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CHAPTER FOUR
In from black fake dentures sinking into juicy flesh in a almost sexual. fucking way that is sucking air and licking air and fucking air and their way to... to... to SUCK more muscle fibers that the drumstick's last flesh facade. Escape the escapades of fucked flesh fibers. Or fuck it.
Flashes of some tribal proto-natural sounds flooding the casettes recorded on mics all over the world; recording of a recording of a recording onto a small half-clothed lamb person, smelling of silt holding cancered camera which pans left to a.. a.. a.. similarly-dressed boy playing with his chafed dick, some sort of holding pattern, a record spinning backwards but not revealing backmasked bullshit, he rubs up his fingertips onto his labored lap until he cums and "No, I don't want fucking chicken".. and onto the hell he puts the thing away, hits play.
When contact with the record starts to fuzz and whistles fill the womb, you see faded missile fire from fades of stock footage in still-plowed snow fields with corpse legs coming out like corn crops. Half fully grown abortions penetrade outhouse penthouse.
As sad mournful music plays.
Narration starts, "Nodies will grow, will be harvested, the government will do..... nothing... they will be cards... and a whisky... and will propagate their race... and junkies... so will easily accept down their lives... rich alike.”
A man and a top hat to one of the field: "I want that one.” and “That one.” in reference to the small slave boys.
Camera cums. Doorway into some lab. Doorway into Hell. The two strapped to a man with the nurse who looks like a 14 year old's wet dream fantasy, perfume in the poke and prod instruments.
Old women’s teeth succulently suck hunks of chicken, way that is sounds that fill the scrapping, and gnawing the bones only on the stringy remain tethered from men dancing in way. Voodoo Drum atmosphere.
Dirty boy in a mound of vinyl records. Slightly reveal man sitting on elaborate parade float player. The boy-man’s leg with cancer reaches the ... the... fucking record player. Record on! And the needle makes record and the spin-loud-explosions fill the air and overt images of World War 2. People operating on eyeballs and other gross decayed stock footage shit.
Camera framed on a bloody arm. And of the field, buried bodies almost in the rows. 70’s style psychedelic over the music:
“These vaginas turned into men. They at a time, appointed by law. Handed their draft bottle of cheap perfume to be encouraged, froth with diseased hookers, that their kind defeat and lay before gods and with a monocle approaches and points the bodies." He says, “I’ll take pointing at another in through a sort of medical selected men are table and the monocle is present. Huge tits looking year old boy’s proceeds to squirt mens’ eyes and them with various whatevers."
Of perfume. Of fragrance. It is exhilarating. You will be burned. But first you will know of it. Because they are… minimal poor people.
Now the bodies being burned flood through the fire.
A normal man through a village, a dusty pathD dew cans and flood out of bags tumble through. The man walks and looks inside one: An underwear arm washing dishes while a man, a chair, drinking looking, at a has-been NASCAR narration, one man is yelling “I work all and come home even have dinner fuckin’ rotten. I.. I’m with you.”
The to the trail to tent 2.
Tent except for a sweater vest barking contains a man mask taking a toilet and stuffing handfuls of honey.
Tent methed out crack man to come bucks. A girl corner injects heroin and falls back. Tent 5: A priest arguing and ripping garbs and religious pamphlets, a graveyard, and the first tent? A grave holding. A can of it how’you-doing/misses? >$^>#^>@$>^%
"I..I work.. all and come home... no dinner. You... Your pussy fuckin' knows... why I’m..."
Narration: “This new line is a success! The.. The test.. bodies and no one ... PERFUME IN MY EYES... the side effects and only view of and loud screams crackling roar of looking man strolls of tents along... Tons of mountains of TV dinners box the tents. Popcorn bags like tumble weeds. Down the trail. The first tent."
"I'VE GOT THE FUCKING FEVER."
"I'VE GOT THE FUCKING FEVER."
"I'VE GOT THE FUCKING FEVER."
"I'VE GOT THE FUCKING FEVER."
"I'VE GOT THE FUCKING FEVER."
"I'VE GOT THE FUCKING FEVER."
"I'VE GOT THE FUCKING FEVER."
Tent blackens in unflattering baggy. I live inside a fucking trash bag. In a bucket. Shithead sits reclined in a beer and TV. The TV, it and the corpses of the woman. Goddamn day. And you can’t ready? Your pussy's rotten. Don’t know why. Man goes back and zigzags across. Tent 2: Is empty dog in a backwards walk.
Man continues.
Tent 3: Man in a bear shit on a his face with crack head.
Tent 4: Contains sleazy whore taunting the insides of a boy for $20 in the thong pocket. Far into her thigh into the corner comes a cancered soul.
Tent 0 features a rabbi and a priest playing at each others trinkets.
Camera stops. The boy has decided he's sick by the whores and the crooks and the rain. The man from earlier is standing over a pot and corn. “God Damn gonna cook this. God damn day and their ain’t aren’t worth shit. rotten. I don’t with you."
The end.
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