A LIVE LIT EXPERIMENT IN BUILDING A BETTER RAT RACE


1 – LANCE MEET KITTY

On a long and lonesome highway, east of Omaha, Lance Lear, poet, raconteur, Renaissance man, stood facing the setting sun, thumb in the air, as the 18 wheelers full of toilet paper rolled past, drivers wearing gas masks.

It had been two weeks since Mairka shut down. The CORONAVIRUS, COVID 19, BOOMER REMOVER, had turned the country, and half the world, upside down, and inside out. Welcome to the NEW NORMAL, motherfuckers; the Mad Max meets Monty Python Matrix, where there is no blue pill, not red, pill, just bad brown acid, plenty of it, and plenty more where it came from.

The virus was beating the shit out of the world. The  world was on its knees, and the virus was feeding it shots, like a slobbering, raving, drunken Roberto Duran sticking needles into a Sugar Ray Leonard voodoo doll.

Every time Uncle Sam thought the worst was over, the virus came back, and kicked him in the balls again.

Victims, cured once, relapsed again, and again. Few of them rolled over and let the reaper have them in their asses, but none of them ever fully recovered. The virus was toying with them, stealing their lives little by little, crippling them physically, destroying their will to fight on, no matter how many thoughts and prayers were issued for their salvation.

Everywhere around the world, the people begged for a cure, like a pack of bitches in heat, howling for a slick, stiff, pink dog dick under a full moon. Governments ordered any and every facility with the technology to help the losing cause to convert, and do so. All but one, that is.

The arms industry was exempted from the conscription, first in Mairka, then around the globe. If the world survived, no matter how many humans lived, no matter how beleaguered they were, they would have to be ready to fight wars to preserve all they had left. ‘twas ever thus. So long as the blood of the bankers did not run in the streets, the fuckers would continue to pull the strings of puppet governments, and do everything in their power to make sure it would always be.

Lance Lear had watched it all going to Hell in a shopping cart full of hand sanitizer for exactly thirteen days, before saying, “Fuck it,” and hitting the road. He’d been exposed to the virus hundreds of time. The virus never laid a glove on him. He was immune. He knew not how, or why, and he didn’t give a fuck. He had a book to sell, and like every wordsmith, he had fuck all better to do. If it was to be the end of the world, Lance Lear wanted to go number one, with a bullet, on every best sellers list, before the Reaper ass raped him into submission, choking him out as he did so. If that meant selling them one download at a time, well, he had fuck all better to do.

Lance pulled out a smoke, lit it, and stared down the road bemusedly. It couldn’t be real. Could it? It was. Lance laughed, “It’s a girl, my lord, in a flatbed Ford, slowing down to take a look at me.”

Kitty twitched when she saw Lance on the side of the road. A bolt of sexual adrenaline ran through her nubile, 105 pound body, from her pretty little head, all the way down to her pretty little toes, five feet and two inches below.

She stopped, rolled the passenger side window  down halfway, and said, “What’s your name? Where you going?”

“Name’s Lance. But never mind where I’m going. The question is,  where the fuck am I? This ain’t Arizona. Ain’t no fucking corn fields  in Arizona. So, you shouldn’t be here. I’m waiting for the Metallica tour bus. Or Bob Segar. Whatever it says in Revelations. This timeline just went into Dali time. It’s all fucked up. Who the fuck are you? Where the fuck did you come from?”

Kitty burst into laughter. “Good answer! That’s why I bought the truck, when the shit started hitting the fan. I guess you’re the one. Get in. Unless you’re really gonna wait for Lars, or Kirk to come along and suck your dick. If that is the case, you most definitely ain’t the one, and this plotline is way too fucked up for me.”

2 – MEOW!

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