crying wildebeasts. Our baby looks fed. My Hunamunger blows a kiss, says, "I be back soon. I kill food. We eat good tonight."