Bat Country 6
After the red time-shift, I should have known the angel would show up. I was hearing glimmers of music and my pounding heart beats, the whole way across campus, but I was too preoccupied with feeding the hog and getting brewage. Pig-phouka Nosey hankers for B(-LT) sandwiches, and there ain’t no stoppin’ him. Nosey only has to point his nose or a trotter, and suddenly I feel like a side-kick to ‘pixie-kins’.
I still am not sure what happened before the last time I woke up, but then again that is the story of my life. Testy sport jocks should be added to the menu here. Fuckwits go tasty down the chowhole. I chose not to eat the yo boy white-caps because I’d be pissing pink pasties for days, and shitting stacks of Fakerrand bricks with bone shards.
As for the angel waitroid, whose sea-green soul wells brim over freckle-dusted cheekbones, and whose downy fresh hair rings with an ineffable glow; she will either get me my pitcher or start a kick-shitting hoe-down, glamour style. Again, I notice the burgundy stripe dyed into her bangs as an incandescent war-banner.
“Oh fucken muck-rucker,” I muttered trying to ignore the angel’s stare.
“Guano?” the angel asked. “Is that you?”