Saturday, November 15, 2014

Felix Buttonweezer’s Gun Moll

You wake up, one sleepy arm asleep from sleeping on it, the other on the chest of your lover, Felix Buttonweezer. You laugh, clearly remembering that this was all supposed to be a joke. Sure, you’d go out for the night with this thug, this armme de crime, and he’d take you to the shady part of town and show give you a reason to reject him.

Not for me, you think, Felix is really something more. You aim to stick around, to be the next Buttonweezer.

You slide out from bed, pull on your clothes, and cross the freezing, icy, chilly, really quite cold hardwood of his apartment flooring which is under your feet. 

 The wood creaks. You silently enter the kitchen and fiddle around with the coffee machine. It’s one of those single-cup brewers. “Forget it,” you say, and your eyes turn to the picture on the counter:

Felix has two little Buttonweezers. Their names are Criggle and Swarve. A dragon comes, and it is 300,000 times the size of you. You eat it. Pancakes fly through the mail slot, and then the dentures reach out of the camel’s eye and BAM; you’re ticklish on the corn wheel outer chicken nugget for to look more like?

"Oh, I'm kidding."

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