Hunter S. Thompson & Tom Cruise.

by Emil Xaro

Half naked I ran down the hallway of our Hotel being chased by what looked like wolverines hoping to avoid some cotton candy Goats who worked for the Church in the lobby where a couple of bull dykes were passing out pamphlets that said whenever you say whatever you want, they will hear you, whoever they are.  

Should I talk to these People who fancy acid-religions with their visions of strange glowing circus madmen carrying megaphones to talk to God?

Before I could make my decision Tom Cruise in a red convertible arrived downstairs in the driveway with two killer dressed Grandmothers. One of them, nearly blind, is gripping the wheel excited about being allowed to drive again.

These were the same two women I watched last night behind the glass at a club fucking like animals.

That same old bitch now driving the red shark last night was riding the man's big black shadow, the grapefruit slasher, amidst the rising sounds of carnivorous bellhops.

And She was Screaming:

Honey did you pack my mace? Tom Cruise is coming fast wearing a leather helmet! He’s already parked the car outside and he wants to take us to his leather dungeon in the sky. Hurry up! Tom is outside waiting for us by the big black man with the TV for eyes.

 

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