To the lonely widow at the top of the stairs,

I choose not to push you.

Signed,

Your Son.

Zig-Zag and Betsy were reading The Hobbit to each other by the light of a small campfire next to a lake. This lake had only recently been discovered by a wayward merchant from the Dutch East India Company. The merchant had been searching for natives and their spices. The spices were thought to have great healing powers. The natives were valued for their penis bones, which were considered a delicacy among the rich and powerful of a near-by city.

Zig-Zag looked at Betsy and remarked that he liked her hair. Betsy liked Zig-Zag's skunk stripe.
The rustle of the thicket was enough to drive them, fully clothed, into the lake. From the water they would watch three teenage boys burst from the bushes completely naked screaming about the Mental Holocaust and their lingering feelings about ingesting each others cum bubbles.

The next day, Zig-Zag would awake to a note from Betsy:

"Dear Jerry,

You missed your chance. Those kids got me thinking about a cock sucking trip down South that I've always wanted to take. They got me thinking about Marriage, Money, Power, and Pain. If you're ever near Atlanta, look me up and we'll sniff glue and give each other handjobs.

Love,

Betsy."

Someone shaved a Chow-Chow and let it loose in the city.
They named it Lou Reed.
Pushed out the door of a windowless conversion van.
The townspeople didn't know what to do at the sight of this hairless beast.
Frothing at the mouth.
It's choke chain collar pulled against loose neck skin.
It was wet.

A million Vietnam Vets lined the hallways of the poorer public school to bravely recount their rapes. A million strong for sodomy, with their weathered faces and red-grey beards.

"God wants us to be stronger than he ever could be. " she said sprawled out in the backseat of her first car. "God is weak."
"God isn't weak." he whispered. "God is the strongest man in the world."
He was wearing a golden cape.
It was Christmas.
He was still in love.

To Be Concluded

For months the evil genius had been swiping gently used female undergarments from local laundromats. Each panty, a collection that numbered well into the thousands, was neatly folded, placed into a Ziploc bag, and pinned to the wall of his lair. The contents were cataloged by the following criteria:

1) Color
2) Smell
3) Stains

A task force of Navajos was assembled to take the evil genius down. When the local Government was questioned on why they would trust these savages there was only one answer, "It's in their blood to find panties. You don't want to leave something like this up to the White Man!"
Across town a middle-aged woman was smoking pot with her sons best friend.
"We should have a funeral for the dog!!!" he bellowed.
She glared at his thighs and could make out the curvature of his limp penis compressed into tight fitting denim. He was a virgin, she could tell, and this was obviously the first time he had smoked pot. This woman had a lot of men inside her. He lips curled into a crooked scabby smile.
"Gerald, have you ever fucked?"

The town comptroller sat in his office. If these Navajo's didn't return with the Evil Genius, or the scalp equivalent, then the Mayor would fire him. "Oh fuck!!! I think I'm going to shit my pants!!!" He reached into his desk, pulled out a mini-crossbow, and placed the tip of an arrow to his forehead. "I'm sorry..."

A quick trip to the old library to return some overdue books and then it’s off to pussy licking school on the Gaza Strip. Drinking Arnold Palmers in the shade of some dive bar near the edge of town while Lou Reed’s Sally Can’t Dance plays on the jukebox in its entirety. We killed an Eskimo with a dagger near City Hall, and even though he only had one word for love, he had a lot of words for “What the fuck are you guys doing? I don’t have your money!!!!”

“Pull up at the front door and I’ll be out in a minute” you sobbed in the phone. “Just get me the hell out of here.” You took the keys to the strip club with you when you left and it broke my heart. I thought of all those perverts, like me, unable to glare at the bruised thighs of the questionably legal teens. Your perky breasts already showing signs of wear and tear, you spoke through a cut on your lip, “If the world ended tomorrow I’d die alone and unloved.”

On an old country road you flung a used tampon at a cop. His satin uniform, a first for the Waterville Valley police force, would never be clean again. You had left a brown stain, your mark on the world.

"Let's run away forever" you said.

let's get topical.

Note for Tara Reid:

"Babe, I love ya!"

Signed,

Cocaine and Vodka