When Booty Dies Alone: I’ll Be Waiting
By Clark, Ryan, Bargar and Matt
New Aztec City, Washington DC is a beautiful bustling metropolis. It’s where dreams are made. it’s where beautiful actors are married. It’s where the president lives in a floating castle made of diamonds. Our president. President Felicity Amburger Jones.
My father died in a pile of his own pukie.
Hi. My name is Booty Mathezda. And I’m about to take you on a journey of words. This journey starts off like many others, a dead dog, full of opals that I had to drive over the state line into downtown Dlipton. the mob payed big, but nothing compared to if I ran off with the goods. So I went off the interstate and headed into the marsh. They’d never find me in there. I’d lay low for the decade, making a living as a pole raft river, eatin gator and loving beautiful swamp women. 7 years into the plan something went wrong. Trouble found me again. Trouble in the form of a woman.
She called herself Grimble. I just called her c nuggy. But what does it really matter when love pulses through your member and you have no choice but to give yourself to her fully, completely, terminally, and in a long-lasting yet short-lived fashion. I remember the night we first met. The rain was non-existent. It was a sunny day, warm and perfect out. I knew my life was about to change.
“Too Big!, Too Big!” She moaned. She looked up at me with that looked that melted the ice in my heart, sweat rivulets cascading down her brow like the first melt of the snowcaps down New Aztec City Mountain, where the monsters dwell. Frustrated, I raised my voice and yelled back down to her “Hun! We can absolutely get this couch up your staircase. You just have to try!” Dumb c nug. I loved her, but we never should have decided to move in after only one day. The romance grew and died the same rate as the marsh flies that buzzed around her dilapidated condominium. I had to leave, I had to head back into the city. To meet my destiny.
Her breath tasted like pukie. Pukie and some sort of gum. I kissed her again. Not winterfresh. I knew that much. It was probably that other green one. Mountain something. She was drunk. Maybe dead. Or possible alive. I ran out the front door.
“Wait!” I yelled, to the movers. “Wait! Bring the couch back out! I’m moving back where you first picked me up!”
That’s right. Back to Washington DC. Back to New Aztec City.
Pukie. Why did it always have to be pukie.
As I walked down the bustling golden streets of New Aztec City I saw them, members of my old gang: Skinny Dad, Slippo and Butkis. Bullets flew as I dived into a sky limo. Only one place these go- the Crystal Palace of the God President Amburger. The old gang hitched a ride on an attack griffin and came at us hot. What they didn’t see coming was the experience a man gets from living in the marsh for 7 years. I crafted a crude bow and arrow from the floor lining of the limo and shot the griffin out from under them. They were out of the picture but I still had one problem. I was headed for the Crystal Palace, where no man returns.
The palace got larger and larger in the horizon, crystals oozing from every filthy fucking crevice of that god forsaken building. I smelled iron. It reminded me of blood. But it was probably just iron. My limo docked on the crystal palace, emitting a moan-like squeal as the passageway penetrated the receiving tube. I slide out of the limo, and needless to say, slid into the “love tube”. I mean tube. Just tube. It was a normal air-lock of sorts. I walked into the crystal palace, and there waiting for me was Jeb. “It’s about time you got here” he croaked in his native tongue - Swahili mixed with a touch of Catalan. Don’t ask me how I understood what he said. I just knew that He was who I was looking for, and praise was to be unto Him.
It ended where it all began. A dead dog, Opals falling out of its open wound like candy out of an oversized pinata. President Felicity Amburger Jones, AKA Jeb Bush, was there in front of me, larger than life, tendrils of dead canine meat hanging from his brown teeth, more strewn about him like discarded wrapping paper on Christmas morning. “DAD!” I screamed “You have gone to far.” I knew this was a mistake. I knew there was no turning back. Without hesitation he pulled my vocal chords from my throat before I could utter the magic words. “I love you,” I should have said, instead I said a silent goodbye to this cruel life. As the last breath gurgled out of my broken body, I thought of my true love Dumb C Nug Grimble. Of the life we could have had.
This story sponsored by the Jeb Bush Election committee 2016