1 Billion Beautiful People

April 15, 2014

Regarding my Reptilian interpretation of reality, and how these lizard guardians manipulate false events of war and other tragedies to test the human potential without requiring any single real person to endure uber-extreme tribulation…that we homo sapiens may learn lessons of patience, compassion and neighborly goodwill through media-manipulated atrocities that have no real proof they ever occurred, or are occurring:

How on goddess’s green and blue earth do they pull this off? The answer is actually quite simple, yet elegant. There are roughly more than 6 billion Reptilians residing on this planet, and only approx’ly 1 billion genuine human beings. Or in other words: for every person you meet, you’ll encounter six or seven other folks who are actually Reptilians in disguise. Perhaps the old saying, “Be kind to every stranger you meet, for you never know if one’s an angel” should be upgraded to replace “angel” with “Reptilian.”

I have expounded on this matter in three recent pieces titled “J’accuse,” “They’re Reptilian!” and “Soaring Saurian Speculation.” This article is therefore but an expansion of the previous ones as my “Reptilian Awareness” evolves into “Reptilian Kok-Sucking of the Horniest Kind.” (I also refer you now to my seminal piece, “NeoPositivtiy: A Gay Religion,” in which I tell of a powerful vision that revealed to me for the first time, God’s benevolent dupe. Though the Reptilian aspect did not come to me until years later, barely a month ago in fact.) For I have since learned that each and every scale on their luscious bodies is a G-spot of sexual arousal. Just touching a scale or two for several minutes puts them into a state of orgasmic ecstasy that you wouldn’t believe!

These shape shifting Reptilians play our enemies as well as allies. But it is their role as enemy I find revelatory to such a degree it blows my mind (as I hope yours too, as I explain further). From the worst “people” on this planet (such as Nero, Hannibal, Olga the Terrible, Hitler, Ronald Reagan and Vladimir Putin) to the evil bottom dwellers that fuk up our lives in all possible ways (such as failed friendships, backstabbing coworkers, racists, homophobes, and so on): they are, or were, all Reptilian. And why is that (you might ask)?

Precisely because Our Creator is a Loving Creator…who therefore would never require any actual human being to play such evil roles that would result in karmic hell proportional to the sin. Thus, Reptilians step in to play our monsters, that our human family can learn harsh lessons without the consequent punishment of such wicked behavior. It is also obvious to me at this point, that all the worst terrors throughout history up to and including our present woes, are illusory. In other words:

World Wars I and II never really happened, nor did Nazi concentration camps exist. There was no war in Viet Nam, nor was/is there any dire conflict playing out in the Middle East. No woman has ever been raped. No gay person has ever been bashed. No African-American has ever been lynched. And so on. It only seems that way, since Reptilians have complete control over our perceptions, including the air waves, the Internet, newspapers, and any other aspect of our modern media, including books.

Not that we all don’t suffer…just not to such extremes that a loving God would never allow. The souls of those people we believe to have suffered (or are suffering) have been transported to a heavenly existence well before their tribulation ensued. Reptilian minds (via telepathy) enter the bodies of these souls to play out these tragedies, that humans may witness apparent catastrophes, so they may learn ultimate values such as compassion, long suffering, sacrifice and other noble virtues.

Bad enough that loved ones are taken away from us by death or other misfortune. But isn’t it good to realize that such outcomes are merely dupes for our own spiritual growth…and that our cherished friends will return to our side once all painful lessons have been learned? And that no one really dies, but is just made invisible for a time? (For example: know that a loved one suffering Alzheimer’s or fatal cancer is already liberated to Nirvana, and who you see now while still alive is actually a Reptilian occupying that shell of a body, and going through the remaining motions unto so-called “oblivion.”) Which concept leads me to another fantastic revelation:

All 1 billion-plus human beings are genuine sweethearts, not a mean bone in their bodies. They are not the least bit prejudiced against anyone, including homophobia. For it is only these Reptilians that act bigoted, ignorant, violent and stupid, in order for us real humans to grow in wisdom and understanding. You might think I’m terribly naive (a la Pollyanna or Anne Frank) in my perception, but let me clue you in:

If there is a God, and he (she or it) is truly loving: what an incredible strategy to evolve our souls into eternal joy through a kind of benevolent deception! 6 billion-plus Reptilians serving as guardian angels, beloved comrades whose only wish is that each and every one of us achieve eternal bliss. And they never fail in their mission, no matter which planet they serve!

So what if God’s original form is a dragon?


Beelzebugs From Hell

April 12, 2014

[ Stentorian Reader, here is a piece that took me much longer to compose than planned, and which has threatened to shove me into further isolation of my already difficult life when it comes to having friends. I don't think I'll post it online until I finally move to a new residence. 'Cause right now I can't afford to be evicted for lack of cooperation or any other reason. Nor will Larkin ever see this, since I'm sure he'd use this tale as a perfect excuse to never hug me again. Though his being telepathic I doubt I could ever keep this from his perceptive brainpan. But by the same token, his remarkable powers can prevent my dilemma from invading his realm altogether...or rid it in a flash if it came to that. Though I suspect he's the culprit who beset me with this challenge in the first place, that I may somehow overcome. Enjoy, if such wish seems appropriate. ]

Bedbugs. The unspoken blight of San Francisco and many other cities since the ban on DDT in 1972 (thank you Rachel Carson). My first battle with the Lilliputian vampires was in May 2006. Jonah down the hallway had just returned from vacation in Turkey. Now, he is not an attractive fellow by anyone’s definition: fat and homely. (Or as I like to say: “Jonah is the whale!”) So I presume his two-week Istanbul getaway was with the same goal in mind as many other sub-par queers who frequent that corner of the globe: gay sex industry. Most of the cheaper hotels are notorious havens for bedbugs. And tourists are only beginning to learn how to prevent infestation into their own homes and communities upon return from these exotic escapades. See:

How to Avoid Bedbugs when you Travel

Now, Jonah had a remarkably funny and sweet little papillon named “Skelli” (short for Skellington the Third) who’d scratch upon my door most every evening, to pay me a joyful visit. He always knew when I was under the weather and would show up to spark that smoldering ember of happiness still lingering in my bosom.

Well about three weeks after Jonah’s return, when Skelli visited me one night I noticed a particularly large bug running through his fur. And of course at first I thought it was a flea: a very juicy fat flea. Tried to catch it between my nails, but no cigar. Next day I stepped out into the hallway to notice Jonah feverishly vacuum the carpet area by the front door. Along with the pungent odor of tea tree oil. (It has been said on various bedbug web sites that such a volatile oil wards them away. Later experimentation on my part has shown this claim to be false.)

Still, I gave this no thought until a few days later: Skelli doesn’t have fleas, that was a bedbug! Upon this realization I immediately posted Jason an email (after several shots of Vodka that had me properly soused), which read:

Don’t even think for a moment you’re gonna pin this bedbug issue on me! You brought them back from Turkey. I will not blow the whistle on you to the manager, so long as you do not turn me into the scapegoat. But if you do, I will make your life so miserable you’ll wish you were never born, and move outta here post-haste.

Seems that Jonah respected my conditional threat, as he never brought the matter up, or made me the target of our manager’s wrath. He didn’t even acknowledge receipt of my email! Certainly a good sign that I achieved my desired impact.

In spite of applying my own tea tree oil and eucalyptus leaves all over the floor of my SRO, the bedbugs proliferated. They first showed up nesting in a black beanbag chair I found discarded in the basement. And I suffered many sleepless nights with their sucking my blood, creating super-itchy welts over my body, especially in the crotch and on my thighs. I silently lived out this 24/7 hell for almost two months…until our lesbian neighbor reported bedbugs to the manager, and was screaming bloody Hades about it to any resident who’d listen.

By that time I had replaced the beanbag settee with a twin-sized mattress given to me by Darcy who lived at the west end of my floor. It was immaculately clean with no sign of bugs anywhere. Took up a large chunk of my domicile’s real estate, but it was euphoric to sleep in a real bed after so many years on makeshift pallets. Minus the frame and box spring of course; so it was still technically floor-bound bedding.

But within two weeks of this slumberous windfall, it too had become infested with those hemipterous night crawlers. In order to keep the population down to a low roar, every eve I’d apply masking tape to all the creases, piping, etc., wherever I spotted them embedded on this mattress. I also used the tape on the walls or molding whenever I spotted a bug (or two or three or four or five or six…sometimes with the aid of my folding aluminum ladder), and applied food grade diatomaceous earth I purchased via Amazon.com along the room’s perimeter. It seemed to be working, gradually, as each night I trapped fewer. And each night my inner thighs became a bit less like two massive fields of pimples numbering in the hundreds that seared like poison oak, and more like a less dense field of the same torment.

Why didn’t I take responsibility to report this infestation to the manager, early on? Because I am a low-income renter at 2306 Market Street for many years, and realized that my living situation is precarious enough for the manager to use false witnesses in order to evict me. I would therefore be a fool to allow myself to be scapegoated and thus dumped onto the streets. So I waited until the bugs spread into another unit, that the onus would be directed elsewhere.

However, there’s a lot more to this story before the wee devils were eliminated. Let’s back up to a Saturday night, two days before the exterminator arrived. My lesbian neighbor (whose sole claim to fame was as an iridologist…a hokey career if I ever heard one, even more so than chiropractic) stood outside my door, arguing with the manager, Steven. Her name by the way, I’ve long since forgotten; so let’s call her “Iris.” She lived with her girlfriend (whom I shall name Corrine) who seemed to be the real bread winner of their household. A paralegal, I think.

Turns out she was trying to convince Steven to bring the exterminator over tomorrow, to check my SRO as well as her apartment and the unit on the other side from mine. Upon hearing that, these are the thoughts that raced through my cerebrum as I stood among them in my mini-hallway:

I must dispose of that mattress tonight, in the very wee hours when everyone’s asleep! Or the jig will be up and I’ll have to bear the wrath of both manager and neighbors alike…maybe even get evicted.

Then the following evasive maneuver came to my panicked brain, which I spoke aloud: “I’m working on an article for a magazine, and the deadline is tomorrow, midnight. Can it possibly wait till Monday? I really can’t afford any disturbance just this moment.”

Steven quickly replied while gazing upon Iris with a short fuse: “Look, no one will come out tomorrow on such brief notice, especially a Sunday. I’ll try to have someone out this Monday or Tuesday.”

Reason why he was getting angered with Iris, is that she acted far more frantic than need be. Her hyper behavior over the next two days finally struck me:

Why, she’s pushin’ for a lawsuit and wants to exaggerate her demise in that direction!

She tried to excite me into hostility against the manager, in order to create an ally for her scheme, but no cigar…I’d have none of it. Sometimes she’d suddenly pop into the hallway and holler to me or Jonah (when we were there, playing with his doggie):

“I found a bedbug in the wastebasket!” And she’d march to the hall’s end to gasp fresh air from the open window.

But after a bit of humoring, I found out she didn’t bother to trap it with sticky tape…since it’s a requirement to capture at least one bug to justify an exterminator. She just tossed the contents into the garbage chute out back…certainly a no-no when it comes to Cimex lectularius. I suddenly burst out in a short giggle further down the hallway, while Jonah stood near Iris by his apartment door. And her face turned florid as she addressed me:

“Do you think this is funny?”

I quickly covered my tracks: “No, of course not. But sometimes nervous laughter is a way of dealing with stress. Sorry if you thought otherwise.”

Iris then strode back to her own unit (a large studio with sliding doors to separate bedroom from kitchen and living area), and leered at me in passing…her bobbed brunette hair swaying a bit in arrogance. She smelled of baby powder and Old Spice.

So here I was stranded in a sea of bedbugs infesting my new mattress that I knew I had to get rid of that very night. Of course I decided to wait until 3-4 AM before accomplishing my secret disposal. But would some surprise resident pop out into the hallway at that late hour, at the very moment I’d be dragging the mattress down the corridor, to the back porch, then descending the narrow wooden stairs to the basement and, finally, up the concrete side alley and through the locked gate? Certainly, I prayed that kismet would be my ally.

Once the clock struck midnight I geared into emergency mode and spent the next half hour removing the latest invasion of bedbugs from the mattress with masking tape. Then sat at my computer watching the most recent two episodes of Criminal Minds. But kismet decided to throw a monkey wrench into the works: precisely at 1:30 AM my phone rang.

It was Marmaduke Quark, my current pot dealer who decided to pop over and get me smoked out…for free! While we got stoned out of our ever-lovin’ craniums and chatted on as the night passed into near dawn, I worried about him casually half-reclining on the mattress and shipping bedbugs off to his own SRO there in the Mission. (I also worried about getting that friggin’ bed outta there without being caught!)

“Look,” I finally announced around 4:15 AM, “I have an assignment from Larkin, my detective buddy, to observe suspicious activity on the streets. If I don’t get out there now, I’ll fail in my duties!”

Marmaduke was already acquainted with my accounts as a detective’s assistant, and how I perform various missions to facilitate Larkin’s case. Don’t think he believed me one whit, but what the hey…an excuse by any other name would still smell just as phony. I needed him out pronto. He was often an intrusive pest (so much so I eventually cut him outta my life, despite the gratis access to quality ganja once a week or so), and he couldn’t have picked a worst night to drop by.

To my relief he departed shortly, and I could finally get that mattress transported to the street…hopefully without anyone spotting my nefarious disposal. Checked the hallway first: all clear on the western front. Then raised the mattress on its side and, while gripping the uppermost corner between bent right arm and torso, began sliding it down the carpeted hall and through the back porch door that resisted my passage every inch of the way, due to a spring-powered hinge screwed atop. Took more than a minute to slide the bulky mattress through and onto the porch. No one was about; so far so good.

Then I maneuvered my burden down the rickety back stairs (with one loose step that could’ve killed me), which turned a sharp left angle halfway down before reaching the basement and its concrete landing. Then I dragged it quietly as I could, with a right turn up four steps and through the side alley that led to a locked, iron gate. At this point, I realized that one or two residents could possibly witness my scurrilous act through a window that opened onto this side passage. Neither light was on, thank Azazel.

Turning the gate’s exit lever with my left hand while keeping the mattress pinioned at my side, I maneuvered my way beyond the gate and onto the 16th Street sidewalk. At this point, I risked being spotted by anyone on the street (whether motorist or pedestrian), or residing nearby. Worst case scenario would be a cop or sanitation truck driving by. But all was dead as the planet Pluto while I lugged my mattress uphill a few doors beyond the gate, and dumped it by the curb of a hapless household. With a tremendous sigh of relief, I returned to my domicile and hit the sack. Which for the remainder of that night, was nothing more than the cold, hard floor cushioned with a couple of jackets and rolled towel for a pillow.

I had done a pretty good job of eradicating any evidence of bedbugs on the walls, in my clothing, or anywhere else external. When the exterminator arrived, all he found was evidence that they were in the walls…and he proceeded with appropriate fumigation. But it left me traumatized, in total fear of having anyone visit me thereafter. And is why I stated previously, that I suffered an event which caused me further isolation from my already-quite-lonely existence.

It was seven months of social solitude before I recommenced having anyone visit me off the streets or elsewhere. Each time I had a guest overnight, anxiety haunted me like a bitch. I even grew afraid to hug my street buddies. Larkin, too. What would he think of me, if my passion spread bedbugs into his already difficult life? What was I supposed to do…condemn myself to a friendless existence out of fear of the manager’s (and residents’) wrath? For I had no one for company except those righteous renegades I pick up off the streets. I haven’t known one single person with a roof over their head for the past 22 years, that would invite me over to their place. In other words: these bedbugs were a new element that threatened to exacerbate my solitary life into prolonged, even permanent, desolation.

Yet almost three years later, I was besieged once more by bedbugs. This time they’d infested my two, thin futons that lay one atop another for times I usually sleep alone. Again, I used masking tape to clear them off the bedding, and removed any I found on the walls or elsewhere. (They weren’t many, I might add.) But finally, my neighbor on the west side complained to the manager about their presence. It was a small infestation I had discovered: a nest of about 35 or so right beside the floorboard in the southwest corner of my room. Surely, I concluded, this is a minor invasion that can readily be removed. By this time I had acquired several anti-bedbug products, and applied them accordingly. With success.

Yet the exterminator declared to Steven (our manager) that my SRO was majorly infested with the nasty insects, and he had to treat the entire area, all four sides. I found this hard to believe, considering I did not find them anywhere else, not even in my clothing, desk drawers, cabinets, and so on. Had another week or two passed without a manager report, I’m sure I’d have totally killed the remaining pests. Nonetheless, Steven was quite hot-headed (not his usual demeanor), and advised:

“Zeke, I saw you bring someone over yesterday afternoon with a large backpack!”

Of course, the implication was that backpacks are bedbug carriers, and I am to blame. But I responded in a soft rage:

“Steve, that is unlikely. He is not homeless, he’s just touring the country. He’s an architect from New York, and only dropped by for a few hours. John’s a very fastidious person.”

I consider Steven’s accusation yet the latest stigma for caring about my homeless brothers. But a few months further down the line, he admitted that other bedbugs have sprung up on the third and fourth floors that clearly had nothing to do with me. So I told him:

“I haven’t had anyone over since that last infestation. Look, I ride public transit and go to the main library…and they are known sources for spreading bedbugs. What am I supposed to do, quarantine myself?”

He nodded in sympathy. Though I’ll admit right now, I lied about having visitors since the last attack. But I suspect there may remain (or remained) a surviving nest of bedbugs hidden in that wall, since the previous fumigation. They can exist for almost 1-1/2 years without feeding, and are growing ever more resistant to what limited arsenal we presently have to eradicate them. I also wonder if our exterminator, Ricardo, may have exaggerated my second infestation in order to boost his income. Can’t blame him if he did: these are hard times for the working stiff.

Plus, I don’t think Ricardo is too bright. Last time he treated my room, he attached sticky strips to my walls that are supposed to catch bedbugs, thus give some idea of their present population. But a month after their placement, not a single bedbug was caught. I even checked out the web site of the company that sold these strips…only to discover their bedbug page is not accessible (or “404″ in web parlance). Perhaps because they don’t work at all, and they’re trying to cover their tracks, avoid lawsuits.

When Ricardo discovered the failed results, he exclaimed: “I paid big bucks for those strips!”

My response: “Don’t you think if they actually worked, the company would be fabulously rich by now, since they’d be the very first to stumble upon an effective bedbug trap?”

Another indication of Ricardo’s tardy wit is when I told him that I visited the company’s site to discover their bedbug page was no longer online, and he replied: “Maybe your computer isn’t compatible with the Internet.”

I later informed the manager about Ricardo’s “shortcomings,” but added: “Not that he isn’t the best exterminator we can get under the circumstances. But bedbug infestations are a big profit for the pesticide business. If cities mandated a minimum 125 degrees for all laundry services, 80 per cent of the problem would be licked. Unfortunately, since the last drought in California, laundromats lowered their ‘hot’ level to below 120.”

In my discourse I was referring to my own homework on the subject of bedbugs here in these United States. Pesticide companies feed on the panic of those infested, and cause much hardship and loss of residency by low-income renters and homeowners, who have no recourse but expensive treatment…which often wipes them out, economically. There are ways to effectively eradicate the bugs without professional treatment. But paid exterminators don’t want us to discover this little secret.

[ Please note: it was during this second invasion of "beelzebugs" that I suffered two additional horrors. (1) Larkin had begun abusive behavior towards me, starting with that shove. And (2) a really bad case of shingles erupted across my legs, waist and torso, that almost required hospitalization. Thus began my year of 2013, a year riddled with so many wretched events I was glad when it came to an end. No one prays to the God of Misery! ]

Since then, I’ve had one more treatment simply because the manager wanted to take precaution before new tenants moved into the apartment beside my own room. I said: “Sure. Any time you want, I’m all for the preventive approach.”

Ricardo claimed to find two bedbugs way up in the molding just below the ceiling. He pointed them out with a pen light, but they looked to me like flecks of old debris. Nonetheless before I departed so he could begin partial fumigation, I declared: “Get those buggers!”

Since that time (five months and growing), I’ve encountered an occasional bedbug here and there…about one or two per month. But no sign of any further infestation. There is something about bedbugs that exterminators are not telling us. (For example: during the first infestation, Darcy down the hallway informed me that she and a visiting daughter woke up one morning with voraciously itchy bug bites. Yet there was no sign of bedbugs, her king-size mattress was totally clean, and Ricardo found no sign of them anywhere in her apartment. No more nasty welts ensued.)

They prefer to keep us in the dark, for monetary gain. And also since that time, I’ve resumed visitors on a frequent basis, enjoying their beloved company, no longer allowing these pests to spread panic and loneliness in my hardscrabble world. Nor has Marmaduke or anyone else who’s visited me, reported later that they now have bedbugs.


Copy Right or Copy Wrong?

April 9, 2014

This is a piece about using other artists’ images without their permission, in one’s blog entries, web site articles and other online posts. Been meaning to discuss this topic for years now, but only today have I finally gotten around to bringing the matter into public consideration. Copyright restrictions have become so repressive as to stifle many original works, ideas and challenges that could otherwise broaden and enlighten artistic endeavors in every society across the globe. Though I realize that contemporary ideology has come to diminish the vital role creative minds play in shaping a better future. I, for one, stand in opposition to this dogma that threatens to shut down the very source of new ideas that are the fountain of progress which only true, artistic genius can create. And without which genius cultural diversity collapses and dictatorship arises.

The matter of using others’ images on search engines has been determined legal, so long as those images are thumbnail or partial versions. But the use of such diminished images remains up in the air, when posted to any other web based medium. To be perfectly safe, the author must gain signed permission by the creator, or risk artists’ demands to remove them (at best), or sue the writers (at worst). But the Internet has inadvertently created an entirely new resource of the “found objects” genre that was never possible previous to its invention. Let me explain:

Take, for examples, blog entries or web-page articles and stories…which are enhanced by the inclusion of illustrations that vastly improve the readability and pleasure of online viewers. Without these images, only a sea of type prevails without any pictures whatsoever to make the reading far more digestible. Furthermore, most web authors cannot afford to hire an illustrator for every post they upload.

The discovery of images that cleverly match one’s articles is a form of “found object” that should be perfectly legal without permission, provided the author present his or her works gratis. A link back to the artist of each image could be embedded in the pic, or elsewhere (such as credits listed at the end)…that the creator may eventually gain recognition and even popularity. The reader can enjoy the clever matching of image to excerpt, that could never be duplicated by intentional design from a paid illustrator.

Please be aware that I do not consider fee-based articles or traditionally published works within this context of images as found objects. In other words, I am limiting my proposal to web postings that are free to read by the public at large. For example: I have recently published a novel that includes an original illustration for each chapter. For which I have hired an artist. Those chapters first appeared on my blog entries minus such illustrations, though embellished with “found object” images which give quite a kick to the viewers. Which images cause the reader to exclaim: “Wow! What a cunning use of discovered pictures by the author.”

Such found-object pics I’m talking about are either thumbnail versions of the originals, or a collage of two or more such images in a thumbnail reduction. While I do not yet provide links or credits to the artists, I am quite happy with requiring such as part of a legal precedent to allow “found object” images without permission. In fact, the five images scattered across this article are a perfect example of my application of search-engine art to delight my readers, and keep them intrigued enough to read my entire piece.

But there remains one more issue regarding the “permission” approach, which is in addition to the high cost of current legal requirements. Which is that certain genres may not appeal to artists, may even offend them…for which reason they may reject granting permission in spite of the author’s willingness to pay a fee. The most glaring example is the one in which I specialize: gay themed articles. For in this homophobic society known as “Amerika,” many artists will simply refuse to have their works associated with topics that they find abhorrent or even sinful. Thus, we have a deeply embedded prejudice against such writers that really comes of brainwashed bigotry, and should have no place in a free-spirited democracy.

I am not here to argue that Amerika is a democracy by name only, which is quite true (though tragic). But I am here to argue that while many folks claim this to be the case (that the USofA is a true democracy), religious dogma time and time again is allowed unquestioned censorship of many artistic expressions. (So much for separation of church and state, eh?)

I have personally suffered such rejection by going the “permission” route, when asking an artist (via email) some years back, for his approval to use one of his images in an article I wrote. His response was something like this: “I am a Christian, and cannot allow you to use any of my illustrations for your homosexual posts.”

It is therefore my dream that, once (or if) I become famous through my stories, I will challenge copyright law to permit web authors to freely include reduced or partial images discovered via search engines, in their writings without first getting permission by the artists. Regardless of whether or not any artist’s religious (or other) prejudice offends their narrow-minded sensibilities.

Another example about the absurdity of present restrictions is when I used a generic photo of a pepper spray canister in one of my tales. A notice was later received by my web host (from the company that sold a brand of pepper spray) that I had illegally posted one of their images. In spite of the fact that the pic was indistinguishable from any other brand. (Apparently an embedded code came with the photo that allowed them to track down the image.) The company even stated: “Your subscriber is possibly posting other pictures in an unlawful manner, and we demand he cease and desist.”

In one fell swoop they declared me a criminal, thus forcing my web site provider to take action and pass on the “offense” to my email box. In other words, this company didn’t even bother to first post me directly, and give me a chance to replace the image with my own photo. Instead, they cast me in a negative light to my provider, right off the bat. I don’t even want to rant here about their rabid and egotistical behavior over a generic photo, but just want to point out an example of our present and idiotic state of copyright bias.

Until such time that copyright law possibly changes to suit my reasonable proposal, I take the risk of including found-object images in my articles…for my readers derive great pleasure by such inclusion. I may eventually have my ass sued off as a result but, dammit, this is art too. FYI: my biggest copyright clash thus far (and which I won by default) was back in 1998: “Charles Schultz’s Attorneys After My Ass!


Still Use XP?

April 8, 2014

I’m sure there will soon pop up many web sites to support diehard users of Windoze XP…so don’t give up the ship! Meanwhile, the following free software will cover all bases in running a secure XP operating system, better than MicroSlut’s own products. Learn more about each application when you visit the site. I recommend you use them all, and disable MicroSlut’s own equivalent versions, if any:

Private Firewall

Avast antivirus

Malwarebytes Antimalware

PC Threatfire

Spyware Blaster

CCleaner

Smart Defrag


ADDENDUM (assuming you’ve installed all programs listed above):

  • !!! Turn off Windoze XP’s automatic updates !!!

  • Do not log onto the Internet with admin rights. Create a seperate user without admin rights. Employ a strong (and different) password for both user accounts. See “How to Create a New User Account in Windows XP“.
  • Please be careful to select the free version of each of the above applications. You do not need the bells and whistles.
  • Be careful when updating a freeware program, so as to not be tricked into clicking on an upgrade to the paid version.
  • Remove any other antivirus program once Avast is installed. (Avast may offer to do that automatically.)
  • Disable MicroSlut’s own firewall and defragmenter. (Free programs may offer to do that automatically.)
  • Malwarebytes Antimalware free version must be run manually; download latest update (and activate) weekly.
  • PC Threatfire is a must-have adjunct to any antivirus utility.
  • CCleaner frees your system from extraneous files no longer in use, and does same for the registry contents. Keep updated, run manually once a week.
  • Smart Defrag automatically defragments your hard drive while it’s not in use, and is superior to Window’s own defragmenter. No muss, no fuss.
  • There are many other excellent and free antivirus programs out there, besides Avast…click here to learn more.
  • The free utilities listed above make for a superb suite of security applications no matter which version of Windoze you own.

A Kurt Affair

April 6, 2014

!!! WARNING. ADULT MATERIAL !!!

If you are underage, or in any way forbidden by your government or religious laws from viewing X-rated subject matter, please do not go there. If, however, you are not restricted by any laws in your geographical location, by all means click on the winged warrior above, to read my spicy tale. Otherwise, click here.


More Neville Tomfoolery

April 3, 2014

More absurd tweets via my persona “gay bachelor raconteur Neville Snidermannington III.” This is a continuation of the original blog post “My Neville Persona“. Due to Twitter’s 140-character limit, I sometimes have to abbreviate the name to “N. Snidermannington III” or “gay bachelor rake,” for examples. 40 tweets in all, please enjoy!

Due to image width limitation for this particular WordPress layout, all tweets are truncated at the right margin, so just left-click for a full version. Or [ click here ] to view them all at once without the hassle!










































Too Late

March 31, 2014

Date: Sat, 8 Mar 2014 14:11:24
Subject:
“Too Late” letter to Larkin
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Just snail mailed the following letter to Larkin. AFAIC, this is simply another one of his role-playing adventures, where he’s a detective turned bad, and I’m his dedicated sidekick fighting to get him back onto the right path.

–begin letter:

Friday, March 7

Just so you know, Larkin: it’s TOO LATE to make things up to me. I gave you plenty of time to do so, even continued putting my faith in you and our friendship. Doesn’t even matter if you’re not a drug dealer, though your crude behavior and avoidance of me causes justified suspicion.

Even if you suddenly started being sweet to me and did everything under the sun to make amends: I’d be highly suspicious and more than reluctant to ever hug you or talk kindly to you again. You’re a fukked up fool.

Seeing as you’ve driven me out of the bars by telling everyone I’m your stalker, and have not done anything to clear that up, I have therefore no qualms in fighting fire with fire. You have no true friends, only acquaintances…with the exception of myself. But I have to assure you, My Misguided Mesosaur:

No way I’m gonna have a friend that poisons my gay brothers with hard drugs. If you don’t stop your black magic dealing, you will be busted. Even if Idon’t send letters of warning to gay bar owners here in the Castro…it will happen. And because I love you with my every breath, I dread such an outcome, even if justice be served. So the only solution is for you to stop selling toxic product and switch to soft drugs exclusively, such as marijuana and shrooms.

There is this one great hope I hold close to my heart: that you are simply playing a game where you pretend you’re a dealer, and I must prove my devotion by finding some way to sabotage your illegal network, even if it means losing you (and your friendship) for good. I don’t see why, however, you feel it’s necessary to put me through such crucifixion, as I’m sure my loyal friendship is crystal clear to you, to the point where such testing is not just pointless, but an abomination.

Just saw you a few moments ago, step out of Twin Peaks Tavern with two darling doggies on your leash. You looked through me like I don’t exist, not a smile, not any sign of kindness. I followed you across the street and, once more, you acted like I wasn’t there. A grim look on your face as you crossed Market, which is when I hollered:

“Out of the Castro! That’s it, be a good boy now and leave the Castro!”

You may have totally ignored me, but I’m sure I got through to you. So much for a “truce,” eh? A truce which you never intended, because all this enmity was instigated by you. And instead of true remorse, you continue to barely regard my friendship as worth more than the dirt on your shoe. I was a joke to you, a stupid old faggot infatuated with your beauty. But this eve I could see by the unhappy expression on your mug, that you realize I’m not someone to mess with, that you made a big mistake toying me along like this for more than eight years.

And why did you? I suspect perhaps, that you played a role in my being drugged and ripped off one night back in 2007. By a regular homeless patron of the Hole, who is one of your customers. By behaving kind to me (on and off), you hoped it would deflect my rage. I have always loved you, but still in the back of my mind, wondered if you had anything to do with my tragedy. Your latest behavior in recent months seems to affirm my suspicions.

Maybe you’ll shove me again. Maybe you’ll threaten me or beat me up. Though I think that if you choose to fuk me over, you’ll assign a buddy or two to carry out the deed…leaving nothing that could be traced back to you. Just let me warn you, dipshit: unless you have me killed outright, any bullying or bashing will only serve to ignite my anger further, and dig my jaws deeper into your soul like a pit bull. No way will I let you get away with this…whether it’s your hateful gossip, or you really are a dealer.

Though if you do have me murdered: rest assure that all my tales about us I’ve already posted on the Internet. Ensuring maybe not my protection from such a dark fate, but certainly that all fingers shall point back to you in the long run. As a matter of fact, even if I am seriously injured or killed–and it has nothing to do with you–you’ll still be the main suspect at this point. And your life will be ruined as a result of dragging you through court and constant police investigation.

I need to promote my book through the local gay bars, in order to get sales off the ground. That was my plan, but you botched it royally. Once you depart the Castro, I’ll have to first clean up the mess you created. You don’t give a fuk whether or not I succeed in earning a decent living, or wind up on the streets. So I’m gonna return the favor:

Your name in all three books shall be “Arwyn Miles.” No one will know the true hero of this trilogy, ’cause you don’t deserve the credit for how you’ve humiliated, insulted, and otherwise treated me like crap. I will tell the public that Arwyn is a mythical figure from my own imagination. Funny to think that maybe you’ll be behind bars while I skyrocket to fame.

Don’t get me wrong, Sweet Reptile, such a fate will cause eternal misery for yours truly. But since it seems my grief has been fueling your happiness for whatever diabolical reason, I may as well bring you down too. I will wipe that smile off your face for the rest of your life, I promise!

Guess you thought you were hot shit claiming to walk with the devil. But guess what, fuk-face? It’s now come back to bite you in the ass. I do not take any joy in this, it is only my yearning for justice. I never wanted someone I love so much to also become my worst enemy. You have become a repeat of my tragic affair with screwball Nam Vet Randolph Taylor.

It is TOO LATE, Mr. Kelsey, to have any sort of friendship with me. You’ve crossed the line beyond any possibility of redemption. WE ARE AT WAR AND I SHALL WIN, BECAUSE I AM A RIGHTEOUS MAN.

Anywayz, have a great day and thanks for letting me vent. My letter to gay bar owners will be mailed shortly after you receive this letter.

All my love,

- Zeke

PS: I am a forgiving man but, c’mon, not that forgiving!

–end of letter


Date: Tue, 11 Mar 2014 08:26:31
Subject:
Re: “Too Late” letter to Larkin
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor

On 3/10/14, Eleanor wrote:

{{ You are forgiving and unforgiving at the same time! Admirable, and I’m not being facetious! }}

Thank you! I just saw Larkin again last night, around 9 PM at Twin
Peaks Tavern (of course). I’ll be writing about this latest incident
today, then post it to you.

{{ A new twist on “True Detective.” }}

He’s forcing me to learn how to walk a very narrow line. This is no
accident…the man is very intelligent, he knows what he is doing.
Everything he’s done to me he’s orchestrated down to the eighth note.
Prepared, rehearsed then executed.

He shoved me (last year in January) not because he was angry, but because he wanted to trigger deeper emotions inside of me that came from past tragedies and conflicts and needed to be released. Now, he’s letting me vent w/o fear of retaliation, violence or rejection. It’s all a clever act…he faked feeling bad and brushing me aside so that I would confront him, and then he shoved me just hard enough that I’d almost hit the ground, but not quite. A very precise maneuver.

Were Larkin truly sick of me, I’m certain he’d’ve struck me again or in other ways been aggressively hostile. None of this has occurred, not even one iota. He was very kind to me again last night (as he was a couple weeks ago when he gave me the stage, and I proposed). You will see, once I get the story to you.

I’ve been having the most incredible rolls in the hay these days…unlike anything I’ve experienced before. Four dudes so far, in the span of less than two weeks. Each one exquisitely handsome, sweet natured, and the nicest baskets you can imagine! You’ll soon read about the first three in a blog post scheduled to publish later this month. It’s called “A Light of Ray.”

Dude #4 I’ve just written about, and let me tell you, El: he’s so impossibly beautiful, as is Larkin. Sweet as all get-out and just 34 years old. Now among the first three is Mikey, who has the most wonderful face to gaze upon! He was nothing but a darling in my arms all night long, and such good company.

None of this is normal, El! No one has these delightful trysts with the best sex and companionship ever experienced before with such frequency…and it just goes on and on. These men are so handsome, El, that even masturbating now (to those recent hot moments) has catapulted me into a wonderful dimension that I’ve only dreamed of before.

I’m convinced that Larkin is behind this…probably through his
telepathic abilities. Though perhaps he has funds set aside to pay for escorts…which monies I suspect come from the secret gay society that I believe really exists. He’s sending these darlin’s my way, and it all started that night I told him: “Marry me Larkin, I’m tired of sucking strange kok!”

So it makes good sense that he still plays “hard to hug” and continues to avoid me (for the most part) while treating me to a smorgasbord of prime beef! How much sweeter to play it this way than directly say: “Zeke, I’m gonna treat you to some beautiful men, so get yer whistle wet!”

As for “true detective”: yes, he is training me to become the best in the field. As well as healing me from the accumulated PTSD of my many trials over many years. Not the least of which is my dedication to a suffering Nam Vet who I met and fell in love with instantly way, way back in 1984.

As for these recent visions of Larkin being not just a detective, but Commander in Chief of a vast fleet of star ships from the Andromeda galaxy (and Reptilian to boot!): well, nothing surprises me any more. He set everything up down to the finest detail, from the day we met and every other moment since.

Each day holds a new and incredible surprise, such that I look so forward to the future like I never have before!

- Zeke


Date: Thu, 13 Mar 2014 10:09:55
Subject:
Still No Hugs
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Took me longer to complete this true tale, a report on my latest Larkin spotting. One of the more complicated incidents to type down on screen. Very difficult to put all the arabesque pieces into one coherent moving picture. Just glad we’ve had no /additional/ encounter before I completed the telling of this one. Every time we meet I explode in divine epiphany shortly thereafter. I think you’ll appreciate the dinosaur/avian metaphorical interplay, as well as the Catholic morality respun into a very gay bromance. This literary challenge I put to myself was most fun to unravel and overcome. I even wrote it all in the present tense, for a bonus gold star. I do believe, however, Larkin’s psychic guidance via the keyboard got me the prize. Enjoy!

–begin latest Larkin chronicle:

March 11, Tuesday

Last night: another Larkin sighting around 9 PM in the large glass bird cage known as Twin Peaks Tavern. Naturally, he stands out among the rest by a long shot…exquisite plumage, strutting about like the cock o’ the walk, lifting shiny objects from tables and setting them up by the bar sink. Apparently this is his particular species’ form of mating ritual, and he’s trying to lure a potential partner with those flashy metal-and-glass gewgaws.

But I am out there wishing to be inside, with him! Why does he seek another mate after my courting This Sweet Raptor of Paradise for more than eight agonizing years? I grow nervous and flutter my psychic wings like I’m about to take off. Instead, they wearily droop across my shoulder blades and I sigh (oh well) knowing in my heart that I truly am his beloved, there is no one else. (Indeed, perhaps his festive display is intended for this little mocked bird…seeing as he’s telepathic and already knows I’m about before he even looks my way.) I then hop a few feet back to perch on the fireplug just outside, next to the bus stop. Where I can view Larkin from most any angle, though sometimes blocked by an intercepting patron eager to chirp him up.

My strategy is to appear as stranger to all TPT budgies, Larkin no exception. So I tilt my head this way and that, as if searching for a tasty crumb, a sexy pigeon feather, or a sparkling object to procure. Thus no one suspects my flirting gazes at the token of my delight. Once convinced he’s aware of my presence, I flit over to the concrete buttress directly across from the tavern door. Soon as I grip the mini-wall with both claws behind (and shove my light-weight carcass atop it to sit with legs a-dangle) a revelation strikes me like a plash of chill Ice-Age water that refreshes all my downy under-feathers:

“I am not just here to soak up his radiant aura. I am here because he adores me, too, and appreciates my appearance in these times when we yet must keep our distance…and our friendship hidden. For a variety of reasons I’ve conjectured over many previous scrawls.”

And with that understanding, peace fills my heart, joy quickly follows. AND LARKIN STEPS OUT!!! I forget why, or if we talked or even looked at either, for I was snockered on pot and booze. But my dim memory reveals that he merely stood some 15 feet away from me, looked about then reentered. Several additional minutes pass before:

an androgynously handsome dude named Patrick gets into my face and waves a clear packet of marijuana before my eyes:

“Here, Zeke, I wanna smoke some with ya!” His hair is curly natural platinum, cut short and scrunched up like a prince’s crown, bound by a white elastic band. Steel-blue eyes glint in my direction. Patrick is intensely beautiful, just not my type, not male enough. Like Larkin and my other newfound darlings…now they’re men!

“Really?” I dismount the buttress to shake my feathers. “Where should we go?”

“No, I meant let’s go back to your place. I really enjoyed our visit, and sorry if I made you nervous.”

“This won’t do,” (I thought). “He doesn’t know I’m not out here to fraternize with tweakers, bums, homophobes and delusional faggots. I’m here for Larkin, and that’s that!”

In a flash Larkin steps back out and saves the day…before I even need to conjure up an excuse to drive Patrick thither, that I may focus back on My Heart’s Sole Pleasure. Who now addresses him:

“Pick up that bottle and toss it out!” he declares while pointing at a 2-liter plastic container emptied of its Orange Crush. Which Patrick had dumped in the potted shrubs just before he approached me. (I don’t really think Larkin cares about litter, except when someone dumps it in my vicinity.)

Patrick turns to him and looks up: “Okay, but only if you say so!”

But Patrick remains in place like a statue, so Larkin insists: “Do it now, Patrick!”

“Hmm,” I muse. “Didn’t realize Larkin knows his name. Perhaps it was telepathy, since I said to him in my mind just moments ago: ‘His name is Patrick.’ But I decided to not interefere, so kept my beak shut.”

He then obeys Larkin’s command, but instead of wandering away, returns to my post with Larkin backed into the doorway, paying us only half attention. But my tiny brainpan is begging: “Please Larkin, get him away from me!”

“I work for him!” announces Patrick only inches from my face.

“Do you know who he is?” I challenge.

“Yes! He’s my father!”

(I suddenly feel put off. How dare he presume such a selfish notion! How long has he been here, known Larkin…a few weeks, months? Compared to my own seniority in both matters? Patrick is just another unconscious mindfuk manipulated by telepathic Reptilians who sometimes bring great frustration into my life, that I may finally be healed of residual PTSD. While I understand this vital process, I am nonetheless pissed, ready to punch him in the kisser.)

“He’s not your dad,” I enunciate with patience. “He’s my lover!”

(Larkin is so ridiculously handsome, so many queers–and hetero women I assume–feel compelled to claim their ownership upon this free spirit, and lock him in their own little cage of sparkly treasures. In total disregard that the person they’re speaking with may have a beloved association with him already…and unfettered by such possessive urges. And Larkin knows how they mistreat me, though realizes the unhappy experience is only a test of my emotional IQ, not a threat in any way towards our friendship. In other words, he doesn’t interfere but with scant exception. Such as this time.)

He steps back up to Patrick, taps him on the shoulder then leans down to say some innocuous sentences that inspire him to wander off. What they were, I have no idea…but I’m sure the words were sweet, yet the motive to depart compelling.

Seeing now that I’m free from interference, Larkin stalks back into TPT and roosts on a stool within clear range of my sight. My spirit fills with gratitude as I reseat myself on the buttress to gaze upon his visage. But once more I am distracted by a rude invasion. A fat, middle-aged black hobo who’s parked his tired body on the furthest edge of TPT facing Castro Street (and made it his home for the past five months) decides to mosey on up to me, stick out his paw and request:

“Can you spare a quarter?” His voice is as gloomy and deep as a foolish soul who just learned by St. Peter’s decree that he’s condemned to eternal purgatory.

I almost explode in a feather-flurry, but quickly regain my noble composure:

“No!” I clip. The man groans and slinks back to his spot. A spot which he doesn’t deserve, and should be reserved for a gay homeless fellow, not a clueless hetero bag of ignorance…I might add.

By this time Larkin had stepped out once more, and with a youngish lesbian. Where they pause in discourse about 30 feet down 17th. I flit over to the army-green wastebin on the northeast corner of Jane Warner Plaza, and observe. Not because I’m a snoop, but I so rarely enjoy being in Larkin’s company, even if from afar. They speak for quite some time (more than 10 minutes I guess), I grow restless, migrate to the newsrack front of TPT (north side). Where I get to espy Larkin and company in a direct line down the sidewalk. Still, nowhere near enough to eavesdrop or even come off like a pest.

Three-four additional minutes pass before they disperse and Larkin turns to head my way. I gaze directly upon him, notice he hasn’t yet looked up to see me. But in a few steps he does, and I wonder what his reaction will be. I’m not the least bit nervous, ready to retort no matter his ploy, and do so in the kindest way possible. Just before he passes me and resumes his tavern schmoozing, he addresses:

“You have a great night, Zeke!”

I do not need even a nanosecond to figure how to reply, it all just comes out like a playback: “My night is great! Every time I get to see you is great!”

Then I turn to watch him seat himself once more, at the front end of the bar right by the picture window and just four feet from This Happy Starling. I next flutter back to the bus stop to enjoy his presence beyond the passersby, beyond the glass divider, beyond the milling barhops, and beyond my most glorious dreams. It gives me tremendous joy to know that my visage is his delight, just as his is mine!

Seconds pass into minutes till I decide it’s time to depart, rather than remain until he does same. Out of respect for the man. So I cross by the west side of TPT where he is nearest, and give a brief wave of the claw as my sign of departure. To this heart’s delight, he summons me to wait there, he’ll come out.

And he does. So here is Larkin once more towering over me like My Dragon Protector, showering me with much grace. I am exhilarated, bathing in his purplish aura. Then he speaks:

“Do you have a spare cigarette?”

Okay, not the greeting I expected, but what the hey. So I pull out my pack of Fortunas and offer him the whole box:

“There are four remaining. Have them all. I’ve another pack at home.”

“Oh, thanks,” he remarks, then graciously accepts my offering and extends an arm for a fist bump.

“Whoa!” I exclaim. “Either a hug or nothing at all. No fist bump, no handshake, no arm-grasp, no air hug! Nothing.”

As I speak those words he mutters nonsense I can’t comprehend except as a continued denial of his affectionate embrace. A denial which he commenced the night he shoved me, way back in January 2013…more than a year and two months into the past. (And don’t forget: from April 2007 to September 2012, he also refused my hugs…a total of almost five full, agonizing years without his sweet embraces.)

“You’re torturing me, buddy!” I denounce with fiery judgment. “I’m gonna report you to the highest Reptilain court for cruel and unusual punishment!”

He then spits on the ground by the tavern door…and I act in kind, though aim for (and strike) his shoes.

“Say, why did you do that?” he queries like a harmless cherub. “I never did anything to you!”

“Oh you haven’t?” I admonish and look straight into his eyes while wagging a finger of shame. “You shoved me. You tossed a lit cigarette onto my shirt. You called me stalker…”

Larkin interrupts: “But you are my stalker!”

“Okay, pal, let me warn you! You will not get away with any of your crude deeds against me. Which also include your countless mind fuks for more than a year now!”

I take a deep gulp and continue: “Furthermore, those letters to bar owners are going out in two days…there is no hope for you!”

“Why did you spit at my feet?” he presses.

“Because I hate you,” I confess. “I hate you and I love you.” Then add: “But I love you more than I hate you. That will never change.”

He grins like the Cheshire Cat, which causes my spine to shudder in ecstasy. I then remember a punchline I wanted to tell him when we next met (which is now):

“Larkin, you’re so mean to me, you make Hitler look like…” but then my mind wanders and I forget the remainder. As I attempt to recall, he suggests:

“David Hasselhoff?”

[ Cantilevered Reader: I need to mention here, that was not the name he spoke. Can't remember which name he used to complete my Mad Libs, but I do remember it was not one I knew...perhaps a local celebrity here in the Castro or South of Market. Or maybe a contemporary actor or athlete, seeing as I don't keep up with that sort of nonsense. Wish I had paused to ask him who that was, but my wit flounders before his own. Hopefully, Larkin himself will get back to me on this, and explain his retort...I sure hope so! At which time I will edit this passage to include the real name. But my point is thus: he gave a wisecrack that went over my head, though I'm sure is actually very funny. ]

“No! Let me think…” so I ponder with fingers on chin, scratching for the answer. “Oh, yeah, the Easter Bunny! That’s it! You make Hitler look like the Easter Bunny!”

He grins broadly (and, I think, tossed a second name into the ring for good measure, before I resolved my quandary).

“Here take these back.” He attempts to return the Fortuna box into my hands. But I refuse, so he drops it to the ground.

“You’re such a pissant,” I declare while bending down to the concrete to reclaim the discarded booty. I continue: “Here, take the cigarettes, I want you to enjoy them anyway.” But he rejects them.

“You are my stalker!” he persists like a chatty stuffed dragon that’s been hacked.

“Okay, Larkin,” I respond with an exasperated sigh. “I know you’re just playing a game with me. It’s okay.”

He grabs the door’s lintel as if about to reenter, and mumbles: “Uh-huh!”

Not fully relieved of the outrage that he instigated, I flip him the bird and keep it there, say: “Fuk you, Larkin! Fuk you!”

He extends a middle finger in mutual accord, and belittles: “Fuk you too, Zeke!”

Larkin reenters the tavern as I turn left to depart. He resumes his place at the end stool right by the window. So I stare at him and flip the bird once more, mouthing: “Fuk you! Fuk you! Fuk you!”

He then stands up and presses against the window, with a finger stuck up each nostril and making gestures so gross that I suddenly burst out in laughter and point at him:

“You’re cute!”

Larkin keeps up the antics for another half minute (and I continue to guffaw, joyful tears about to stream down my face) before turning about and seating himself once more. I finally cross the street to rest a few moments on the hydrant while gazing back at his image so full of light, the bar doesn’t need its own.

“Andromedan Starship Commander Larkin Kelsey really loves me!” I think with great happiness, then head hovel.

–end of latest Larkin chronicle

So I told ya El (maybe different from previous words that I’ve posted; but still, same intent):

My trilogy will be celebrated as the most wonderful love story since “Romeo & Juliet.” Thus I elevate all gay people in the eyes of the hetero majority. Not just in these Disunited States, but all across the globe. And we have One Great Man to thank for this, besides myself.

And another true hero, though behind the curtains…like a prop manager. Who is you.

!!! REPTILIAN FOREVER !!!

- Zeke


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