Who run Bartertown?


The pig shit runs Bartertown you silly twit.

What? Did you think that snakeheaded post apocalyptic wannabe cleopatra was the gospel truth dynamo that got the chapless mole men to rig slaves to the placental hamster wheel that charbroils life force from them de facto swine dumplings? Oh. Baby. No. No. No. No. You didn't think - what - love's what runs Bartertown? Tsk tsk. You were always quick to jump into bed with a megalomaniac. Granted, Tina's got a certain rockstar panache...

Remember when we were kids and Tina was your fave, you made me play Bitch Better Have My Money. You said I was Ike and you were Tina. I'd cry cause you always got to be Tina. You said I didn't have the cheekbones to take a punch like you could. I'd cry cause I thought you didn't want to hit me. You said my left hook shouldn't go to waste, that I was a natural born deadbeat. Well, that was all she wrote. We'd race to see who could smoke the crack vial fastest. But, even when I let you beat me to the bottom of our imaginary crack vial (it didn't really matter who smoked the fastest - the result would be the same), I'd dutifully announce 'bitch betta have my money' and do the Ike T. rope a dope on your slap happy mug. I swear, I ain't ever met no one get so wet from a split lip as you Rosie. God damn you for getting so wet. When you ripped my pants off, there wasn't any chance to escape your wet. With me inside you, you kissed my tears - I still thought you didn't want to hit me.

Your teeth drew blood from my shoulder, and you cooed, "Don't be selfish with the scars, Jack. You're not the only one who likes to touch a live wire." That stepped the pep to my penetrations, a vigorous drive, the way sex works best as an accusation.

After you came, you sang 'We Don't Need Another Hero' while I climaxed with a coltish verve, shuddering and quivering, a little boy who hadn't yet mastered how to keep a straight fuck face. I asked if the song meant you'd let me be Mad Max now instead of Ike. You dipped your fingers in my ropey cum, now indivisibly fused with your abundant wet, and mixed it with blood from your split lip. With the crimson mush, you finger painted 'figpucker' on my pale chest. You laughed, said, "Jack, you won't ever be more than a low class two bit criminal fit only to shovel shit. You won't make it to thunderdome."

My heart did a belly flop, and you punched me in the mouth. A good one. Your small fist broke the skin. That got my dick hard again. I chased you then, into the cypress stand by the swamp. Your giggles, a mirage of mischief leading me deeper into the wild muck. I chased you...

That was the day, Rosie. The day you taught me love doesn't run Bartertown. The day it became painlessly clear nobody runs Bartertown. The day I learned it wasn't nothing but pig shit that runs Bartertown.

And, I still been chasing you, Rosie.

Seen your named carved into a toilet seat at the truck stop outside Barstow.
Found a ginger pube coiled in a bowl of rocky mountain oysters.
Caught the clap from a transvestite who went by the name Barbarosa.

I know you been feeding me bread crumbs. Stringing me home. And of course I came back. Never gone for long, I always come back.

Now that I'm here, Rosie...

I wonder if you got anything new to teach me.

Maybe something more profound than revelatory pig shit.

                                           superciliously yours,