You still owe me eight quid, bellowed Barret.
I’m no slave to you, cried Burton.
My turd was the longer, cried Barret.
A fine turd by all means, but a green turd no doubt, stated Burton.
But a turd nevertheless, said Barret.
Snow had turned to sleet and the river echoed the last words of the last whore that had bobbed up and down in its
murky waters. Barret had Burton by the neck and was squeezing with all of his might. Burton debilitated by the lack
of oxygen had not the energy to lift up his knee and smash in the sack. Indefatigable Barret piled on the pressure to
the windpipe. Burton’s orbs protruded to the point of popping and his tongued was erect and exposed like a
bloated penis of a dog. Barret huffed and puffed with ecstasy. To see death on the fingertips had euphoric
ramifications. Moribundity was quite beautiful, thought Barret.
Quickly come! Cried Grunfeld.
He best not come on me pants! Warned Barret.
Burton was forever pilfering one’s pants.
Indeed Burton was erect in the hull as well as in the mouth.
No come it’s Satogata death has overcome him, wept Grunfeld.
This fool still shakes the spear in my direction, yelled Barret.
Release me you vile poxy crust! Bellowed Burton.
The lachrymal display performed by Grunfeld piqued both Barret and Burton. He was a right hyperborean that one,
for Burton. Though neither fancied a katabasis the pullulating tears that cascaded down Grunfeld’s marmoreal
physiognomy meliorated the fear of the chthonic penumbra. Though Grunfeld was no virgil Barret released Burton
and thought about following him into the shadows. The catechism was lugubrious and verbose to a point that
exacerbated Grunfeld to action. Swiftly, with much prestissmio Grunfeld flitted and kicked Barret in the sack. The
release of wind from Barret’s hole and arse was worthy of a fine fumarole. Crimson pain effused across his anemic
battlefield and illuminated the scar of the world’s biggest boil. Much flummery was ejaculated but the verbosity was
too incoherent to take offensive and thus was ephemeral. Visceral emits should be brushed aside like the coquettish
whispers of an ennui doxy and not omnivorously scoffed as though suffering from inanition. Be jocose! Laugh piss shit
but no threnos for lax words! Rub the inguen and sojourn in a bagnio. And for christsake keep an eye out for those
miscreants, recreants, with their braggadocio, the pox, syphilis, the works! Though we do not all possess praxitelean
shoulders we should still allow giants to stand upon us.
He’s a bloody hydra that pisspot! Bellowed Burton.
A fly on the nick, stated Barret.
He’s no quotidian brick, exclaimed Grunfeld.
He’ll be there weeping and wallowing in piss, said Burton.
With a mighty protean thirst and hunger, said Barret.
You’ve been on the gin again, said Burton.
Be it sheol, hades or hell you be my shadows! Prophesied Grunfeld.
These manifestations by the inamorato produced the same effects as a hellebore. The madrigal generated by water
hitting water had a valedictory sadness for Grunfeld. The steam that lunted was acescent in the mouth one of the
corollaries of standing.
So what’s the ado about? Asked Burton.
Ineluctably methodical ratiocination an idiosyncrasy desired by Barret.
Death! Ululated Grunfeld uxoriously.
Turning nacreous Grunfeld collapsed to his scabby scrofulous knees. If only he could have witnessed the
ostentatious oscitation he would had exploded instead of imploded. This implosion manumitted a tenuous intangible
fart that hardly disturbed the air.
Satogata was only animated when the fleas down his sack jumped and leapt, stated Burton.
Or his bromidic integument slipped, stated Barret.
The cristic windbag of putrid! Bellowed Burton.
He is fracted, immolated, and scattered! Screamed Grunfeld.
Let us not condole the boozer; for, pissers we will live, proclaimed Barret.
These disparaging words did chaff. Pugnaciously Grunfeld leapt to his precarious feet and launched himself with
alacrity at Burton and Barret. A brouhaha ensued. A cacophony of cusses threats and entreats filled the aceldama.
For those that repudiate the metaphysical and rejoice in the aesthetics of the physical there were a plethora of
punches and kicks worthy of a gypo prize fight. Grunfeld poked Barret in the eye and left him spinning and would
have dropped him if it hadn’t been for Burton’s rabbit chop. Grunfeld oblivious of the attack fell to his feet. Helpless
the two assailants kicked and punched Grunfeld until he was half alive. They thought about throwing the sack of
heaving sighs into the river but thought that the lifting would be too onerous an endeavor.
We should have performed the feat moons passed, stated Barret.
It was pleasure ineffable, said Burton.
Upon the muddy quagmire Grunfeld wept pissblood tears.
The incubation of a fart is truly death.
Grunfeld lifted his battered head and heard Satogata reiterate
The incubation of a fart is truly death.
