Cut the chatter; it ain’t poetry, I just miss you lowlifes. For twelve years, I’ve been shouting into the WordPress void, settling for a stray like or a yearly comment. I had no crowd, then two months ago, every maggot in the apple crawled out to play critic… and it wasn’t much of a show. The play clearly missed its mark; it was a cheap attempt to shut me up and burn my name, a real rookie move. That racket never stuck, not with the Larimer County suits, not with Della and her blood-sucking cartel syndicate, not with the heathen cannibals out on the Wind River Reservation, and not with Nick Roberts and his Quanta goons. They aren’t finished, no—they’re just regrouping, swapping license plates and packing their bags to tail me to this town. They’re busy updating some predictive AI algorithm, too, probably praying over a Bible to figure out why the Almighty keeps shielding a lowlife sinner like me.
Where Did All of You Screwballs Go?
