OR KILL ME!! - Principia Discordia

118
Image: A run-down doublewide trailor. A 80s model Buick on
cinderblocks. Half a dozen cats, all in various states of feral
manginess. Despite the arid climate, the whole scene seems
moldy, damp. A feeling of decay, mostly spiritual, pervades the
air.
Cheryl went into the "house", and I sat in the jeep, blasting the
Rolling Stones' Let it Bleed. It seemed like the only thing to do.
A moment later, the door of the trailer opened, and a fat man in
dingy jeans and a "wife beater" shirt came out. As he
approached the jeep, a wave of rancid body odor, and beer,
preceded him by at least ten feet. He slouched up to the car,
and said, "I know you".
"You do?", I asked. I'd never met this trogdolyte before in my
life.
"Yeah. You're that nut that lives over by [name of town
deleted]. You're crazy for guns and violence."
This is, of course, not exactly a bad reputation for a man in my
position, so I let his sentence hang, wondering what damnfool
thing he'd follow up with. I wasn't disappointed.
"So, the little slut is shacking up with you. Good, you deserve
each other."
I could see right away that many, many people in the area are
going to get the wrong impression about what's going on,
starting with THIS creep.
I looked him in the eye and said, "and?"
He just laughed, and oozed back to the pitiful excuse for a
or kill me