You think I’m a woodland hero, searching for Bigfoot in the land of Gnorr, but I’m really a whiskey scout landlord, holding nature captive to my cyanide nightmare.
You think I’m some pimp daddy? With 30 girly-girls and 10 flashy cars? Do you think I drive around all night, looking for action, looking for some poor sop too tired or drugged out to care – and I’d take that guy to the pier, and beat him with rebar, and steal his meth? Do you?
You can’t really see the person inside – weak and vulnerable and ready for cuddly love. Sure, I look scary and angry and old and sick, but that’s just the veneer covering up this leather bound warrior, willing to liberate your womanly pleasure zones and unscrew your boovula.
There are dark places where you can hid your real face, and hide the deeds. Old abandoned rest areas, poorly kept national parks, haunted Indian burial grounds – all prime for the great forgetting and re-imagining of broken selves seeking chain store redemption. And this is true?
A kind demon would punish those too bold for truth, and lead you into the MIND MAZE of Hell. You’d lose your baggage in those caves, and live off of cattle plans and bovine pleasure rods. A trip too deep for the timid, too far for those who lack the necessary VISION – and you think you’ll be okay, because that demon gives you cocaine? – nah bro, you’re buried in lies, and the deeper you go, the more brazen the deceptions.
[curated: 3/13/2023]