The flatbed Ford roiled into Des Moines as the prairie night overtook the sky   “Food?” Kitty asked.

“Yes. And a bathroom.”

The streets were mostly barren, but a group of about twenty kids were gathered in a suburban park, as Lance and Kitty approached it. “Another end of the world party. Wanna go?” Lance laughed.

The kids, in their late teens and early 20s, were drinking beer, and dancing. “I’m kinda over getting told to throw my hands up n the air,” Kitty deadpanned.

From the north, at a height of about fifty feet, a drone swooped in on the party, and hovered. Kitty stopped to enjoy the show.

“This is the National Guard,” came a female voice from the drone. “You are not authorized to be out of your homes for this purpose. Disperse, and go home. Immediately.”

One of the guys threw a can of beer at the drone. The drone operator elevated her machine straight up. The drone started buzzing the kids, swooping down low, and around in circles at a high speed. A few of the girls ran for it. The drone followed them for a couple seconds, before returning to the small mob, that was yelling obscenities at it.

The female voice came up again, “Wayne and Garth Cranshaw, Peek-a-boo! I see you! The two of you are violating your parole contracts. If you do not go home, rigt now, you run the risk of further incarceration.”

“Facial recognition cam,” Kitty said.

“Unless that’s their mother flying that thing.”

One of the brothers responded by pulling out a hand gun, and firing at the drone. The drone operator took evasive action, and dodged bullets until the guy’s clip was empty, then swooped back in and hovered. “Missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me,” the female voice laughed.

The other brother turned his back to the drone, reached into a small duffel bag sitting on the picnic  table, pulled out a double barrel, sawed-off shotgun,, yelled, “Kiss this, bitch!” then turned and unloaded both barrels. The drone went down. The brothers laughed, and high fived. The others applauded their bravado.

Then the sounds of sirens screamed from every direction. The kids ran for the hills. Ah, but there are no hills in Des Moines. There would be nowhere for them to hide, and soon the air would be full of drones, and maybe the sounds of a gun battle. Party on Wayne! Party on Garth!




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Kitty turned on the radio, and raced back onto the road. The radio settled at the first station it came upon, where Belinda Carlisle was halfway through Heaven is a Place on Earth. This elicited a squeal of laughter from Kitty, who sang along,

In this world we’re just beginning
To understand the miracle of living
Maybe I was afraid before
I’m not afraid anymore

Kitty cranked the volume knob all the way to the rigt for the chorus, and sang at the top of her lungs,

Ooh, baby, do you know what that’s worth?
Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth
They say that in Heaven, love comes first
We’ll make Heaven a place on Earth
Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth

Kitty turned the volume knob back to the left, and laughed, “Not on this Earth, baby. Maybe you didn’t get the memo.”

Lance smiled at the black eyed vixen and laughed, “No, I guess not.” He paused a second, then asked, “What were you and my deadbeat dad on about? Israeli spyware.”

Kitty shrugged, “No surprise to anyone who has been paying much attention. Our phones. They’re hacked and tracked. Our locations, what we’re saying. The Israelis have checked the phones of those afflicted. They found every phone that was in close physical proximity to someone with the virus. They’ve sent texts to those people, telling them to get tested.”

“Or get rounded up.”

“Yes, that would be the alternative. I imagine the spyware is being used all over the planet. The Israelis are just the first to ‘fess up.”

“And dear, old dad has the same spyware.?”

“Evidently. As he says, he has friends in weird places. That’s why he called,. He knew I had you.”

“He has my phone number. Fuck.”

“He’s been keeping an eye on you, since he became aware of your existence.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“Dunno. You’ll have to ask him yourself. But, from what I can put together, he just got his hands on the spyware data. Same with your phone number. He told me whereabouts you were, or might be, based on your online activity, a couple days ago. So, I drove around in circles for a while, until he told me to get out on the highway, where I found you. I have to assume that means he just got his hands on your phone tracking data. Maybe called in a favour from one of his friends in weird places.”

“That’s impressive.”

Kitty nodded in agreement. Lance lapsed into contemplative silence. He was pissed, but he was trying to suppress his anger. Trying to change his impetuous ways.

The girl let him be, and turned her attention back to the radio, where Joan Osborne was telling anyone who could hear her that God is great. The song tailed off, and the DJ came up.

“Indeed, what if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us? Just a stranger on a bus, trying to make his way home, like a holy, rolling stone, back up to Heaven all alone, just trying to make his way home, nobody calling on the phone, ‘cept for the Pope, maybe, in Rome? I believe, brothers and sisters, that God gave that song to sister Joan, to remind us to be good to each other, because the person you turn your back to, just might be God himself.”

Kitty giggled, “Amen, brother. Hallelujah. Praise the lord, and pass the ammunition. Allah fucking akbar.”

“What do you think about that, Christian,” the DJ asked his sidekick.

Kitty attempted an interjection, “Ask him the other thing. What Jane asked. If you had just one question, what would you ask him?”

“What would you ask God, Kitty,” Lance asked.

“You wanna take a break, and let me handle the world for a while, big guy? I think you should. You’re doing a shitty job.”

“That’s good!”

“If you don’t think you can do a better job than God, get in line with the rest of the idolaters to take communion.”

“And get some cold, hard out for the collection plate. Those cookies cost money.”


Back on the radio, after a longish think about it, Christian said, “I think I’m gonna pass this one to our brother who runs the newsroom, here at 102.7 FM. KVSS, the Catholic communicator, rigt in the heart of God’s country, Papillion, Nebraska. So, I ask you, our brother from a Mexican mother, Jesus Christian, what do you think? What news does the good Lord have for us today.”

Jesus came in with a sigh. “Bad news, I’m afraid, brothers Christian and Christian. It is said that the Lord works in mysterious ways, and more evidence of that has just raced around the world. The Lord has decided to spare the filthy whore of Babylon herself, Madonna.  The whore posted on her Twitter account that she has made a full recovery from the Coronavirus, and the Tweet was confirmed by her doctors in a follow up Tweet.”

“Wow!” said one of the Christians. “What does it mean? Can God actually be losing this battle with Satan?”

“Heck, no,” said the other Christian. “Have faith, brother, and be resolute. God has a plan. I think it simply means that Madonna will die another day. When it suits God.”

With that, Christian hit play, and Madge herself came on, saying it was, more or less, so.

I’m gonna wake up, dress up and go
I’m gonna kiss some part of
I’m gonna keep this secret
I’m gonna close my body now
I guess I’ll die another day
I guess I’ll die another day
I guess I’ll die another day
I guess I’ll die another day…

Madonna snapped Lance out of his contemplation, and he followed along to the song, bopping his head, getting into the groove. “Bond,” he said. “Madonna. Bond. James Bond.”

Kitty sensed that he was cogitating something. Something fun, judging by the smirk on the boy’s face. Kitty’s a prescient little kitty cat! She let Lance ruminate for a few more seconds, but curiosity got the best of her, and she had to ask, “What?”

Lance smiled, from ear to ear. “She’d make a great Bond villain.”


“Hell, yeah! Old Leather Pussy!”

The two of them roared laughter, and the gleeful girl high fived the funny boy.




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Kitty’s phone rang. “Speak of the devil,” she said, killing the music, and hitting the ANSWER icon. “Meow.”

“Hello, Kitty, how are you, and your boyfriend?”

“Ah ha! I take it you have access to the same spyware the Israelis are using. You working with Shin Bet?”

“No, Kitty, not working with them. But I have friends in weird places.”

“That you do.”

“That I do. And they tell me the ultra orthodox faithful are trying, once again, to gather at the Western Wall, to pray the virus away.”

“I am not surprised. I guess it is time for them to finally become acquainted with Darwin’s theory of natural selection.”

“Wait. It gets batter. Mossad intercepted a wannabe suicide bomber.”

“I thought they all got laid off. Their built in obsolescence had finally kicked in.”

“Apparently, not all of them. But you’ll love this one. He was wearing a germ mask when they put a bullet in his head.”

Kitty laughed. “Did his suicide belt and germ mask colour coordinate? If not, was it the fashion police that shot him, not Mossad?”

“Good question. I’ll ask.”

“I guess those 72 black-eyed virgins ain’t giving it up for any martyr who shows up without a mask! Hey, do you think those virgins wear burqas? ‘cause, if they do, and I were a martyr, I’d want a refund.”

“Funny Kitty! Anyway, you are in good company.”

“I am. And we are on the way.”

“Good Kitty. Get him to give you a scratch for me. Let me know if any problems arise.”


Lance, who had only heard Kitty’s half of the conversation, looked at her, and raised his eyebrows.

“That was your father.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Say hi for me, next time.”

“You’ll have that pleasure, yourself, face to face, in about… twelve hours, if all goes according to plan.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Where? Where are we going?

Kitty pulled over, and parked. She picked up the book that sat between them on the seat, and showed the cover to Lance.

“The Riff n Raff Rebellions Volume 1. Any good?”

“Brilliant. Your father says it’s the best book written in the past hundred years.”

“High praise from Caesar himself. Okay. I will give it a read. What does it have to do with this.”

Kitty opened the book, to book three of the trilogy. Chapter 17, Enter Sandman. Page 84. “Riff n Raff are trying to save the world, for a third time. Two of their friends are lost in a labyrinth. One of them is an Indian, the other a Gypsy. Boy and Girl. Basher and Taffy. The Gypsy girl, Taffy, has summoned Basher’s grandfather, Sandman, from the other side. That’s why they are in the labyrinth. Sandman was buried there. Sandman tells them what they need to know, and the kids have to level up on their mission. But they don’t know which way to go. Sandman tells them, ‘Take that tunnel, over there. It will take you wherever you want to go.’”

“No shit? That’s some tunnel. And that’s where we are going?”

“And that’s where we are going. To meet your father. Maybe Sandman, too.”

“No shit! And where is this tunnel? Where is this labyrinth?


“The border is closed.” Kitty laughed. Lance understood. This has all been foretold. “Canada’s a big place. Where, exactly?”

“Two hundred miles from Duluth. Up the north shore of Lake Superior. In the book, it’s called Thunder City. In the real world, it’s called Thunder Bay.”

“Cool name. Both of them. Sounds loud. Why there?”

“That’s where the tunnel is. The one that will take us anywhere we want to  go.”

“Just in this world.”

“Good question. Don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.”

“And that’s when, and where all will be revealed?”

“Don’t know if all will be revealed. That’s up to your father.”

“And maybe Sandman?”

“And maybe Sandman.”

“How much do you know?”

“I don’t know. Not much, probably. More than I can tell you, though.”

“Is it all the Q-Anon stuff? JFK Junior faked his death, and has been guiding Trump, from behind the curtain, all along? Now, he will reveal himself, as the forces of good battle the forces of evil? And he, Fuscas/Kennedy, will reign. King of the World? Or some such shit?”

Kitty knew that wasn’t the case. But she wasn’t cleared to tell the boy that, so she just smiled and said, “Nope. Not Kennedy. And that plotline falls apart spectacularly. That dog don’t hunt. If the cabal, or deep state, is as close to omnipotent as the Qs say, they could kill Trump easily enough. The President doesn’t exactly hunker in a banker 24/7. If he were about to round up and execute tens of thousands of the world’s biggest power brokers, and death mongers, do you seriously think they’d hesitate, for a second, to kill him? Kill him mercilessly, and openly?”

“No. That dog don’t hunt. If they, who or whatever they are, owned the banks, and damn near everything else, they wouldn’t have to turn to a pissant like Kim Jong-Un to build nukes. But that makes sense to grown men who grew up on a steady diet a Hollywood war glorification films, still play with their GI Joe action toys, and have wet dreams about burglars breaking into their houses, so they can’t bust eight or twelve caps into their heads. In fact, that stuff not only makes sense to them, it very much appeals to them.”

“Goebbels would have loved the Internet,” Kitty laughed. “Once in a while, more frequently since he virus became all anyone is talking about, I get stuff in my Facebook messages, or email inbox, from people i don’t know, telling me I have to understand this this, because it’s what is really going on.

“I got one a couple days ago. A video, of course, because the intended target audience, illiterate semi-tards all, cannot be bothered to read. Bullshit has to be spoon fed to them.

“The vid opens with a disclaimer, written in two point type, which disappears in less than two seconds

“Then some guy appears, and starts making his case that the Coronavirus is part of a deep state plot to take away our freedoms. Who is this guy? Fucked if I know, the vid doesn’t say.

“The guy starts presenting his evidence. He never cites the sources of the alleged evidence. Not once.

“A couple times in the vid, the words KEEP WATCHING UNTIL THE END flash on the screen. They remain on the screen longer than the disclaimer at the beginning of the vid did. So, I did what I was told, and dutifully stayed riveted to the screen, expecting some kind of spectacular money shot at the end.

“No money shot.

“One day i may get around to making a similar video. At the end, some authoritative looking figure will appear, maybe wearing a lab coat, or some such shit. And he will say,’Scary isn’t it? Scary that you believed this shit. Did you notice that no citations were given for the alleged evidence to this bullshit? Scary that you didn’t bother to read the disclaimer at the beginning. Scary that you just swallowed it hook, line and sinker, and spread it, like a virus, to all your simple minded friends.

“Then these words will appear on the screen, accompanied by a very loud air raid siren:


“Gawd knows I am not dismissive of all conspiracy theories. The opposite of conspiracy theory, after all, is transparency theory, which is the amusing notion that everything is exactly as it appears to be. But for fuck’s sake, this shit is out of control.”

“Trump’s core,” said Lance.

“Correct. All this Q-Anon stuff has been cooked by Trump’s people. Quite ingenious, really. Bondesque. Fuscus is not JFK Junior. The Age of Camelot is not ready for a sequel.”

“Who, then?”

Kitty said nothing.

Lance pondered. “Wait. My father. Stephen King. King of the World.”

Kitty said nothing. She was tempted to say that a better writer than Lance’s father had been tapped for this thriller. And she wondered if maybe, just maybe, Shakespeare himself would be summoned from the other side, along with Sandman, when they convened, and revealed the plan to save the world. But she simply smiled, and said, “Meow!”

Kitty smiled at Lance, but did not tell him that he was the boy who would be King. Lance Stephen King Lear, King of the World. And she, Kitty kaboodle, would be his queen.




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2 – MEOW


Lance stared hard at Kitty. He wasn’t considering her offer; there was no doubt he was going to get in. He was just awestruck by her sex appeal. A hormone fueled boy, is a hormone fueled boy, after all. And a super sensuous girl, who drops not-at-all subtle hints that she is about to bestow upon you an all-access, backstage pass to her fine body – within 30 seconds of meeting you, no less – rarely rolls up in your dreams, never mind on the side of a long and lonesome highway, east of Omaha. The simple truth of the matter is that Lance was staring hard at Kitty with his hardening dick. And Kitty knew it.

“The answer to the question that you’re not asking,” said Kitty, “is, yes, my sweet love is gonna save you. Get in, Lance.”

Lance pointed at the locked door, and said, “We may lose, and we may win, but we will never be here again, so open up, I’m climbing in, just take it easy.”

Kitty laughed out loud, and said “Oh, I’m easy, alrigt, and this is already a done deal.” She pulled up the lock knob, and Lance let himself in. Kitty peeled back onto the highway, heading further east of Omaha, and asked, “You sure your name is Lance?”

“Lance. Lance Lear.”

Kitty was puzzled. “Wrong.”


Thinking, Kitty said, “Your middle name is Stephen.”

“How’d you know that?”

“This has all been foretold, my friend.”

“What? What’s been foretold?”

“In a minute. How’d you get the name Lance? Don’t bullshit me.”

Lance was now dumbstruck. No one had ever asked him that. He’d found out from his mother’s best friend, just a couple months earlier, when she tried to execute a Mrs. Robinson seduction on him, after draining a bottle and a half of her homemade pear wine. The boy was a little creeped out, first by the advances of his mother’s best friend, and now by Kitty’s question. He hesitated to answer. Kitty wasn’t having it.

“I need an answer, Lance. Rigt now. How’d you get the name?”

“Why do you ask?”

“In a minute. Maybe.. For the moment, I will ask the questions. What’s the answer?”

Something in Lance told him to trust Kitty. Of a sudden, he believed that this had all been foretold, and he was at peace with it. Excited by it, in fact. “My mom. She says Lance Armstrong is my father.”

Kitty looked hard at Lance, stopping just below his waistline, and noting, with delight, that he was a big boy. Kitty liked big boys. “Lance Armstrong, the steroid monkey cyclist, yeah?”


“Is he?”

“Fucked if I know. Maybe. But mom’s a bit on the crazy side, so maybe not.”

“Are you a jock? You have the body of one.”

“Kinda. Not really. I’m good at sports. Naturally talented, they say. But I don’t care much for jocks.”

“And you don’t care much for sports, either?”

“I can take ‘em, or leave ‘em,”

“What are you interested in, Lance. Besides me, I mean” she said, laughing, thinking about the big bulge in the boy’s shorts.

Lance smiled, his eyes darting up and down between Kitty’s rack and her pretty face.

“You’re a writer,” Kitty said, matter-of-factly.

The boy was not surprised that the girl knew. This has all been foretold. “I am.”

“Lance Armstrong is not your father, Lance. I don’t doubt that your mom was fucking Lance Armstrong, but he’s not your father. No need for a DNA test.”

“Okay…wait, what’s your name?”

“Kitty,” said Kitty, with a pretty kitty cat smile.

“And how’d you get that name?”

Kitty laughed, “I guess my mom figured naming me Pussy was a little too much!”

Boy and girl howled with laughter, until Lance recovered enough to say, “I suppose it’s good that there is a modicum of discretion in your bloodline, although you don’t seem to have much sense of it.”

“Oh, I can be discreet, Lance, don’t kid yourself. But there’s no need for that between you and me.”

“Fair ’nuff, Kitty. Is your last name Galore, by any chance? Is Bond, James Bond, your father?”

Kitty laughed, “Clever boy. Very good. Two pints for you, Lance, not son of Lance. No, 007 is not my father, and that’s a good thing. Otherwise, I’d be a very naughty, very twisted Kitty for fantasizing about seducing the spy who has not yet loved me, while watching him seduce all those Bond whores that he beds.”

Oh, my. Kitty is a tarty little thing, isn’t she?

Lance quelled his laughter, again, and asked, “Kitty what, then?”

“Kitty Kaboodle,” she laughed.

Once again, Lance recovered from his fit of laughter, and asked, “Seriously? Your name if Kitty Kaboodle? With a K, obviously.”

Kitty pointed to the sun visor in front of Lance. He pulled it down. Her license and registration. Kitty Kabbodle. Five feet, two inches, 105 pounds, black eyes. Black eyes? WTF? “Look at me,” Lance demanded. Kitty did. Black eyes. “Shouldn’t you be in Jannah, awaiting suicide bombers?”

“That’s good, Lance. Really good. But although I am heavenly, I ain’t no virgin.”

“No. Even if you weren’t throwing yourself at me, with your words, and eyes, the tattoos give that away.”

“Two more points, Lance!” Kitty wiggled a bit, and pulled up her mini skirt just enough for Lance to see three sixes tattooed high up on her inner left thigh, and an arrow above them pointing straight to to heaven. She wasn’t wearing panties. She’d been looking for Lance. Expecting him. “I got that an hour after I lost my virginity.”

“To Satan? Satan popped your cherry?”

“Sadly, no. Satan would have lasted more than thirty seconds. He was just a boy. A very lucky boy. Come to think of it, a very unworthy boy, but he was there, and the time was rigt.”

“How old were you?”

“Twelve. How old were you?”

Lance turned crimson red, and Kitty laughed hysterically, but just for a couple seconds. “It’s okay, Lance. I knew that. This has all been foretold. I just had to see your face when I asked the question. Be warned, I can be a heartless bitch.”

“I see that,” Lance said, the blood draining from his face. “So, Kitty Kaboodle, omniscient heartthrob, who is my father?”

“Yeah? You wanna know? You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“What will you give me for that information?”

“You already know the answer.”

“Anything I want. Any time I want it.”

“It has been foretold.”

“Okay, Lance Stephen Lear. You should have been named Stephen Lance Lear.”

“What? Why?”

“Because, boyfriend, your father is Stephen King.”

The revelation exploded in the boy’s mind. He knew, beyond any doubt, that it was true. It made perfect sense. Kitty watched Lance’s face, not wanting to disturb whatever he was feeling. It took him one, two, three seconds to recover and say, “Fuck me dead!”

Kitty smiled, and chuckled, “Oh, I will, Lance, son of Stephen, not Lance, I will. But not just yet, and not rigt here.”

Kitty hit the PLAY tab on her phone, and Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit blasted through the truck’s sound system, as they roiled on down the highway.




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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. Percentage wise, aside from the old, few of those afflicted rolled over and let the reaper have them in their asses.  But of those afflicted, only a few of them ever made full recoveries. 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, and until the blood of the banksers ran in the streets, the money gluttons 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 times. The virus never laid a glove on him. He was immune. He knew not how, or why, and he didn’t care. He had a book to sell, and like every wordsmith, he had nothing 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 nothing 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 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 are you? Where 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 twisted for me.”

“Well, everything in the world is twisted, rigt now, so why not this plotline?”

“What did you say?”

“Well, everything in the world is twisted rigt now, so why not this plotline?”

“That what I thought. There’s a typo in there. Hang on, I’ll fix it,” said Kitty.

“Just leave it,” Lance snapped. “Typo my ass. You another grammar Nazi? You know grammar Nazism is a mutant variant of OCD, don’t you?” Kitty laughed, and Lance carried on. ” I’m with Twain on this one, ‘I have no use for any man who can only spell a word one way.’ If you’re gonna be all anal about the occasional typo, despite the fact that they don’t interfere with you ability to understand the sentence, I’ll wait rigt here for that Metallica tour bus, ’cause I’d rather deal with Lars and Kirk pawing at my dick than ride with a grammar Nazi.” 

Kitty suppressed her laughter long enough to say, “Point taken. But,” she smiled, “Twain should have said anyone, not any man.”  

Lance thought it over. He didn’t like it, but she was rigt. No need to be going through Twain’s cannon to correct all that shit, though. Jerks. And Kitty’s lesbian jive kinda turned him on, in a strange way, much more than the thought of Lars and Kirk pawing at his dick, so he let it slide. He took it easy.. “Okay. Fair ’nuff.”

2 – MEOW!



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