Mr. Hurter Furt liked to galvant upon a specific Evening and play grab ass with a bunch of Asian elegant hookers on a head full of Mystic “C”. Meanwhile, within the actual domain where it all went the fuck down, Beatrice seethed within her own insidious emotions dressed in dramatic Maroon Red, dreaming about the past day when she was fucked deep and intimately heavy.
“ Get the fucking Goose out of the fucking closet before I come over there and Fricky your Frack you Muthabanger!!!!”
“You don’t mess with, Mr. S” He was a 4th grade typing teacher that delved with Pagan Ritual and obsessed about the Fucking Soxs and C’S”
“ The Lakers are going down!” Mr. S would belt into the institutional gray confines he ruled with diligence and borderline zany mania.
The kids would go ballistic screaming and yelling, stomping as loud as the fucking bleachers in “We Will Rock You”.
“ CRAZY BANSHEES- BE CALM!”
“ Don’t be jive and just take the ride.”
Mr. Hurter Furt would stroll in around 9, fuming from all the fucking fun and intimacy he was living. Reporters spoke of a debonair man that crossed in and out of shadows like it was severe- mere childplay. But maybe they had things wrong all along?
Never give up on the day, or the way it lives and breathes with you, taking in each one of your priceless breathes, admiring you whole, awaiting your next move.
They made love upon beaches, eating the eats and living the not so distant dream.
“ I have found true love and will never be the same.”
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