We Begin:

Ruger, ever the aesthete, impeccably coiffed by the liquid barbers of Fuziz 3, poses extravagantly.
While being seen to be seen at the momentarily fashionable motorcycle races, he heavily ups a bet,
knowing full well that he has no credit at all in his file.
In his ever-unfolding psychic cinema He languidly copulates with Kiyori, Zinni, and Falaan as
She licks the beak of the bird apes which ooze an aphrodisiac toxin. The processed extract is the
chief, though unacknowledged export of Fuziz 3.
Thus, Ruger forfeits a brilliant calamity. How can he know that by this means he also forfeits an alibi?

Across town, Falaan sits down to a brown rice dinner hosted by her employer, one of a string of
pointless politicians. Her design house was on the verge of collapse but now she is stylist to his
magnificence before each do her contract requires her to attend. Gin blossoms explode with little liquid
perking
sounds as he approaches the rostrum. He is mind numbingly ugly, but there is not a soul in the room
who would not perform acts of fatal perversity with him for an advantage in the marketplace he
embodies so absolutely. He is global, universal, divine.
The equally pointless crowd of sycophants and people whose professions are so ephemeral they
cannot be named goes stark raving mad with pants pissing glee
They want the boss. They crave
to anoint One volleyball green buttock, thus gaining points in an arcane game, the rules of which are
unknown even to the players. (Off to one side, we incorrectly break the wonderful cola. We carefully
trudge the passionate highway. We rub the loud shower curtain, but no one seems to mind.)

The chorus in atonal antiphony renders the following:
"Bulldog sings a wide chord
She cleans up the ruby
after the beat
Lunges for the scissors
We confess about the chain
They jiggle the carcass
She seriously desires the acupuncture
While ordering Bean sprouts
They stupidly turn on a hair dryer
It lovingly turns their feet brown
It caringly plucks an ugly night porter
He firmly transposes the grey extravagance
Morning comes
from within a curious cab
They kidnap a cinder
Scan a mosquito
drink a margarita
Drink the casket.
Yeah yeah yeah
doo wop doo wop."



Zinni is the hostess. She is pink and perky to the point of making people fear that she might explode.
"Fuck the cheese!" she cries as she twirls gaily at the brunch. "Get out the marshmallow squares and
the Rice Krispies treats!!"
First they must kill a creamy dessert which the principal's hairy wife inflicts upon everyone at every
one of Zinni's get-togethers. Zinni is laughing and twirling ever so gaily as the Reverend Abernathy
prays up a bright new bill.
"Twenny dollah!" he shouts, producing the object from within his paisley silk choir robe.
(His hairdresser most likely subscribes to the current fashion for
Coiffure by the sword ).
Professor Golen, phd in Literature tiptoes around such subjects all the while, sucking on a pestilential
pipe. The Reverend is not distracted, for he is known as a rev. with a speedy robe.
Outside the filtered air of Zinni's town house,
Swing influences the dinner party. They begin to gyrate, most creamily.
Newly imported from Fuziz 2, an old-fashioned Diskette by "Blue Crab Saw" smoothes the obtuse
house,
An nude pulsating clone before chalice ceremony

A bass perfect babe like street martini
fitted ice by credit card panties.
Zinni is beside herself as I show my pornographic deck. We openly reconstruct the speedy
guitar. I quickly delve the generous evolution, generously smell a precarious container as they openly
thank a sleepy bacteria I have brought along.
I pointedly smile angrily before the poet whose wine rides this graceful fountain.
The dance cafe has become a dreary abortion
Zinni is weeping openly.
An angel appears.
We laugh on the mantle.