(Wait, how is this happening …?) Meanwhile, Chris Childs was out to lunch with his nephew Marcus Camby at Layali. One of the few restaurants in Providence that didn’t offer copious amounts of hookah as a precondition of entering. (Wait a minute. Hold on.) Fuck Brunson, Childs said. Fucking cunt. Do you know he took a shit in the street the other week? I’m not even lying. This isn’t a joke. Do you realize this? That the little cunt apparently told Jeff’s kid that he’d been going through some IBS bullshit. That walking to his car at 2am the other night he had to pop a squat by the JWU dorms. Right across the street from fuckin, uhhh, from the new XO. Then he shot two turds out of his asshole onto the sidewalk. Then he drove up the street to a Mexican restaurant and bought a fucking burrito.
Marcus Camby said, What. A. Fucking. Cunt. But you know what? I’ve always thought that about him. I’m not even surprised. Childs said, Of course. But even for him it’s a low-point. Shitting on the street? Yeah, hun. Can I get the, uh, yeah, let me go with the open-faced gyro? Is that good here? No, I’m sure it is. I’ll do that. With a side of sweet potato fries? Do you do those here? Either way, regular or sweet potato are fine with me. Marcus Camby began his order of fourteen falafels over rice, when Chris Childs said, Oh! And no onions? Especially if they’re red? Please?
As the waitress meandered back to the kitchen Marcus said, This is a different kind of whiskey sour, eh? Childs said, Oh, with the cream? It has like a fucking egg in it or something? Marcus said, Yeah, a cracked yolk right in the mix. You wanna taste? Childs said, No, that’s fine. You know. It’s tempting. But I think I’m good for right now. I don’t wanna mix this early. Get all inebriated and shit. But yeah. This fucking guy. Brunson. He shat right on the street. He shot two turds like Ukrainian missiles onto the cement outside of some poor kid’s dorm room! Then he goes up the street and has the audacity to get a burrito and a steak and cheese. That’s what I heard at least. No doubt with brown streaks in his little boy pants. It’s like. I thought you had IBS, bro? Do you not have IBS anymore? Is a fucking pulled pork burrito gonna be productive for your colon? Guy eats a damn burrito on his way home with shit speckles in his undies. It’s ridiculous. Fuck him. I actually almost respect him for it.
Marcus Camby said, Yeah. And I finally met his new little sidekick on Thursday. His name is like Larry Jew or something? Guy gets an assistant for what? Why? He needs help beating his meat in his doorless office all afternoon? I thought this was supposed to be a criminal organization. Childs said, No. I heard about that. His new little executive assistant butt buddy. I saw the shit on LinkedIn. Camby said, He’s gonna keep looking into my shit too. Now sipping from Marcus’s whiskey sour Childs said, Fuck that little twat. Right in his twathole. But be nice to him Marcus, you hear? Like, don’t let him realize we’re trying to fuck them in the ass. Okay? Be respectful and unassuming as much as you can be. Don’t make anything obvious. And I mean anything. He tells you that he took a shit in the street then you laugh and you say you did the same thing. That you shit in the street too. Engage in solidarity. Build a rapport with him. Because the last thing we need is Brunson attempting to preemptively lube up our cunt without us even knowing it. You know what I mean?
I said, And that’s it. That’s the whole letter. It was actually addressed to me personally. ATTN: Rick Brunson. Left in my fucking mailbox and shit. Larry said, Shit, man. What the fuck is that? I said, Yeah, fucking trippy dude. He said, I mean. But, I don’t know … what does this have to do with puppy buttplugs again? If you don’t mind me asking. I said, Oh, not at all! Yeah, I mean. It’s like, let’s just say hypothetically here … I rubbed my hands together slowly as I contemplated my next sentence.
I said, I don’t know. Let’s say pedophilia is legal by the year, I don’t know, 2050 or so, give or take? According to this note at least it very well may be. Now leaving everything else aside. If pedophilia continues to become more mainstream. If it’s already on the verge of legality as we speak. Then what’s next? Don’t answer that! No. Because it’s like if pedophilia goes fucking mainstream then it’s over for human sex. Do you get me? Larry said, Ummmmmmm. I said, Pet sex bro. That’s where this is inevitably headed. Fucking pet sex dude. Fucking pets. Literally. Right in their little pet buttholes. Larry Johnson repeated the words, Pet sex? I said, Fucking pets bro. At Brunson Industries we plan to get ahead of this trend. And we plan to get ahead of it totally illegally. Crime bro. Manufacturing proprietary butt plugs that freaks of all colors and creeds will start using behind closed doors. Once we’re in on the ground floor with functional sex toys the sky is the fucking limit. This is the cultural trend we’re anticipating at Brunson Industries. That’s the thesis here. That’s the foundation literally all of our 5 year revenue forecasts are extrapolating from. But you’re not gonna shove your dick up Snowflake’s ass with no prep. You know what I mean? Now let’s go. Fuck lunch. I wanna tie a few on before dinner.
A full brass band of Caucasian horn players played quite impressively in the shitty interior of Nickanee’s off Richmond. Right around the bend from Tiny Bar (one of the worst venues downtown). I said, How shitty is your Sauvignon Blanc here? to the trans bartender. Then I turned back to Larry and said, You see that guy at the end of the bar? Bald head with the beard? Yeah, that’s Gino. I’ve met that fucking guy like at least three or four times now. Still doesn’t recognize me. Cunt. Last time I saw him at the Italian club I literally went right up to him and asked for an espresso. I said, Hey how’s it going? Could I get one of those espressos by any chance? Guy looked at me like he had Down’s syndrome. Like I hadn’t been to the Italian club 80 times before. Fucking prick. No he’s actually a nice guy. I like Gino. But I mean half the membership of that club is an Aperol Spritz away from a major stroke. How many people under 70 does he even fuckin see in there? It’s just kind of surprising he wouldn’t remember me that’s all. But whatever, you know? Larry said, What’s the IPA selection like here you think?
A guy at the table next to us after we sat outside was showing an extremely drunk guy the now exorbitant property prices of the neighborhood he grew up in around Asbury Park. I whispered, Oh, wow, Asbury Park is expensive now? In other news, my left nut hangs lower than the right. I whispered again, You hear this guy? Before Larry Johnson could reply I went on at a reasonable decibel level, I said, What do you think? About the business I mean?
He said, No, I think it definitely has legs. Honestly, it’s kind of genius. Butt plugs for house pets? I think this could be like a multi-billion dollar market or some shit eventually. Because you’re absolutely right. People fucking love their pets. What’s the next logical step. It could easily be the sex toy version of the iPhone for sure. I said, For sure! That’s the hope. Honestly it’s the only damn way the ROI forecasts make any sense. But you know. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. The key here is we really have to focus on being first to market you know? We have to be seen as innovators and not imitators, you know? We have to be underground. Viewed as a criminal organization and not just another metrosexual tech firm.
He said, Bro. That’s always key. It’s Business School 101. I said, It’s Life School 101 bro. I knew you had a sound business mind. I could feel it! But anyway. Yeah. Um so, there’s this dude … You may or may not have heard scuttlebutt about him at the office. Chris Childs? No, don’t tell me one way or the other. Anyway, I feel. And I think I’m right about this. I feel like he might be trying to low-key steal our sex tech? No. I know it to be a fact in my opinion. I feel like, in a manner of speaking. That he’s trying to fuck us in our asses? Larry said, For real? I said, Absolutely. Unfortunately. His little cunt nephew Marcus Camby still works for us in Creative. Senior Graphic Some Bullshit, I don’t know. Curly headed kid? Jew fro? You’ve probably seen him. Google him. I think he fuckin tried to bang like a fourteen year old or some shit? Got summarily relieved of his duties as a middle school gym teacher. Fuckin pervert. And now we pay him. You fucking believe that? I think we might need to ax him soon. Real soon, I continued after taking a sip of my Sauvignon Blanc, which was served out of a single-us plastic bottle. Incredibly soon if it was up to me.
He said, Maybe like a bulk layoff so it doesn’t look suspicious? I said, No. I mean literally ax him. Like, you know, murder him and shit. With an ax. Ax murder him. Just to send the message to Childs that you can’t fucking steal our tech and get away with it. You can’t even try to steal this tech without blood being fucking shed. That, like, if you think you’re infiltrating the nascent puppy buttplug market before us we will literally commit horrific acts of violence to prevent you from doing so. You know what I mean? He said, Yeah, I mean. I said, Like is that something you’re down for, or …? He said, No, definitely. I mean, it’s like I’ve never been a priori against committing murder. Just as a moral relativist you know? I said, It’s black metal dude. You need at least one murder to get shit to really enter the cultural zeitgeist.
I said, So anyway, writes David Wingate. I was boning this kj7DD-09 in the balloon hole-yes, and I don’t want to go too far into this, but these kj7DD-09’s typically have unblown-up-balloons for genitalia (generally speaking), the other Wednesday night, and this nanobet turns and says to me, Dave, um, are we ever going to go out to dinner? As I’m plowing her loon-hole. So I said, I don’t know, Karen. I’m trying to pound your balloon hole at the moment. And all of this talk about going out to dinner isn’t exactly improving my performance. It’s not the end of it. After I blow my chunk she doesn’t stop. Oh you think she stopped? No she didn’t stop. So Dave. My mother was asking me the other day … any plans to get married? Do we have any plans? To get married? So I say, Yes, of course Karen. I’m absolutely planning on marrying you. But can we drop the whole mother conceit? We both know your entire species was constructed in a lab. And by a man. With a penis. You know?
Well you can guess how well that went over. So the next day I go three or four galactums over and meet up with my friend. Lieutenant Charlie Ward. For a mocha fresco. District XL7650—–x has the best mocha frescos in the entire cubosphere. Yeah some people just love the frescos in XVF4523752—–plop’s gentrified bodegas, but no-7650—–x has the only authentic mocha this side of the Time Warp Conundrum of 2853. And it’s not close. So Charlie is telling me (he married an augmented chimpanzee three years ago) he’s telling me how his wife Elizabeth is asking for a 25% increase to her allowance even though her Indictodebt salary is 33% higher than Charlie’s. The fuck am I gonna do with this broad, he says to me. We’re sipping frescos. Fuckin 25% increase? And she makes 33% more than me? Can you add percentages? he says. No. You cannot, I say. That’s absolutely not how percentages work. The basic laws of arithmetic are null and void when combining percentages.
Exactly, he says, and that’s my fuckin point. Exactly, I say, unsure of what he’s referencing. How am I supposed to afford this allowance increase if I can’t even add percentages. I don’t even know where to begin! It’s just crazy. It’s just absolutely crazy. Crazy! So now Karen wants to get married. And I’m supposed to afford that how? On a Deputy Director’s salary? It’s not like I have seventeen multicolored baboons reporting to me like Tom Marfeo in Special Events! My salary is commensurate with my reportees, which as of this writing is zero. It’s insane! But I love Karen. Ever since I laid eyes on her I knew she was the one for me. I’ve always had a thing for kj7DD-09’s, if I’m being honest. If I’m being honest? I love their fucking balloon holes.
Larry, I said, Tell Vicky to get us two more espressos. I’m getting a little parched over here. I’m fuckin decaffeinated. He acquiesced, and when he came back in the room, my loafers now comfortably perched on top of my desk, I said:
But enough, David Wingate writes, I said. I don’t want to get too graphic here. So Charlie and I have both a personal friendship and professional relationship. Which is one of the reasons we’re always getting frescos. We need to dish. And dish we do. So we’re sitting there, in District XL7650—–x, drinking a fucking delicious mocha fresco, each of us, and Charlie turns to me and says, You’ll never believe what Tom Marfeo told me three weeks ago. I say, Tom Marfeo? From Special Events? He told you something? Three weeks ago, he says. And you’ll never fuckin believe what he said. So I ask him. What did Tom say. So Tom told Charlie that he has inside knowledge of an intelligence backed coup in our district (District ABHDKSHASHV). And the nature of the coup is credophilia. Well, let me be blunt here. The first thing you need to know about credophilia is it’s essentially something that, according to The Quasi-Compromise of the Labialisphere of 2542 at least, is entirely outside of the understanding of the human mind, never mind any known human language. So a coup based upon any sort of form of credophilia is a big deal in these parts.
Karen called me in the middle of the conversation. Can you pick up some Repto-Milk on your way home, babe? I really wanna have a bowl of cereal before we go to bed tonight. Sure, hun. Even though she knows damn well I’m in District XL7650—–x, and the Repto-Milk in this galaxy is fucking like 27% higher than in ABHDKSHASHV. Well, Dave, why not just go to ABHDKSHASHV to get the Repto-Milk, you may be asking? Well, I would but every convenience joint in our galaxy closes at like 10 ABM, so it’s not much of an option. Anyway, the credophilia. It definitely has something to do with the Redacted Yet Adjusted General Balance Sheet of the Greater Hyperbole Plane At Large, I can say that. And unborn Hagio-Cretins are probably molested while in the womb by a minor cabal known colloquially as the Anal-Butt-Boys. But beyond that, there’s not a lot I can tell you. Other than this is a huge deal. I spit out half my mocha fresco when Charlie uttered the words credophilia.
Well, I should say a word about these So-Called Anal-Butt-Boys. For one thing Charlie was a former member. Which is part of the reason I spat out my fresco. Because if Charlie Ward is telling me there’s a coup planned in the sphere of credophilia, then I know the Anal-Butt-Boys are at the very least tangentially involved, and if the So-Called Anal-Butt-Boys are even tangentially involved, then I know Charlie would have the juice before anyone. So, suffice to say, I was a bit concerned as I sped home. Picking up a half gallon of Repto-Milk for %321.2223. When I could have got an entire gallon in ABHDKSHASHV for, at most, %299.3343, which was just a little goddamn ridiculous to me at the time. It’s like %20 is nothing to Karen. Are you kidding me. Does she have any idea the type of budget I’m on these days. Apparently not. Because my budget isn’t pretty. I’ll admit that much. It’s very consolidated. It’s a compressed budget. But sure. A half a gallon of Repto-Milk in the most gentrified borough of the surrounding 18 galaxies? No problem. I’ll tell you what it’s impacting. It’s impacting my ability to save for a decent engagement neo-crystal. That’s what it’s doing.
That’s what I’ll be discussing next time I’m up inside Karen. I’ll tell you that much. Hey Karen, I’d just love to marry you, but the only problem is you insist on me buying you half gallons of Repto-Milk that cost us over %321! And, I don’t know, that just kind of impacts my ability to save a material amount of Geo-Coins. What am I some kind of ASIO-Gennitron over here? Now maybe I should give you a little background here, in the event you’re reading about all of this in the distant past, which is actually not only entirely possible in our time. It’s actually probable, as the Time Control Act of 2111 was recently overturned by the Committee of Neo-Logistics and Quasi-Temporal Concerns.
The year-as I, David Grover Stacey Wingate Jr, am writing this? Is 2981 AD. Now in the past, as you may or may not be familiar, before there was a Jesus Christ they numbered things as BC. But now we number them as AD. Around 2081 we started colonizing different galaxies, a few hundred thousand at a time thanks to the quadratic sperm Lonnie Brush III developed. We were able to procreate in a way that suited advanced time travel and galactic exploration just a little more easily.
Goddamn, I said. This espresso is extremely mediocre. Larry Johnson said, Do you want any water? I said, You fucking read my mind, then I said:
So yeah we discovered a few different species, David Wingate continues, I said. Fuckin biologically developed a few (Karen, et al), you get the gist. Now where I currently live, in ABHDKSHASHV with my girlfriend Karen, yeah it’s nice. It’s a recent development in a galactic zip code that’s kind of being gentrified but not quite. Maybe it’s the best of both worlds. We still have decent prices but don’t have to worry about neo-zipties committing petty crimes on every other crypto-block. The other thing I should mention, geographically speaking, we’re about 76% virtual. So some details are essentially meaningless to even attempt to describe. Basically, around 2150 it was (finally) scientifically proven that our so-called universe is basically entirely fictitious, that consciousness and biological life as we previously knew it was an elaborate front for various strains of quantum-cum. Yet it was decided that, despite the fact our entire existences (as well as the known physical world) were demonstrably fictitious, that we would continue biological life, just at 24% capacity for a yet-to-be-determined period of time (time, which is also essentially fictitious).
It was a nostalgic type of thing. Don’t even get a Pseudo-Temporalist started on it. Believe me, you’ll be better off just taking my word for it. But anyway, back to the credophilia. So the next day I’m texting Charlie at my desk, encoding the messages through our most advanced SemenStain software (which isn’t even that advanced at my job) obviously, and asking him a few follow-up questions. A coup? When? By who? Whom? What the fuck? Then he drops the two words I really hoped, I really fucking hoped that he’d never drop on me. Because I knew if Charlie Ward of all people was dropping these words on me then it had to be true. And I knew if this had to be true, then our lives as we knew it were essentially over, or at least so drastically affected that shit was about to hit the motherfucking fan. Big time.
He says, I think it might have something to do with Jeff Christ … And when Charlie says, I think about anything to do with the So-Called Anal Butt Boys, it’s pure bullshit. He knows. Now, depending on what iteration of the prehistoric multiverse you’re reading this, there’s no way for me tell, unfortunately, you may or may not be aware of the name Jeffrey Epstein. Well, I’m not going to go that deep into it. Long story short, it wasn’t that long after the Neo-Nestorian Coup of 2050 that, well, this view that Jeff was the only true Son of God started to proliferate. Jeffrey Epstein, who definitely did not kill himself, is a Christ-like figure. Or he’s literally the second incarnation of Christ, in our particular greater-galactumnates. Hopefully you’re familiar with Christ?
In any case, I go on to Charlie, I say, I know you just didn’t say Jeffrey Epstein, did you? He goes, Uh, ya, I did. I go, And what about him? He goes, Um, maybe the scripture is wrong? I go, The scripture? Is wrong? How so? He goes, Certain so-called … factions (if we can even call them that) of the SCABB (So-Called Anal Butt Boys) have taken the stance that archo-pedophilia should be illegal. And I go, What???!!!! And he goes, And immoral. I was flabbergasted. Caught completely off guard. I go, So you’re telling me-if I’m understanding this correctly-that certain so-called factions of the SCABB are saying, in effect, We don’t think grown adults should be able to have sexual intercoure, of any variety, with beautiful young children? He goes, Ya. And I go, And it should be illegal because it’s immoral???? He goes, Ya. I don’t even reply. He goes, They’re completely off their rockers, bro. I don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t been this taken aback at a SCABB meeting since 2972 when Horatio Analio said 3 year olds should be disallowed from changing gender more than 2 times a week. I don’t even reply. Fucking flabbergasted.
Then I go, Do you realize how many 12 year old boys, of any number of species, I have in my storage unit in GX-fjgsdgdsf666? He goes, Fucking tell me about it, man. I just had an orgy with sixteen 11 year olds before lunch, which I got at RR Rafaellio’s. Just exquisite man, by the way we have to go there soon. I go, This can’t be true. They don’t have the votes, do they? And yeah I’ve heard nothing but great things about RR Rafaellio’s, but I haven’t had a chance to eat there yet. I know Karen is, to put it mildly, extremely intent on eating there into the not-too-distant future. He goes, They have documents allegedly proving Jeff Christ actually killed himself, that he wasn’t assassinated by the Jews in the CIA.
I go, And that’s going to hold water? He goes, Arab Goggles thinks it will. I drop my phone. It’s all over. I go to the bathroom, where I always had a small stash of Sperm-Gun-3199’s placed discreetly in the paper towel dispenser. I kept one in the chamber in all seven of them. I put the 3199 to my temple. Pulled the trigger. I knew it was all over.
(Unfortunately, writes David Wingate, due to the low-beta on the non-virtual existence in my time period, my corpse was almost immediately re-animated in the not-too-distant multiverse, where I’m now known as Allan Houston. I have some bullshit job as a Senior Defense Contractor in New Ankara on Mars. Total bullshit. I think about Karen almost every day.)
I tossed a few grams of fentanyl into an envelope because after careful consideration this was what I deemed to be my preferred method for shipping drugs. USPS and shit. I said, Why? Did she do it? Why do you think? Because the little hoe is fucking nuts! Why else would someone bite a cop’s scalp. I’ve never even heard of a such a thing. Like ten times too! Biting actual scalp? Because he didn’t let her into a. Uh. Fucking what? What they call those? What is it? Needle and Thread. On Karoake Night. Yeah. Can you lick this one for me? We only have about half a dozen envelopes left. Almost there. Chauncey Billups said, But there’s uh. Fentanyl in that? I said, Sure. In the envelope. The fentanyl is in the envelope. But it’s fuckin deep in it. Licking the outside won’t do shit. Believe me. He said, Then uh. Then. Maybe. Why won’t you do it then? I said, Wh-I mean. Have you not seen me lick like 70 of these fucking things Chauncey? I’ve licked more fentanyl envelopes than I’ve licked clit. Because I’m um. Running this fucking operation that’s why! He said, Nah. You’re right. You’re right. I said, What’re you doing without this gig Chauncey? He said, What do you mean? I said, For work. For money and shit. Please tell me. What would you do if. Hypothetically. Hypothetically if you didn’t lick this fucking stamp for me? He said, Ummm. I said, You’re working at Speedway up the street! Or a retail outlet. Stocking chancletas or some shit. Always remember that. Anyway. Like I was saying. This bitch. She’s out of her fuckin mind. Biting cops’ scalps. Trying to go to Karoake Night at Needle and Thread and literally piercing a police officer’s scalp skin because he doesn’t let her in. We can’t have this kind of heat around us Chauncey. You know what I mean? I know you get that. He said, Nah I hear you Ra. I said, Exactly. He said, But um. So what am I supposed to do? (He licked the envelope with the reticence of a small child.) What am I? Like breaking up with her? I said, Yes. Yes you are. Break it off with the bitch. You can do better anyway. There’s plenty of other human hole out there. Believe me. She posts toe pics on Instagram anyway. It’s grotesque. I hate toes. Plus I don’t need Providence PD anywhere near this operation. I have enough shit up my ass as it is. He said, Well I don’t know Ra. I mean.
I said, What don’t you know? He said, I don’t know if she’ll uh let me. I said, If she’ll … let you? Are you fucking. What. If she’ll. He said, You know how she is Rasheed. You know exactly how she is. What am I supposed to say? I said, That things aren’t working. That it’s not her it’s you. That you wish her the best. That you had a great run. You know. Shit like that. Tell her you have syphilis or some shit. Just found out. That she should get tested. He said, But … right now? Like is this the best timing? I mean. Because I’m just thinking. She just fuckin posted bail and shit. Is now necessarily the best. I said, The right time? Yes. Yes it absolutely is the right time dude. Let me put it to you this way: Let’s say this girl goes batshit fucking crazy again. Throws her toe up some deputies asshole or some shit. Posts the whole thing on Snapchat, Tiktok, and IG. Then what? Then she’s even more fucked. Cops are gonna press her. Sticking your big toe up a Detective’s asshole is a felony offense Miss. Do you know that? As a repeat offender? That’s what they’ll say. Now sure. Maybe she can dicksuck her way out like she probably did this time. But what if she can’t? What if for once in her life she’s actually faced with the prospect of actually taking responsibility for her actions? What’s she gonna do? What else does she have that a cop might want. He said, Pussy lips? I said, Information Chauncey! You! That’s what she has. You and your fentanyl trafficking. And via you she has me! Pussy lips aside. Dicksucks put on the backburner. I can’t. I cannot take that risk Chauncey. I simply will not. Will. Not. Understand me? I’ve spent years at this shit. Building up contacts. In USPS. In the CCP. Getting the finest fucking fentanyl. Acquainting myself with every strain of fentanyl known to man! Learning the postal routes like a fucking human Google Map. You think all that was easy? No. I’m not gonna have Needle & Thread’s karoake night fuck me in my ass now! Not after all this. He said, Nah I get it. I get it.
I said, Now where’s Elden? He said, Elden? I said, Elden. He’s supposed to be here to pick up these envelopes. At uh. What time is. It’s 9:47 now. I told him be here for 9:45 the latest. What the fuck? He said, You know Elden man. He’ll be here at like 10:11. 10:22 or some shit. I said, Ugh. God. You know. It’s just so hard to find good help these days. You fuckin know that? You work your whole life to become expert at something. To actually rise to the top of your field. You put in the work. More work than anyone else. And then your reward is to be surrounded by just utter incompetence at every fuckin turn. Absolutely fucking ridiculous man. Chauncey said, Plus. Um. There’s that other thing with him. I said, What other thing? He said, Wait. Do you follow him. On Twitter? I said, Who? Elden? Ummm. He said, His whole MH370 thing. I said, Let me see here (I slowly scrolled through my follows noticing a few people had unfollowed me and hit unfollow on their accounts in reciprocation). No I don’t think. Why what’s up with. I mean. The fuck does Elden’s Twitter have to do with my fentanyl envelopes being picked up at 9:45 the latest? Chauncey said, Nah he’s like breaking the whole MH370 case wide open. I said, The fuck is MH380? He said, 370. Remember that whole. The whole Malaysian plane that disappeared into thin fucking air. I said, Like ten years ago or some shit right? He said, Yeah yeah. Like into. I said, The Indian Ocean and shit. Blah blah. Or fuckin Russia. I watched the whole Netflix documentary. Not that compelling. So what? Elden tweets about conspiracy theories now? Who doesn’t? How is this relevant? My fuckin grandma thinks Trump is swordfighting pedophiles in the CIA. This shit honestly? It’s actually mainstream at this point. He said, No but Elden is like thee dude bro. He’s finally risen beyond just general commentary to become an entire microcelebrity. He’s become a literal fixture in the MH370 scene. There’s like videos with orbs and shit. People fuckinnnn. They think the shit was like teleported. I said, Teleported? (I scroll his feed.) What the fuck is this? (I show Chauncey a post.) What is he? He’s posting on Twitter. He’s telling people that he’s calling the FBI about MH370? About this missing Malaysian plane. Did he really do that? Voluntarily call the Feds and self-identify? Damn he does have quite a few followers. Why the fuck is he using his real name on Twitter?! He said, He’s up to like 10K followers or some shit.
I said, Who the fuck uses their real name on Twitter? This is actually an outrage. I feel like it’s an affront to my character. That he would use his real name on social media and then have the audacity to drug run for me. Oh here he is! Elden entered my house and poured himself a cup of espresso before he even bothering to attempt a hello to either Chauncery or myself. I said, Um. Hello? Mr Campbell? Elden said, Oh hey. What’s up Rasheed? The envelopes ready? I said, First of all. It’s fuckin what? It’s 9:54. You’re nine minutes late. He said, Yeah my bad. Hit some traffic by the the old smoke shop on Branch. The one the guy got killed outside a summer or two ago? Yeah where they made that whole vigil and shit. That vigil. Man it’s gone to shit bro. I said, No let’s put that to the side. He said, Yeah it’s depressing dude. To even think about. I said, No I mean the nine minutes. But no. Yeah I get it. I remember that kid. Sad. No it was sad. It’s depressing. Senseless acts of violence and shit. But no. Fuck is this man? He said, Aha! Oh you follow me on Twitter now bro? Hell yeah dude. You gotta join the movement. I’m blowing the fuck up! It’s finally time we expose this government for what it is. An illegal entity that’s hiding next gen technology from the general public bro. Dude fuckin next gen tech. Teleportation and shit. High level orbs. Fuckin disappeared planes and whatnot. We could get off fossil fuels by end of year there’s actually no doubt in my mind. This is what my subreddit is dedicated to exposing Ra. You should really familiarize yourself with some of the more recent literature I’ve dispersed. I said, Elden. Elden. What are we doing here? He said, Like here? I said, Yeah. I mean like here. Right now in this room. He said, Drinking … espresso? I said, Anything else?
He said, Ummm. I said, Are there any envelopes filled with fentanyl that. I don’t know. Is there any fentanyl here that I’m having your transport across state lines? He said, Oh. That. Yeah I mean. I didn’t know if you wanted me to like. Say it out loud. Can never be too careful bro. Wires and shit. I said, Oh right. Wires. Of course. Feds be watching. Yet you’re fuckinnnn um. What are you doing again? He said, I’m exposing the. I said, You’re fucking calling the goddamned FBI and posting about it on your government name Twitter for clout and then coming over my house Elden! That’s what you’re doing. You’re alerting federal authorities to your identity and then entering my domicile and fucking taking my fentanyl across state lines! He said, Rasheed they don’t fucking track me like. I said, Get the fuck outta here! I looked at him. I said, Yeah finish the espresso and get the fuck out. Now! No. Actually fuck that. Give me that espresso. Yeah hand it to me. I’m gonna finish that. I could use a jolt. I turned back to Chauncey. I said, Jesus Christ. Jesus Fucking Christ man. The fuck. Chauncey said, Yeah in retrospect? I think it’s the right move. You know. Going a different direction with the whole Elden thing. I said, Now let’s get back to this whole business. With the uh. Needle and Thread. By the way have you been to their Karoake Night?
He said, It’s really top notch. I said, It’s actually unbelievable. He said, So much talent. I said, I saw a guy sing Diddy’s Last Night there and it knocked my fuckin cock off. I fuckin hate that song. This guy fuckin killed it. If I had a digital version of that performance. No fuckin lie. I’d listen to it every fuckin day. But yeah. This broad. What’re gonna do with her? You gotta let her loose Chauncey. I think that’s the only move here. He said, Ahhh. Ra. I don’t. I said, You’re killing me Chauncey. Chauncey. You’re killing me over here. I’m trying. I’m really trying. Really trying to run an interstate drug trafficking operation via USPS with one of the deadliest drugs on the fuckin contemporary market bro. You’re killing me bro. He said, Bro. I said, Yes? He said, What if. What if maybe Elden is onto something? I said, Elden is a conspiracy theorist now Chauncey. With all due respect I think his drug dealing days are now behind him. And I just. I think it’s best if we both move on. He said, But what if that MH370 shit. Those orb shits. Could they teleport … fentanyl? I said, Across state lines? He said, Dude I’d imagine those orbs could probably. I mean if they could take a whole plane then. I said, You know what? That’s actually not the … worst idea I’ve heard today? Because USPS. It really has been going downhill precipitously. I just blocked him on Twitter though. Should we maybe give him a call? See if he left already?
Larry Johnson and I sat in two large reclining chairs facing one another with no desk between us and I said, Yeah exactly. So basically we’re selling buttplugs more or less. But buttplugs for fuckin you know. Like the pet market. Larry Johnson said, Really? You mean like cats and dogs? Shoving shit up their asses? I said, Dude. The dog plus cat buttplug market is about to blow the fuck up. You really have no idea. People are going to go fucking ape-shit over the possibility of shoving anal beads and whatnot right up their pets’ asses. This is what people want right now. They just don’t know it yet. To shove sex toys directly up their pets’ anal cavities. But in a really streamlined type of way you know? Basically all this shit. This so-called vision so to speak. It started for me a few years ago. This vision came to me. And by vision I mean that I actually received a physical fuckin letter. No return address. Guy by the name of David Wingate apparently wrote it. Said he was from the year 2981. Middle management type. That pedophilia had been legal for literally hundreds of fucking years. That in the future Jeffrey Epstein actually becomes a Christ-like figure for more than a few galaxies.
Larry said, Like Epstein Island Jeffrey Epstein? I said, Well technically they call him Jeff Christ in 2981. But yeah basically. The pedophile sex trafficker or whatever. So I guess it kind of put this whole idea into my head. Like what’s next for the sex toy market? Larry said, You didn’t want to make. I said, I feel like right now? Running a bootleg pet sex operation will be a lot more politically viable that a child dildo one, you know? He said, Honestly. I don’t disagree at all bro. Do you think we should we get lunch? It’s like 11:40. I said, Fuck yes we should. Where at? He said, Bell Pepper Plus? I said, Eh. He said, You know Bell Pepper Plus? The vegan spot by the river bridge?
I said, Yeah I know it. Yeah. The river bridge that cost like 2 million to build? He said, Yeah, exactly. I said, Of course. Honestly. Not a big fan. He said, Of the bridge? I said, Of either to be honest. He said, Yeah I mean I get it. I have some issues with it conceptually myself. I said, Yeah personally? I don’t know. I kind of fucking hate it? Personally. I don’t know. I think it’s a little gay how they have the three different restaurants. It’s allegedly three levels of restaurants. They tell you it’s three restaurants in one. But then when you get there you have to choose which level to sit at? And each level has a distinct menu? Larry said, Oh yeah I know. I’ve always found that slightly off-putting. I said, It’s just like. What the fuck? You have the one building. But if I want a burrito I have to quote-unquote make a reservation for your make-believe Mexican restaurant? But if you want, say, some vegan spaghetti and meatballs or something then we have to make a reservation at the quote-unquote Italian restaurant? But they’re both in the same fucking building. You don’t have the same kitchen making all of this shit? You’re preventing me from ordering a burrito because of a purely make-believe kitchen? Fuck you. Larry said, No. I totally get it. We could probably order from somewhere else. To be honest I’m not even married to the whole vegetarian angle. I could go for like a steak and cheese even.
I said, Yeah. No just give me like 20 minutes and we’ll order from somewhere. I’m open to pretty much anywhere but Bell Pepper Plus. But anyway. Back to these buttplugs I guess? Larry said, We could also do Raska? In 20 minutes I mean. I said, The Indian place over in Garden City, right? He said, Yeah exactly. I love it there! I said, Eh. He said, Have you been there? I said, You know I actually went over there the other night? To fucking Raska. He said, Oh yeah? How was it? They have this deal on Mondays. I think it’s like sixty bucks for two people. With a bottle of wine included!
I said, Yeah we were in the area and we were, you know. We wanted to eat. We needed to grab a quick bite. And I’m with you. Generally speaking I’ve enjoyed Raska’s overall cuisine. So it was kind of late. And their website said they closed at ten. It was I don’t know. Like fuckin 9:15? And we were five minutes away, so I drove over there. We walk up to the host. He makes this, in my opinion, extremely homoerotic bodily gesture. And he’s like Oh the kitchen closes in five minutes, if that’s ok with you? I told him, Yeah that’s fine. If you’re still open. Because it’s their own website that’s telling me this.
For the record. I’m not pulling 10pm out of my own asshole here. That’s what I was informed via their official website. Closing: 10pm. It was maybe 9:20. 9:25 at the latest. Plus I knew I was getting the Lamb Biryani. So no big deal. Sit me. Bring me that Biryani. Let’s do this. But once we sit down it was just like every 90 seconds to two minutes. We’re getting approached. No. The first thing the waitress does is reiterate to us that the kitchen closes in five minutes. Just so you know the kitchen closes in five minutes, she said. That was literally her version of hello. She may have even said, So if you want to put your order in now … Which we did. Sure, I ordered an entire bottle of wine. But I was obviously going to chug it! It wasn’t like I was going to sip it deep into the evening. And it was terrible house white. Just barely drinkable! And then after that it’s every 90 seconds. Like clockwork. We can’t complete three sentences without a member of the waitstaff asking us if we’re ok. If we need anything. Moving one of our forks from a forty five degree angle to a ninety degree angle. They did everything but physically come over and fondle my balls while counting down the seconds aloud until their kitchen closed. I’m trying to have a polite dinner conversation with my better half over here and some cunthole is disingenuously fluffing my napkin for me between every other declarative statement. So, finally. Because now I’m actually pissed off. I’m fuming. I’ve chugged almost an entire bottle of this piss-adjacent house white wine.
So on our way out I go to the host. I just tell him. Just bluntly but politely I say, You know what? Next time? Just don’t let us in. If it’s that much of an inconvenience. If this is such a Holocaust for your waitstaff, that two people would arrive at your precious restaurant forty minutes before your listed closing? Just fucking turn us away. And he has the audacity to say, Well I did say we were closing soon. I lost it, Larry. I absolutely lost it. Oh you told me you were closing soon? That’s now an excuse for grotesque dinner service? You can treat people like orangutans because you told them you’re closing soon? Then he said, But next time. I said, Pal. Let me be crystal fucking clear for you. There will be no fucking next time. I’ll fuckin jack off a series of goats before I step foot in here again and remunerate you for a bowl of Lamb Biryani. I came in here and paid full-price to eat and you treated me like you were doing me a favor.
One of the waitresses actually yelped out. Right as we were in the doorway, she said, Wait, your leftovers! And I said, No keep them! That’s how pissed I was, Larry. I fucking love leftovers. For me to leave leftovers I have to feel almost suicidal. I’m not even kidding. More than anything I adore leftovers. And I voluntarily left our leftovers there. Purely out of spite! I would have loved to eat that Biryani the next morning. But anyway. Yeah I don’t know about them for lunch.
It was Larry Johnson’s first week at Brunson Industries, my software engineering company on Branch Ave in Providence. I’m Rick by the way. Rick Brunson: founder and CEO! At BI, we specialize, I guess primarily our focus is in the electro-sex toys and vape paraphernalia markets? Yet on this particular Tuesday morning in February Larry Johnson honestly had no fuckin clue he’d become a crucial cog in the machine of designing illegal sex toys for small dogs and cats. That we were in the midst of creating one of the truly revolutionary illegal underground sex markets in American history!
Still sitting in our reclining chairs I continued to Larry, I said, Yeah. Let’s face it. Puppy buttplugs? Sure it’s a little unorthodox as a concept. But all innovative business is. The iPhone was essentially a Persian cat vibrator when it first hit the market. The reality, Larry, is this: the margins on porn and its adjacent businesses are all compressing. In a major way. The cost of porn is near-zero now. The competition in the dildo space is fuckin beyond ridiculous. If you can’t make a third generation flesh light for 12 cents or less then you’re fucked. Basically beyond the strip joints almost all channels of revenue are being seriously challenged. Innovation is going to be key in the coming decades. It’s going to literally be the difference between the companies that stay in the business and the ones that don’t. The idea. Well. Like I said. It really came about when just a couple years ago, at the height of COVID, I stumbled upon this letter from this so-called David Wingate. This extended note so to speak. It’s my muse in a way. It’s a letter with a kind of weird origin? Fuckinnnnnnnnnnnnn, ummmm, let me see if I can find this thing. I said. I rummaged behind my chair into my desk drawers. Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Ok! Here it is. Here. Let me read it to you. I want to paint the landscape for you in full. So you’ll be fully engaged with the mission here at Brunson Industries. We’re gonna get fucking rich off this shit Larry! I can’t wait! I unfolded the pages, said, Fuckinnnnnnnnnnnn, as I extended them into readable form then read aloud:
仲正イチカ by 狐猫 [Twitter/X] ※Illustration shared with permission from the artist. If you like this artwork please support the artist by visiting the source.
