August 04, 2008
Living Dead (Twelve)
“$11.50,” the black transvestite cashier at Star Liquor said. The CRYPTO-FASCIST-COCKSUCKER-
ZOMBIE-SHITPANTS Karl Rove recognized her, even through the one inch Plexiglas he could see her ass was unreal, like a cartoon ass, like a twisted adolescent fantasy ass, like an eleven-year-old would want to stick his dick all the way to the hilt into that sweet black ass. She was a regular at The Blacklight, the transvestite bar he and Rummy frequented when they weren’t hanging out at The Gem, the Filipino-Transsexual-Karaoke bar around the corner, a slightly livelier venue with a blinding refracted light décor of silver CDs like hundreds of plastic fish scales on the wall, enough to make your head spin with all kinds of sexual confusion. Rove whipped out his wallet, and held out cash. “$11.00 even, then,” the transvestite gruffly corrected herself, “I thought you were going to use your ATM as per usual.” Rove thought the she-male knew him maybe a little too well. “You’re like my second brain,” the CORPSEFUCKER mumbled suspiciously, “My good brain!” he let out, and clutched the paper bag just handed to him close to his chest.