Category: Planetary Status Reports

After the bombs start falling, the GROGON WRATH demons will usher forth from the great hole in the middle of the world. Volcanoes will explode and unleash a fury of DISCO MADNESS as the crips and bloods rip up EAST LA and NYC becomes a home to rat-demons from sector-3.

And some will say “well shit man, couldn’t we have done something?” … and nothing would ever be done.

THE KIB WARRIORS are about to arise. They stand tall and have washboard abs. They sky-hunt for BLOOD eagles and the torn jaguar skin crawlers from Guatemala. When you hear the hawk cry? – then run for the caves, because they’re coming. They want to ravage your women and steal your HEART WAX. They feed on broken monsters and old Catholic priests, and with fists of total vengeance they smash the peddlers of haagen-flesh with the almighty power of total cloud oneness.

I’ve taken a stroll among the stars, and Neil Armstrong bought me a ticket – Buzz Aldrin was there too, he brought the MOONSHINE and fruit for the spody. There was this maiden of the Moon we inseminated and left for dead – but her head lived on from the infection. After 2,000 years of hooker armies pounding the lunar surface to dust, only grey-whales were left, with fire minds and fins made of diamonds. They slapped us around, and we stole the platinum-gold and headed EAST to MARS.

Those Martians are something …

WHEN MARS was NEW …

We were the young bucks filled with fucks and finger candy for those cocaine wastrels from Broadway. They’d dance the 7 veils, will needle marks on display for every freak and nasty old hag. I kept women at the BAR on Olympus Mons, they always covered themselves in BLOOP oils and were ready for action if the pimp daddy called – on laser phone.

“So invest in BIG BANKS?”, asked my hooker wife …

“No baby – MOON BONDS …”

They, the MARTIAN PEOPLE, lived hungry pirate lives, surrounded by gold and whiskey and LIFE. Their love ran deep along the trenches, from STOOG TOWN to FRITZERLAND, the Valles Marineris became the canyon of death where no true warrior bled anything but white and the vapors gave you NUGGIN TOMB death flu.

I met my 53rd wife at the bar in FRITZERLAND. She was watching “Ghost Writer” on NETFLIX, and I had to say “fuck honey, Roman Polanski is a disappointing old pedo”.

“I don’t get it, the movie scares you …”

“Scares me?”

“It scares you baby, that’s why you hate Polanski …”

“Nah baby … if the BIG REVEAL is the CIA has plants in foreign allied governments and even picks leaders? … that’s not much of a reveal …”

She slapped me and went home with Rowdy Allan and his harlot skunk TINA – there is no alternative.

IF YOU ASK A KIB WARRIOR about his GIRLFRIENDS? ….

He’ll tell you “I’ve got plenty, in shallow graves, across the southwest …”

KIB WARRIORS have hearts of pure cobalt, and a hideous courage that keeps them up at night. They’ll spend many weekends golfing and talking about Chad, but in the end they can’t abide by froggy-jerks with side-eye glances and Q-anon stickers on their foreheads. They FEED the anger machine the dead, and the dead wander in darkness because of their inheritance.

“You might as well be a Chinese-mexican”, a KIB said to me once at Trader Joe’s … He took me for Irish-slovak or Vietnamese-german. But my heart is pure, and my race is the race of MAN.

The KIB WARRIOR mediates spiritual energies, balancing the forces of light and darkness …

They put a guy in every Roman Polanski movie that LOOKS LIKE Polanski, but isn’t …

(a KIB WARRIOR would destroy you for this)