23
Take your recalcitrant ass to your own trap.
No drones in my dormitories.
“I’m no one’s live one,” sneered the corpse
to the necrophile. “Go back to your own
people, you frantic old character.”
“Oh be careful. There they go again,” says
the old queen as his string break, spilling his
balls across the floor. “Stop them, will you,
James, you worthless old shit! Don’t just
stand there and let the master’s balls roll into
the coal bin.”
“Is them my peeled balls those kids play
marbles with? Why shit sure. Boy, who give
you the right to play with my balls?”
“They revert to the public domain after not
being claimed forty year, mister.”
Well, the wind-up is the fag marries the
transvestite Liz disguised as a boy in drag,
former heartthrob of Greg hang him for kicks
and retire to a locker in Grand Central, sub-
sisting on suitcase and shoe leather. So many
tasty ways to prepare it, girls—simmered in
538/1780