Faux in the Rough

  Bell Town. What a faux in the rough. A town with no citizens. Only loggers and shop keeps, whores, bouncers, and stuffed shirts. I say it again. There are no citizens of Bell Town. Only passers by who refuse to leave, mothers who refuse to divorce, fathers who refuse to be loyal, cheating on their wives with a mistress they call boss. Milkmen who feed, and breed, and populate this town with bastards from exotic planets. Erotic planets, that are only a short drive through the cosmic dust kicked up by the inter-celestial logging trucks of days past, to the galaxy of “Strip-Bar.” Milkmen who supply this town with spoiled, tainted milk from planet “Lap Dance.” Milk tainted with the sedatives prescribed by the fathers of milkmen, who increase their knowledge with college, and turn like Dr. Frankenstein, on the villagers below. Unleashing monsters of repetitveness and comfort and relaxation. Citizens, drink the milk, warm it at night, feed it to the kitties, give chocolate milk to the children.  Drink, drink, drink, the milkman’s nectar, and you to will never leave this town, ever. . . Steer clear passers by. The Doctor is in, giving health cards to the macabre, nefarious, strippers. I love this town. . . It’s so medium rare steak and eggs, over easy, with hot buttery toast, and a big glass of cold milk.