OK, so you know that I like to party at that dance club Tropix, because they have such good DJs like my friend Tony “Stop It Now, Pretty Boy” Smith. And you know that every eyeball has only one cyclone. But I’m like Iblis, insofar as I never bow to my superiors. I also have a compost pit in my backyard and a can-smasher in the shed.
Once I endured a terrifying vision of a near-life experience, where the guards of a meandering tunnel that opened up into a resurrected state tried to wave me on through. Good thing I have a lengthy unpaid road-toll bill on file with the authorities. So the Real Me Myself grabbed our soul by the scruff and tossed it into an enemy spaceship. I was then able to locate and snatch its private spark and reattach it to the Pleroma, when it entered the seventh sphere. Swiftly I chained the Demiurge, bottled the void, and sequestered Yakob, whereupon the Nth Dimension turned bright black and un-Yggdrasil’d the androgynous God-Man.
No comments:
Post a Comment