Oh Jesus! I awaken at the crack of noon after a weekend of sexual experimentations, the kind only a seasoned physician like myself could even perform, on South Beach, an area in desperate need of all acts desperate, a depraved hairnet of bums and models and naked trollops from Poland posing as decent citizens and then this, this whining, sniveling plea lobbed from that whatever it is— one assmes a house, a residence, a living quarters of some sort— that enormous hayloft you call 8-ball Marble Factory, and oh fuck… The pressure. My work is never done.
Is it not enough that I pushed that squeaking heap of red scrap iron you called a motorcycle and Jessica Jamison (wasn‘t that his name?) called a Red Ball Chopper (it certainly didn’t chop any vegetables or cabbage, at least if it had it would have been of some utility), all around with your very large ass crushing down, making the chore only greater, enduring your horrendous cursing and swearing all the way to Sturgis? Is it not enough that I introduced you to the very love of your (to God’s ears) abbreviated life, the kindly and unceremoniously defrocked (you hell hound) Sin Wu? I’d beg your pardon, but what weight would your pardon carry in the Court of Morality? It would only doom me to more total voltage in the electric chair of man.
Fie! Fiddlesticks! And I’m spent. I surrender. I collapse upon folding knee and relent to your endless nagging. Even great men have limits. Let me just stop the whole Profit Making Machine and scribble out some unintelligible rant, some slander against Nature and common sense (and perhaps grammar), to satiate your ugly craving for my drek, that I might return to my cigar and enjoy my goddamned rum! I fled to the farthest tropical point on the map, my beloved Miami, to escape just this type of assault, yet the assaults only doubled. Mother…
Dear god, Bandit, the strain you cause me! The agonies. Both testicles have collapsed, did you know that? The simple, pointed agonises. Was it not you who introduced me to the daft, effeminate Steve Bohnhead of Hot Rods & Pink Boys magazine? Is it Prim-media or Primedia, never got that straight. That crazed loon who did then hack and butcher and neutralize (Musn’t offend the readers, Jim, we could lose subscription or advertising dollars!) every single word I wrote after your hasty exit—which I’m sure had nothing to do with the gossipy fondling you allegedly performed on your secretary who now bears your violent larva. Fiend. And was it not you who further introduced me to that Cuban idiot, braying, lying, drunkard Puerto Rican twit, Edwardo Twatta of Fort Living Room or Lauderdale or Hell-and-Gone, a man so crass, so lacking in taste and style that he wears clamped tightly in his bed-bug-packed navel a gold-plated ring and half shirts specifically Customized to show off said niggardly ornament? A man who builds motorcycles (can you call a stationary object a motorcycle, or would it simply be furniture?) adorned shamelessly with airbrushed montages of lightening bolts and dramatic whores and twirling sombreoes? I curse your indebted soul.
Did you read Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, as I recommended at our last lunch? Really a good read. Make a point of it. It will rearrange your molecules. And why not rearrange them, considering the random order that ruthless cunt Fortuna flung them in? Certainly couldn’t do any harm. Marquis De Sade isn't bad, either. It's dirty. You know the French; filthy sodomites and they do it with such nerve, such arrogance. A frog can have her finger up your ass and still carry on a perfectly normal conversation about global warming or some other unimportant trifle, ice caps collapsing and crushing polar bears to death, diddle-diddle, seals eating sailors alive, diddle-thrust.
Which leads me to the core of this pleasant writing. The whore. The Yankee dingbat, photos of whom you dared to infect my Christian Household with… our Father, who art in Sturgis, etc., etc. You ask me to rate this island catwoman? Well, allow me. One can almost hear the smart snapping of the rubber gloves as they are pulled tight and released. Ahhh, kindly lassy, come to the Zebra and let’s have a look at you. Oh now isn’t that cute? She’s shy.
Please! I need only to look at this chops-licking hussy to see what you’re trying to pull. You think by draping this Bruce, this man, this cocked cock, this brute, over a flashy motorcycle that my weakness for fast iron and filed-down engine block numbers would overwhelm me and that I’d pen some sugary love letter to this boar hog? How dare you. After all that we’ve been through. Oh sure, were he a she, of course, I’d say something that rhymed, something that pulp-culture fatmen like what’s-his-ass who runs Thundering Mountains Blackhawks up in Love-Land Colofucko (why do these names escape me so, must be the Miami heat) (Thunder Mountaineers Blackbeans?) Pheffer, I can’t remember, but that’s all besides the point. The point is this, sure, she’s a beauty. But why all the clothes? Huh?! Got Steve Bohnhead working for you now? Did he worry that some fagosexual bolt-on chrome tweaker living with granny might be put off his feed of cheap beer and June bugs by a shot of a girl with her essence clearly visible? Don’t we all have sisters? Don’t send me these women buried in swimsuits and other mountains of cheap polyester. I once knew a French woman named Ester. What a kitten. Met her on the Rue de Clichy. Red light glamor queen who said cute things in English that didn’t make sense and bit if you didn’t tip well enough. That’s back when the frogs still used the Franc to buy their pussy and had a little national pride left, before the Euro, before the cops started carrying squirt guns. Now Paris is a seething vermin trap crammed to the rafters with Muslim nutters busy building bombs out of anything under the rented kitchen sink. And don’t dare shank one of the swarthy Allah-humping geeks, it’s taboo.
Sure, send her over. I’ll have a look at her. I’ll give her a name and a place by the pool at the Republic of Literature. You remember litearture, don’t you? That idiotic process of using the lost English language to communicate with a nation of flatlined viewers? God, why am I doing this? Tears roll down my girlish, rosy cheeks. Fuck this, man, you’re setting me up. I’m armed, fucker. Armed to the teeth. I can make a water charge out of my colostomy bag, an inch of det cord and a blasting cap from WWI. So away with thee. Ruptured deviant! You sicken me. I bet you captured that helpless virgin tied to that motorcycle with rock candy and a puppy.
Oops, must run, that’s the delivery man and it’s Rum and Cigars day. Got a great new connection in Habanna. Outstanding new Corona leaf. They grind up American tourists Fidel captures sneaking in through Mexico and fertilize the leaf with communist piss and bat shit. No smoother smoke. Really.
Dear god, the population of women in this house is out of control. Can they breed, women, among each other, I mean? Do you want some women, Bandit? Because I have plenty. Dozens. I’m looking to get rid of a few of the older ones. They’re getting some odometer, if you know what I mean.
You forgot my birthday. Maybe you should send me that Jamaican chick in the photo. I’ve got room. And she’s reeeeeeeeeal pretty. I think it’s love at first sight. Does she speak or is she mute? I could make a wonderful swingarm out of her pelvis.
–Special Agent Zebra
The Republic of Literature, Miami
