Angus Mac Og’s Bounty

March 12, 2013

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 14 ]

Once upon a time, there was a Brave Little Dragon named Zeke or Gene (he couldn’t really make up his mind) who cared so much about his homeless and otherwise disenfranchised gay brothers, that he didn’t know when (or even how) to back off when danger came his way, or when he walked into shit flying full force in a gale.

It was Year 2005 when his tender spirit broke in Great Sorrow from his dear buddy Johnnie. Who had gone back to shooting up heroin after 29 days on a detox program. Johnnie turned on Gene with vile words and false accusations, after almost an entire year of a remarkably sweet friendship. (In fact, it was Zeke’s affections that encouraged Johnnie to get off smack in the first place.) Johnnie would even give Gene a hug each and every morn before departing for the day, topped off with a tender kiss on the forehead.

Not for many moons did Zeke know why this wicked turn in their friendship; he only thought it was an effect of chasing the dragon. As it turns out, it was more than that…for Gene finally discovered the true source of Johnnie’s bitterness. His father had died. His dad was only 55, same age as Zeke.

Just two weeks before this tragic downfall, Johnnie had told Gene: “My father is the very best friend in my life, Zeke. There is no one that even comes close to him in my heart, except for one person. And that’s you.”

Gene was so touched by Johnnie’s loving words, his heart sang every single day, and every night as he dreamt. Until…(as you just learned) the Demons of Despair came swiftly to sever this Golden Cord of Brotherly Regard. With great and unjustified hostility, Johnnie exited from Zeke’s life, forever (or so it seemed). Now, Zeke was also bitter; so he began spitting all over the floor and in other ways allowed his once-elegant SRO to become an absolute dump.

[ Do not despair, Kind Reader, for in so suffering, Gene shared Johnnie’s bitterness which, in due time, shall bring them back together w/Johnnie clean of drugs, and their friendship elevated to a Heavenly State of Affairs. ]

He sought some kind of refuge, where he might start licking his Wounds of Defeat. Heard that a gay bar called “Hole in the Wall Saloon” was a great place to kick back and listen to really good, and LOUD, rock ‘n’ roll. (Hole in the Wall never plays disco crap.) So there he went, and sat in the darkest corner, and kept to himself.

And of course, that is also where Zeke and Arwyn were brought together for the first time, in what will eventually turn out to be a most astounding gay bromance. But it didn’t start out that way.

For (unbeknownst to Gene at the time) Arwyn was an undercover detective embedded at The Hole in order to bust a group of Hell’s Angels running drugs through all the gay bars South of Market, plus two bars here in the Castro. (One of these two, “The Detour,” has since shut down.)

But Zeke had already fallen head over tail for Arwyn, so refused to leave the saloon when Arwyn had confronted his new-found buddy:

“Gene, it is very dangerous for you to hang out here, especially when you’re a friend to me.” He lowered his noble orange-haired head and looked at Zeke directly in the eyes: “So, will you please go now?”

With that, Arwyn returned to his billiards, leaving Gene in a gloomy space, and never spoke to him again…at least, not for five sad years (actually, three, but memory loss made it seem longer). Zeke refused to leave the Hole; he loved Arwyn that much, and at least was rather delighted to watch from afar, Arwyn’s antics around the pool table, and listen to rock ‘n’ roll pounding through hyper-amped speakers, and let thoughts of His Johnnie sink into the Moors of Forgetfulness.

Though be assured that, should anyone ever threaten Gene at The Hole (or later, the Eagle), Arwyn would abruptly drive them out with great anger. Which eventually cost him dearly, as he was instructed (by South-of-Market drug lords) to never defend Zeke, or there’d be Hades to pay. And so he did: his room was burnt down, and Gene was dosed with intent to drive him insane.

In a little more time, without either speaking a word to the other (as Arwyn would not allow), Zeke figured out the situation (that Arwyn is an undercover sleuth), and cleverly became Arwyn’s sidekick. He played the lure, the fall guy, and decoy. Which made the Orange County Detective’s work far easier, by bringing these drug-dealing murderous skanks out of the woodwork. Eventually, though, Gene was driven out of The Hole for good, by a violent threat of a sharp blade to his gut, should he ever show up there again. Of course, Arwyn was not present at the time, and the bartender on duty chose to look the other way; thus Zeke had no choice but to leave the Hole for good.

So Gene started hanging out at the Eagle Tavern a few blocks away (12th & Harrison), for he knew that Arwyn enjoyed frequenting that space, too. Sometimes, when he could afford it (a rare occasion), he’d buy Arwyn a drink. Though only via the barkeep’s hand, as Zeke still could not speak to Arwyn, or even get within ten feet of him. About a year later, Gene discovered Arwyn working at a taqueria right next door to his now-verboten hangout, the Hole in the Wall.

So every Wednesday, Zeke would order a small meal and enjoy watching Arwyn at work: a 6-foot-4 handsome giant who towered above the several diminutive Mexican workers. An absolutely sweet and sometimes hilarious scenario…of which Arwyn was quite aware, and made the most of. Still, Gene was not allowed to speak to him, except to place an order. But Zeke did find endearing ways to compliment him from time to time, without exposing their sweet relationship. Such as (after placing his order which was always chile rellenos) remarking: “Not only is the food here quite good, but the view is outstanding.” By “the view” of course, he meant Arwyn’s Glorious Mug, for there was nothing impressive to see out the picture window: just a busy intersection surrounded by drab buildings and the occasional wino and bums with shopping carts rattling on by.

Gene sought additional (non-vocal) ways to express his love for this Orange County Gumshoe, by writing one blog every two or three weeks, about Arwyn and how simply being in his presence makes Zeke so ridiculously happy. He’d slip a printout of each episode (secured in a decorated plastic folder), beneath an old newspaper. Since Arwyn also cleared tables, he’d be the first to find it. This lasted almost a year, before Gene decided to cease his weekly visits, in order to make clear he was no stalker. Two months later, the restaurant closed. Those blog entries BTW, now compose his online novel called “The Arwyn Chronicles”…29 chapters in all!

When the Taqueria Phase ended, Arwyn made sure Zeke could see him within every two or three weeks, by showing up nearby. Say, walking in opposite direction along the sidewalk, and passing by as if neither knew the other. Or some months later, showing up out of the blue, now employed at a local bar (“The Metro,” which has since shut down) right across the street from Gene’s apartment building.

[ Darling Reader: may I remind you that Arwyn’s keen telepathy certainly helped the process along. ]

Zeke could now look right out the hallway window and see Arwyn at work, or smoking a ciggie on the wraparound deck; the bar was on the second floor, as was Gene’s SRO. So he’d sometimes visit, buy a drink and enjoy Arwyn’s presence once more, from a respectful distance.

Some days, Zeke would even stand kitty corner across the street, and hold his hat to his heart while looking up at Arwyn who took frequent cigarette breaks on the sundeck. This way, Gene could send his love from a very safe distance, with no one the wiser. (It was a large, busy 5-corner intersection at Market, 16th, and Noe.) Arwyn would just puff on a Marlboro with vigor while looking directly at his Beloved Sidekick, for as long as he could before returning to work. An element of humor in these little scenarios was not lost on Zeke; surely Arwyn’s playful spirit was a great balm.

Around this time (of “The Metro”) the funding for this assignment from Orange County dried up, and busting the Hell’s Angels drug runners became a cold case. Arwyn was therefore required to return to Southern California, or lose his career. In a heartbeat, he chose the latter. No way was he going to leave his Beloved Amigo vulnerable to these cult fanatics, for Gene would likely be severely crippled (or even murdered) as a result.

So in losing his noble job, he also lost his health benefits, and thus began the rotting and loss of his gorgeous pearly whites. Small sacrifice to pay in his mind, in order to protect the soul of one so dear.

Arwyn turned to hustling men in their 70’s mostly, at select gay bars in The Castro…not for sex of course, but for nightly companionship. Fully clothed or in pajamas, he’d hold these lonely (though affluent) elder gentlemen in his gangly arms, and make them feel very much loved and appreciated. Mornings, Arwyn would usually fix them coffee and breakfast in his underwear, and tell many cheerful jokes and compliments.

If there’s one thing Arwyn excels at, it’s bringing joy to the hearts of aging (or severely disabled) men who otherwise would have no purpose in their lonely lives, or any reason to get out of bed each day. Some suffered major health issues, such as cancer, AIDS and even dementia. Arwyn loved ’em all, to the point where they found life exceedingly wonderful again (or perhaps even for the first time). He graced them with his beauty, friendship and humor…and in exchange received $100 to $500 a nightly pop.

He could’ve gotten so much more because of his startling good looks and talent…but he intentionally sought more needful clientele. For Arwyn is truly a lover to his brothers in great need…he uses his Dragon-Given Beauty for all the right reasons. And this is why Gene harbors such golden affection for this Most Courageous and Compassionate Detective: the first man ever to make him forget his other great love, Randolph Louis Taylor.

So now we are caught up to the present time, and the completion of this episode (Chapter 13). Arwyn is so close to busting these scoundrels, he can taste it like stale tobacco from an overnight tryst. And Zeke will soon have this novel published and become wealthy beyond anyone’s comprehension (and of course, outrageously, impossibly, scintillatingly famous as well). Their teeth will be repaired by the best oral surgeons and dental technicians money can buy (or simply healed in a flash by Dragonly White Magic). And Gene will open his first home for severely disabled gay veterans, employing his buddies off the streets to be their companions, maintain the building and grounds, and handle the books.

Truly, a Happily Ever After Gay Real Life Fairytale!


Arwyn and I have to live apart a while longer, until Arwyn’s calling is complete; that is: the bust and arrest of these Disciples of the Zodiac Killer a.k.a. “Hell’s Angels drug runners”. For it is still too dangerous for us two Love Dragons to be seen together; but this will soon end in a few weeks, or a few months (but no more). Then, we’ll rush off to the Outer Hebrides for our belated honeymoon.

(But not before I am first honored at the Gay Pride Festival, and declare secession of Northern California from these Disunited States, and establish the Queerest Nation on the Planet.)

[ FYI: I am also the Chief Leader of the Seven Celtic Nations…which shall soon secede from the European Union and declare its own nationhood. So you see, Astute Reader, the motive to celebrate my marriage somewhere in Scotland, is not without ulterior intent! ]

Be assured that both Arwyn and myself will do everything possible to bring these criminals to justice; but we won’t stop there. Under the inspiration of the Buddha’s tenet that “we have no enemies, only teachers” (or Jesus’s command to “love thine enemy”), we’ll fight to redeem their lost souls, and direct them towards a much better and ethical life. I’d like to employ at least some of them as companions for the home I soon plan to open, for severely disabled lesbian and gay veterans.

BTW, if you likewise take to heart the perspective that we have no enemies, only teachers: you will have a much easier go of it when dealing with your own life crises, no matter how insurmountable they presently seem. It will turn all your difficulties into a beautiful game, and eventually, all your trials into blessings. For further details into this matter, please read the following essay I wrote back in Y2K:

NeoPositivity: a gay religion

[ Kind Reader: I want Hell’s Angels busted not because of the hard drugs per se, but because they are all heterosexual. The Gay Community has its own criminal underbelly, and deserves to run the show. After all, didn’t we already go through Hetero Overlords controlling our bars via the Mafia, back in the day? Furthermore: why it was necessary to send a detective all the way south from Orange County (more than 600 miles), in order to bust a local drug ring, is still a mystery to me. But I’m sure glad it came down that way! ]

Why is Arwyn far more telepathic than myself? Because he is my Guardian Dragon, sent from Avalon to guide and protect this wretched little soul. He has to be more psychic in order to perform his Goddess-given duties to free me from this earthly bond. (No, doesn’t mean I’m gonna die; just means I’ll have a New Life in this present world that will soon transform into a garden paradise.)

“Chasing the dragon”: a term used metaphorically to mean inhaling heroin fumes. However, in my tale of Arwyn’s love and courage as a dragon from Avalon, I transform the term into something rarified and divine. Such is the noble goal of alchemy. Speaking of which:

In the Hebrew mystical teachings of the Kabala, it is said that, should a person search for truth with all his heart and all his courage, he will eventually find it, and be as much regarded and loved by the angels as Our Creator Herself. With this Golden Apple that I have won through such dedication towards Queer Equality, I get to play “Queen for a Day” so to speak. Though this “day” will last for months, perhaps years. Even Jesus Himself will step aside, that I may be the world’s savior for a time. This is truly a remarkable blessing beyond anything I could ever conceive. Believe me, dear reader, when I say I often fall to the ground in awestruck wonder!

[ Well, Seraphic Reader, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. But I do sometimes suffer anxiety attacks, wobble at the knees and suffer body shakes whenever I’m aware of Such A Great Blessing that has come to this shattered soul. ]

Of course, being a spiritual guardian to me, also means Arwyn is a tough task master. Whatever he knows I need to go through, no matter how seemingly harsh, he won’t hesitate to begin the process…for the sooner it starts, the sooner it will end. His cold shoulder, the silence of not speaking with me (or acknowledging my very existance) was not just a necessary form of protection from violent criminals, but served this other purpose:

In so treating me this way, it sharpened my telepathic abilities as well as my writing skills. For in such powerful desire to communicate to him my love, and my struggles for us both, I had no outlet but to write it all down, then print it out and deliver my tales to him. (Arwyn doesn’t mess around with computers or the Internet, so I couldn’t just hope he’d go online every week or so, to be updated.) It was quite a Herculean Challenge to say the least, but I trust his Wise Affections to never lead me astray, no matter how impossible may seem the obstacle he places before me.

In short: I’m a VERY VERY VERY VERY VERY lucky man! (And you are too, once you learn to listen to your own Guardian Dragon.)

PS: I was bored this morning, so I googled the word “draco” to find this incredible article dated January 2011:

DRACO Drug Could Cure Almost Any Virus

Good riddance AIDS et al (and hello Age of Aquarius)…blessings on us all!

Dragon Fire in the Hole

April 19, 2012

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 9 ]

18 April 2012

To the Dragon Drama Queens at the Hole in the Wall Saloon:

I want to rectify yesterday’s fiasco and my expulsion from your fine establishment, on some drunkard fool’s claim that I stated I want to bomb this place. When in fact, this is what I declared: “I want to buy this place.” (For two reasons: to keep The Roguish Gay Spirit alive long after the first owners retire or bick the kucket, and to have Arwyn back here where he belongs, playing pool and acting the fool, and just in general, sharing his sweet self with many souls hungry for affection. He was permanently 86’d by the present owners. Once I collect my first millions off the royalties of this beatific novel, I certainly intend to purchase Hole in the Wall, lock, stock and barrel.)

Reminds me of a similar faux pas during Barrack Obama’s presidential run in 2007, where I was chatting with a very sweet, elderly dingbat over the coffee bar at Cafe Mediterraneum on Telegraph Avenue, Berkeley. (FYI: the same locale where Alan Ginsberg worked on his now-celebrated poem, “Howl”…something I didn’t discover till after years and years of hanging out there, composing my own gay poems and prose.)

Dingbat expressed a grave concern of what could become of our economy, should we wind up with yet one more Republican skank in the Oval Office. So I replied:

“Don’t you worry, dear, everything will work out just fine, once we put Obama in the White House.”

She dropped her swizzle stick and splashed the coffee-bean elixir. “Heavens! No, please, I am antiviolent, and could never suggest a bomb in the White House.”

“You misunderstood,” I chuckled. “I said ‘Obama,’ not ‘a bomb’.”

So it later occurred to me that the phonic similarity of those two words, sure must keep the President’s body guards on their toes (and needlessly trigger happy…so maybe I’ll just turn down my next invite to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue).

Now, I am about to reveal to you, Beloved Reader, a most astounding and profound conclusion which jigsaw pieces only came together for me, less than one month ago. The Gay Pagan Motorcycle Club (GPMC) orchestrated this silly little scenario, as they have many others…out of sheer compassion and joy, to bring Arwyn and I together as lovers.

And to grant me my Damon Runyon Adventure w/a Gay Spin”…which bromantic odyssey is now into its seventh year!

Note: this revelation being so new, I probably don’t have the most apt title for who these intelligent, mischievous, loving and spirited dragons are. But I am soon to learn, so it seems.

Once I became aware of this brilliant, outstanding real-world play, concocted by the GPMC, I quickly printed out the first two chapters of “Free Me From This Bond” (’cause that’s all I had at the time), and ran to The Hole to thank barkeep Gary with much profusion and gratitude. That was around two weeks ago. It boggles the mind (well at least mine, because there’s a dumb-blonde pool boy lurking just below the surface), to wonder how in the Master Dragon’s Blue/Green Dimension, they could concoct and maintain This Living Fairytale! With so many fables within fables (or “parables” as I like to call them), you become bewitched by such ethereal beauty swirling around you like a swarm of ladybugs or fireflies.

Please realize the tremendous impact this so-called Motorcycle Club (w/Arwyn the Supreme Conductor) will soon have on the entire planet. Every single tale I tell (in this quite novel noble novel), was all mastered by these Hole-in-the-Wall Tarragons and Warlocks, then played before me (and around me) with such vigor, I couldn’t help but become passionately inspired…and write about what just happened (with very little revision). And what else can they do, and will do? Surely, they won’t stop once my Princely Draco and I become betrothed…surely, that is only the beginning. Think about it.

Apparantly, these GPMC luv-dolls work diligently and vigorously, to make all my worthy dreams become truth. Such as my wish for Northern California to secede to become the world’s very first LGBT nation. I want to name this new country Athenia, and make San Francisco its capitol; only we’ll rename it “Zekeopolis”. Another dream I own, is for gayfolken to take over the world, and bring peace on earth, goodwill to all queerkind…and then everyone else, once our liberation has been claimed.

Anywayz, back to a few moments before the surprise 86:

I’m admiring a brightly handsome young fellow who just stepped inside, and sat at the only unclaimed bar stool…which, quite coincidentally (and indeed happily, as well) is right beside yours truly. I buy him his second drink, and in a while more, I discover he is a gifted playwright within the Homophile Nation. In fact, here’s a site where you may keep informed of this brilliant dragon’s latest achievements:

Wow, Jason, your play “Batman is Dead: The Dragsical” looks like one hell of a hilarious tromp through Dragtopia! I wish you continued success that is more than well-deserved: you are a righteous blessing to our long-suffering though highly compassionate family.

Minutes later, I step outside to chat with Hutch (while he smokes his Pall Mall), a Lakota Gay Wise Man with a bodaciously sweet sense of humor. He finishes his ciggie and steps towards The Hole’s entrance. But there are two quite robust males (and good-looking to boot) blocking our way.

“Uh-oh Hutch; they’re not gonna let me in.”

“Oh yes they are, they’re just standing around,” he replies.

The very moment I take a tentative step in their direction, they obstruct. (Man, I am so ready to fondle their hefty baskets, but they don’t seem particularly receptive…though perhaps they’ll drop their jeans and let me goose their fine arses with a finger or two, if I ask politely. I wimp out at the last moment. *sigh* ) So I return to the sidewalk right beside the short, concrete wall that defines an outdoor mini-patio for smokers. Hutch declares, “I don’t want any part of this” and strides through the entrance.

Though just before he does, I accuse: “Ya big chicken. Buk-buk-buk-buk bugawk! Buk-buk-buk-buk-buk bugawk!” Barkeep Larry runs out and almost pushes me to the ground, and tells me in heated spirit: “Leave, Zeke. Leave NOW or I’ll call the cops.” Again, he presses his hands against me almost to shove, but not quite. I won’t budge: “This is public space. I don’t have to go anywhere.” (After all, once someone threatens to call the pizzakeepers on you, it’s best to wait till they arrive, that your side be heard. If you amble away before then, you look guilty.)

As Hutch disappears behind the black leather curtain and the buffalicious bouncers resume their station, someone from behind me calls out: “Zeke!” I turn around to see, lo and behold, two drop-alive gorgeous Men in Blue flashing pearly smiles and looking oh-so-CLASSY in their neatly pressed uniforms (I’m a sucker for that kind of stuff). I was so taken by their countenance, I said not a word and gazed upon them in rapturous delight.

“Zeke,” says the blonde hottie: “Zeke! Which one of us do you think is cuter?”

Well, I nearly drop my jaw to the sidewalk (and this time, not for cowboy schlong). How sweet. How very, very darlin’. I finally recover my mandible, and speak: “You are both such charming and lovely peace officers, please don’t put me on the spot like this. I’m afraid if I choose the wrong cop, I’ll be cited by the other.”

Then I tell them I have no idea why I’ve just been 86’d, that I overheard someone say I’m gonna bomb this saloon. (Without any hindsight at the moment, I assume someone badmouthed me once the shift changed bartenders–as Gary Clayton is certainly my ally–and my good friend Russell departed.) Well, that is most certainly not true (that I want to bomb The Hole), because I worship at the altar of the Dragon of the Hole in the Wall. I <3 this place. The endearing policemen see that I am honest; and I'm sure they'll discover that I've been slandered. We bid our adieus, and I stroll down Folsom Street on my way home, displaying my bold Jesus Dragon jacket all along my merry route upon return to The Castro.

Note: to those two adorable policemen, I say: “My hat’s off to you, and perhaps other types of apparel, if that would delight you (or both, which would make a most saliva-dripping sandwich of the yummiest proportions). Otherwise, let’s become BFF’s and schmooze over donuts and java: I’m nothing, if not the King of Bromance. You just showed me how loved I truly am, by not just a vast segment of the queer community, but the SFPD as well! Therefore I presume you know all about My Randolph (a former SF cop in training), whose life was spared thanks to my devoted loyalty. There is certainly a gold star waiting for me somewhere in the hallways of the Department of Justice. There was only one thing about you two handsome dragons, that left me sorely disappointed: what, no frisking? That’s not much fun, so please, for future reference: I’d simply go ejaculatingly ECSTATIC if both of you Fine Bluecoats laid hands all over this shuddering body! But I’ll settle for hugs, for I’m sure they are glowingly wonderful too, considering the honorable source.”

I did cruise a studly homeless dude on the way home, and got laid inside a large cardboard box that once housed a Frigidaire. It wasn’t totally pleasant because my bad knee acted up, along with my neck vertebrae and RSI-damaged fingers. The bad thing about getting old, is you never really know where the aches in your joints are coming from: arthritis or the crystal you slammed three days ago.

Then, a little further along I drop into a hetero booze lounge called “The 500 Club” not just to spread good cheer and humor to all who accept me, but to also share the Good News: Jesus is gay, and is sitting right here beside you, chatting you up. I don’t remember all the varied witticisms I orated before they banished me to the outer realms, but I do remember this one:

Two fetching men are standing with their drinks in hand, imbibing and most obviously enjoying each other’s company, w/o any sign of a ‘gina clinging to their arms. So I nonchalantly rise up from my barstool, and walk right by them, and in passing, remark: “You two boys should be boinking the daylights out of each other by now, you’re both so cute!” By the time they knew what hit ’em, I had already returned to my spot, and ordered another Kiwifruit-Pineapple Kiss.

So here is what I understand is going down regarding this latest gay fairytale: you amazing Hole-in-the-Wall Pagans are orchestrating a romantic scenario where I get to play the hero, and win Arwyn’s Dragony Heart. Some of you will play the enemy, others of course, my BFF’s. So please, allow me to take a moment out, and state right here:


The LGBT community created me, groomed me for leadership w/o my even knowing. For part of the training is to figure these things out for yourself, as the years pass, and the pieces come together. So I’m not that sure yet if I’m an actual human, or a faggy simulacrum that transcends all time and hard-ons. I now conjecture that I might have hatched from an egg; a dragon’s egg of course.

But I’m always short on money, living only on a disability stipend. I would like to rectify this, by reciting my tales for a fee, at various LGBT venues. Particularly at The Hole (surprise!), and at the living rooms of these outstandingly benevolent bartenders and patrons; I can’t imagine yet what sweet friendships shall result (not to mention what sweet BJ’s). But it will allow me some decent fun money, that I can afford to hang out at the Hole regularly, and even buy drinks for the good souls that inhabit The Dragon’s Lair.

Also: I terribly, desperately, BADLY need an industrial cleaning and repair of my humble single room that I’ve occupied since 1983. So I’m hoping that our wonderful family of Dragon Disciples will surprise me by performing this Sisyphean task (at least, it would be all by my lone some) while I’m away for the afternoon, on whatever day you sweethearts choose. (Time for an “Extreme Makeover -SRO Edition“, eh?)

This next idea may be a bit over the top, but here is my dream: replace the wall facing Market Street with plexiglass, that tourists may gaze up and admire my Little Hobbit Hole, from whence I conjured up Myriad Darling Tales, and broadcast them around the globe via cyberspace. Of course, I’ll need curtains to grant me privacy at times, or some other sort of window cover that looks best. You could even install an animatronic version of myself, for times when I’m not present. (Just give him a bigger kok, *please*, ’cause I wanna have lotsa fun with my first sex-toy robot.)

Oh, almost forgot: I yearn for a new set of pearly whites, because they are neither, and have been neither for many a year I can’t believe.

I’M A DRAG QUEEN’S DRAGON by Ezekiel J. Krahlin (“Jehovah’s Very Queer Witness”)

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon of Ill Repute, My scales are dirty and my tail is clipped. I’m a foul-breathed lizard, you can’t refute, I feed on gizzards and root beer root …and anything else on ship. Including pirates. Aaargh!

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon of Dark Design, Striking terror in the hearts of ‘phobes, Burning their churches if I have a mind With my fiery breath and those farts behind …and my big old, fat old, testicular globes. Including pirates. Aaargh!

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon of Tit for Tat, I’ll chew your bones into bits of gruel, And exchange ice cream for some body fat, That I get by boiling down ‘phobes in a vat …so don’t mark me as a fool. Including pirates. Aaargh!

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon of Dungeon Fame, Polyhedral dice on a bed of lice, Is how I like to play this game. Though without some pot, it’s rather lame …yes I’ll beat you twice, maybe even thrice. Including pirates. Aaargh!

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon with a big fat butt, And a pair of gonads you’ve never seen, ‘Cause it’s hidden by a protruding spleen And my ginormous gut …I am really a sight obscene.

Including pirates. Aaargh!

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