Who Run Barter Town? Or, We'll Split The Loot Evenly And Without Treachery, Like in Crime Movies And Fantasy Novels.

   Being a crippled midget genius, Master lived for watching Blaster bludgeon his enemies to death while his tiny penis was covertly buried in Blaster's sweaty neckfat rolls. Blaster's pleasure was equally great if less obvious.



  I am making a genuine attempt to put forth another blog movement here, so bear with me and ignore the painful straining noises in the background.



  Where to start?



  I'll start by saying right off that I am going to be altering a lot of details in this blog. Normally I would denote these with the use of an asterisk in a nice Pratchett-style footnote, but since some of my readership is baffled by and frightened of asterisks, then I just wanted to clearly state that some things are gonna be changed here.


  Here are some examples:


 

  -Although I am 9'3" tall, I weigh only 512 lbs. I attribute this to my ironclad regime of hard physical labor, intensive exercise sessions, strict diet and my Viking/Sasquatch ancestry.

    Alleged photograph of a 'Floor Giant'. Unsubstantiated but rumored to be pretty fucking close minus an ill fitting tee shirt



 
  -I haven't physically harmed another bipedal organism in a reasonably long time and, in fact, operate a stripper refuge at an undisclosed location in sub-saharan Africa. We grow poppies and farm lemurs.

 
  -Although my penis is well under a yard long, it is rather thick in places and is completely retractable for what I assume to be safety-related reasons.

 
  -The man I work for but have never met donates tens of dollars a year to the prevention of ho smackin. He is a stand up guy who cares deeply for and takes a personal interest in the lives of his many soulless, nameless automatons employees

 
  -I drive a German built Tiger tank to work that runs on environmentally friendly stripper tears. Stripper tears are a curiously overlooked power source that could be tapped for the betterment of mankind. I have drums of the shit. I wear waterproof shoes and have trenchfoot because of them.

                                     "I didn't come in today to make $600 in 8 hours! Fuck this shit!"

 

-I micturate every goddamn chance I get.




 
  There, you get the idea. I gonna exaggerate some minor details, homey.




                                   "Try Our 5 Star Restaurant."

                            "Welcome to Mary's Mussel Shack, our clams self-marinate"




  Really? The poor DJs are forced to announce so many timer per night that "Our 5 star kitchen is open til whenever your drunk ass can be bothered to order."

 
  Or whenever our clueless, apathetic waitresses feels like putting in your order no matter how close to closing.


Fact- We serve food in plastic baskets lined with wax paper.
 

Fact- Our "specials" have included: Grilled Cheese, Grilled Hot Dog and other things a child could make.
 

Fact- Our senior 'cook' offered "Chickan Marcella"*1 one day which was actually "Chicken Marsala" as made by someone who didn't know how to make or spell it.*2
 

Fact-There is exactly one dish I've seen that we make that has a garnish.
 

Fact-Our food quality varies from good to economical while our cook quality varies from halfway-almost-competent to deluded-safety-ignorant-never-eat-his-cooking-feces-bringer.

 

  Our kitchen only resembles a 5 star kitchen in some way I can't describe because I'm not that imaginative. I can imagine a LOT of things, but creative, tasty and correctly spelled food coming from our kitchen is not one of them.








           This Guy Spent Four Hundred And Thirty Thousand Dollars In The Club. He Tipped Everyone And Everything. He Tipped Bartenders, DJs, Waitresses, Floor Hosts, Door Girls, Bar Backs, Urinals, Carpet Stains, Table Legs, Other Customers, Etc etc.






  Yeah, this guy came in and dropped some serious money. Serious Midwest money. It ain't New York or Los Angeles, capice? Its not like everyone benefited from his oozing, money-blowing snizz. Some dancers didn't get a dime. They were like the smaller, runtier hyenas that couldn't get in on a teat, shunted aside to compete for the corpses of their even weaker siblings.


  So tasty.



  Tune in next time when I will follow up on the second part of this installment's title which I am tentatively entitling "The Tale Of the 5 Knights Who Weren't United and Some of Them Got Fucked By a Dragon Or  a Demon's Dragon-Headed Cock or Something."

                                           "You should see it when it's hard.".








Yours in Editing,
-The StripperHerder







*1 AH! Asterisk! Scary!




*2 Or know how to read the Marsala wine bottle