"you can fuck right off!" growled London, waving his sword in a wide arc which circumscribed it's deathly path clean through Chaplin's neck, Miller's forehead, Sartre's pale doughy face and Stein's left tit.

Blood jetted into the air. The pink frothy mixture of spunk and blood bubbled and gushed down the cafe steps as London made his escape the mix list in his teeth.

it was at this moment Fitzgerald's absinthe binge had caused him to emerge, prematurley, from his pupae state. His crysalis cracked and his sodden mutated mass emerged onto the wet entrail strewn floor on alien legs.

"did anyone order the side salad?" said the waiter, Franz Kafka, bouncing unsuspecting from the kitchen alchove

the thing that had once been 'Fitzgerald' let out a deathly wail
(The Goat www.cuttingthroughthematrix.com, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 16:17, Reply)