Fourword
Go the slugs. Slime.
Habit-Trail
Life went on in varying detail. For all parties involved, up until the hour, it was a regular weekend the likes of which had played out so many times beforehand, even being multigenerational for some, so nothing was expected to occur out of the ordinary in the clash of personalities about to collide, and once and for all, strip-mine the fundamental elements that would convey the tailing principles of what had undoubtedly, under a festering open pit of decrepit degradation, transmogrified into a laid to waste environment incapable of even basic returns upon the decades and centuries long refinement that was utterly incapable of producing anything of value whatsoever; in fact the opposite had occurred, the more material and labor hurled forth, in what could only be wholly accounted as a concentratively waning cesspool of incompetent toady desperation, had left no other societal option other than to file, under the clause of inescapable moral and fiscal bankruptcy, allowing the fed-up and overburdened creditors no other means than a forthwith dismantling of the hideous machinations, lest the assurance of complete and utter obliterative disintegration into an outright inescapable dumb-unist dystopia.
It was the early morning hours of Saturday, strictly of any and non denominationally important Saturday that is, a hanging over of the preceding Friday’s commencement, which had trailed, by many years, the culmination of events that would invariably, deservedly, selfishly, and grandiosely lead to the indexed lateral pressing of the matter which would lead to the audibly emitted warning sent to those inhabiting the domicile of which said doorbell had been so excitedly pressed; and not only such, but the warranted accompanying knock knock knocking raptly laid across the entry portal of timely significance, of what, for the most part was dwelled within an unsuspecting neighbourhood of accompanying and surrounding homely geographical location. Though it was not Halloween in the making, there was a sweetness of aura in the air, where, like that of an illegal fireworks extravaganza, a shockingly explosive show to be set off which would ripple on outwards in deafening showy sensory perception amazement. Not to mention the overabundance of tricks and treats to be laid bare for consumptive purposes. Indeed, it would be a night not to forget. For others, a morning of despair, and as such, a desperate self-mourning for the death of what could be no other than a proclaimed and feigned innocence absently reverberating within what could assuredly be none besides that of a defunct sociopathic centre feeding the all directional anomaly of existential totality. So it always seemed to go. So it went.
Surprise, then panic. Wait, restructure. Okay. Rapture, then surprise, then panic, then euphoric wonderment. “Who else could it be at this hour besides Peter?” thought the homeowner; as Peter was unsure if he was able to make it earlier, but said he may show up later on if his prior engagement allowed a window of opportunity later that night. The ringing intensified, as did the knocking, and was clearly heard behind the homeowners closed door location, of which such a din could now not be ignored – intently causing the homeowner to begrudgingly stop the ensuing entertainment regime, get up, then throw on a bathrobe, before closing the door cautiously after having left the room, then making the journey to the front door while turning on the hallway light to guide the way, all the while thinking, “That Peter, always the centrepiece and life of the party. I wonder what kind of goodies Peter has in store tonight?”
From the civilian side of the front door, in delayed unison with seeing an interior light coming to life within the household, in a deep and intrusively bellowing cry came the utterance “This is the police. We have a search warrant! If you do not open the door immediately we are going break it down and make you pay for the repairs!” Such a crescendo of racket and accompanying exclamation very well may have had the effect of raising the dead, so needless to say, raising some of the neighbourhood was an aftereffect of such an announcement. Meanwhile, on the private side of said door and its state of ultimately undecided state up for contention, euphoric wonderment had turned back to panic, nay, befuddlement, as surely such could be nothing other than a case of mistaken identity. Besides, the homeowner thought, “Do they not know who I am?” So unlock the door, the robed messiah did do, ready to put a rapid decompression to the rabid decommission of energy poised to, of self opinion, certainly mistakenly, make themselves privy, in exuberant fashion, to an open house that would make the sleaziest of sleazy real estate agents fawn for more than the dirty laundry of a worn panties sniffing extravaganza.
“You must have the wrong address” proclaimed the homeowner in the state of excited disbelief that he found himself in, “do you not know who I am?” he blurted out again, though this time not relegated to the supposed infallible voice within his self-deceptive braincase – “my lawyers will have you working at Orange Julius by next week!” he claimed. “Much obliged sir” proclaimed the sergeant who presented the robed messiah with the search warrant so in fallacious question within such a stuporous disbelief. “Now, if you don’t want to go to jail for obstruction of a police investigation, I suggest you find somewhere to sit down quietly and patiently until this investigation has been concluded,” said the police sergeant – “is there anybody else in the residence with you this morning?” The homeowner became livid, “How dare you, this is a travesty, do you not know who I am?…..my lawyers…..” and on and on and on the logorrheic equation of alphabetical subtraction rumbled on belligerently and in agitative dramatic drippings until one of the other police officers was forced to put him in his place by stating, “Listen bud, your wired and combative state, along with your bulging eyeballs and erratic and overly dramatic arm and body movements give the appearance of you being all messed up on cocaine, or something very well along those lines. I will ask you politely one more time to sit down and wait for the conclusion of this investigation, or you will be placed in handcuffed and brought to the station.” The homeowner, finally realizing the futility of the situation, calmed slightly and replied to the two officers, “Listen, I really do not have it in me to sit at this moment, could I just stand quietly and wait?” to which the sergeant replied, “sure.” One more time each, the officers asked the homeowner, “Is there anybody else with you in the residence?” To which the robed messiah could overconfidently state, “No, I am all by my lonesome here guys. Except for you of course.” And so the officers grinned, and the sergeant commanded “Let the games begin.” And so they did. The games that is.
The posse of RCMP officers dispersed within the residence in order to duly search the premises for content related to the search warrant in question. “And you are sure that you are the only one home at this time?” asked the sergeant once more. “Positive” said the homeowner, “I am recently divorced, and it is the kids weekend with their mother. Nobody here but myself.” Little to the robed messiah’s selfishly piddly thought processes, the house had been cased out for going on two years at this point in time, so let’s just say that the homeowner would have some serious splaining to do very soon, as the police had seen four men enter over the course of Friday night, none of which had yet to leave, and one person of unknown identity had entered two days prior and was still contained somewhere within the two storey dwelling. Is such the point in time where Sherlock Holmes or Columbo should be called? Nope, super-sleuths excused. Enter – a juvenile with a Cracker Jack detective kit would be suffice.
As one of the RCMP officers trod across the living room floor in order to turn some lights on, she mercilessly slipped upon the walnut hardwood flooring adorning the living and dining room area, only to reveal a greasy, grimy germinated set of footprints, when followed in reverse from the front door origin of the yet unknown species of gooey globular construct, they not so miraculously led to a bookshelf in the living room, where there was, tellingly, the front half of one footprint curiously beginning at the baseboard of the bookcase in mobility question. Needless to say, the writhing squirm of the robed messiah was upped in ante and overt abundance, making a whigged out meth-head come across as an ALS sufferer inhabiting a subzero environment at the grips of a time and gravity paralyzing machine able to snuff the universal movements and brazenly hold said forces in frozen continuum to the ends of a stasis infinity bound by the ever-clutching hand of God in the never-ending present. ‘Holy Fucking Shit!’ read the facial expression upon the homeowners face, of which was a priceless point in time, where if photographed and framed would uncertainly be worth more than the recipe of universal dark matter ingredients and accompanying gravitational cookbook.
Something was off about the bookshelf in question though. Sure it had books on it and all, but none of them had a spine that was capable of bearing the title of the book in question, as most all books do. After investigatively withdrawing a sample of books from the bookshelf, it was determined that all of the books were indeed colouring books. Yes, colouring books, and the more colouring books that the officers pulled off of the shelves and flipped through, it seemed that whoever had coloured them was suffering from extreme mental deficiencies, as the study of said books was literally incapable of colouring within the lines, and not only so, but the colour coordination was horrible – hot pink, dark maroon, and avocado green hippopotamus’; day-glow orange pine trees; yellow oceans flanked by brown and red clouds; and oddly enough on one of the pages a perfectly filled in unicorn with a sequentially spot on arc of the colours of the rainbow in dazzling pastel, scrawled with the caption, ‘I love me,’ with a big red heart containing a smiley face in the middle. Go figure. And then the officers found it. There was one gargantuan book, on the bottom shelf that was capable of bearing a title on the spine, and it read: Encyclopedia of Colouring Books – 1998 to 2007.
Just then, the sergeant noticed a little black book on the top shelf of the bookcase, so he picked it up and flipped through it – coming across names and accompanying phone numbers, and what seemed to be, from what he could tell, a rating system ranging from zero to sixty-nine. A sampling of names included the likes of Peg Leg Peter; Phat Dong Prong; Ram Rod Rodriguez; Ben Dover; Hung Lo; Deadeye Dick; Randy Randy; King Charles the Turd; Phil McCrackin, Ponytail Carl, and so on. It was filled front to back, in a daisy chain of disgusting intrigue. Undoubtedly, in premonition, after having served twenty five years in the jurisdiction of Ottawa and the political scene that went along with such an undertaking, Sergeant Dredge calmly informed his team, “Before we open that bookcase and the poorly coloured can of worms contained within, everybody is to don their hazmat suits, be prepared with the five gallon bucket of Luminol, be ready with their turkey basters and appropriate sterilized containers for fluid collection, because it is going to be slick in there officers, slick of unknown origin, so it will be a suction cup shoe going area. Not only so – Officer Wrangle, would you please call our SPCA affiliate, as I fear this may be a heavily gerbilized area, therefore an investigation for cruelty to animals will be in order – and do not forget to cut the small hole in your hazmat around your body-cams, then duct tape it to your uniform to adhere to the recent body camera legislation of required compliance while on duty.”
Suited, and unsure what they were truly in for in this house of a virtual king-pin, the Encyclopedia of Colouring Books – 1998 to 2007 was lifted forwards, allowing the bookcase of disgrace to swing open. Whoof, then it hit the posse of RCMP officers. And those on the inside too – four spitting images of King Charles the Turd, in masked form. Ungodly saturation of the senses. The sergeant shouted, “All right all you kings, put your cocks down, and your hands up! The game is over, you are all “royally” screwed!” The ceiling and all four walls were polyed off, of which one wall, from floor to ceiling was set up with an elaborate display of literally every sex object known, and some not yet known, to the non-Globalist populace at large anyways, like the brand new His & Hers Incaptulator – Model 34.5-X. Trust me, you do not want to know. But if you do, use your imagination! The floor of the sexercising room sloped to the north-east corner and led to a massive industrial floor drain with what appeared to be a switch for a garburator behind the transparent, disposable poly wall sheet. There, in the centre of the floor, was a Twister mat, but instead of the usual colour scheme of green, yellow, blue, and red, it was adorned with the pictures of splattered brains, mangled guts, a blood puddle, and a human soul, where after closer investigation it was determined to be a limited edition “Royal” Twister game strictly handed out to aristocracy and those serving the Globalist agenda for a decade or longer, and on the ground beside the mat was the spinning dial of matching human attributes with the needle currently pointed at the human soul motif. There it was, just another Saturday morning in an Ottawan suburb. Though not a gerbil in sight. Strange. Not even a gerbil carcass, and the garburator seemed as of yet unused. Very strange indeed. Someone would have to get to the bottom of it.
“You only get out what you put in!” proclaimed King Charles the Turd. Well, one of four of the King Charles’ anyways. To which Lieutenant Tackle calmly replied, “With the kirpan, orange turban, long beard, measly testicles, and one semen-proof Rolex Degenerator model on each wrist, it is blatantly obvious that it could only be you Jagmeet Singh, behind such a “royal” cover.” The silence became awkward, before the same King Charles piped up, in a horrible British accent, “Jagmeet who? I know of no Jag-meet other than the London Jaguar Car Show held annually every July next to the River Thames. I assure you, I had Diana murdered, molested children with Jimmy Saville, and enjoy nothing better to relax than sipping on gin and baby blood martini’s!” Lieutenant Tackle’s patience was wearing thin so the ultimatum was given, “Listen Jagmeet, you have three seconds to put your cock down, and four more seconds to exit that room, then go and sit, or stand quietly at least one COVID metre away from the homeowner. There will be absolutely no more human contact, or everybody will be going down to the station in handcuffs! And why do all four of you “royal” disciples have ‘Collective Public’ scrawled across your backs in Jumbo Sharpie writing?”
One down, three to go. Sergeant Dredge asked Officer Wrangle, “Do you have any clues as to who any of the other three house guests may be?” To which she replied, “Well, from the fact that one of them has a Gaelic tramp-stamp translating to, ‘Hurley Up,’ I am thinking there is a good possibility that it might very well be the Phil McCrackin we discovered within that little black book. And the other appears to be of Asian descent, with a hammer that would make an Arabian stallion jealous, though seemingly not girthy enough to warrant the ‘Phat Dong Prong’ moniker, so I am leaning toward the possibility of it being none other that Hung Lo.” Sergeant Dredge was impressed and said in kind, “very intuitive and observant reasoning skills Officer Wrangle, you are correct. Before long, you may find yourself upon for promotion.” Then Sergeant Dredge turned to Phil McCrackin and Hung Lo and said, “Okay, you guys know the deal – cocks down, then go and sit or stand at least one COVID metre away from the other two in the living room.” Officer Wrangle’s curiosity got the better of her and she had to ask Sergeant Dredge, “But how did you know it was Phil McCrackin and Hung Lo?” To which Sergeant Dredge stated, “would you ever forget such a tramp-stamp, and third leg if you were to run into them again?” Surely Officer Wrangle would not, so she clearly confirmed such an evidentiary truism. “Well, this is the fifth and sixth clothes-less run in with these two gentlemen I have had in my Ottawan policing experience: “let’s see, there were the three Stephen Harper dust-up disturbances of the 2000’s, the Paul Martin sexcapade spectacular before that, and then there was also the Jack Layton gerbil scandal of 2005.” To which Hung Lo blurted out, “Do not forget about the Bev Oda affair!” Sergeant Dredge chuckled immensely, “right, the Bev Oda affair, how could anyone ever live that one down? And people were up in arms about a thirty dollar orange juice. Man, if the truth ever came out on that one!”
Meanwhile in the living room, a few COVID metres away from Jagmeet Singh, Phil McCrackin, and Hung Lo, the homeowner, Just-him Truedope was becoming evermore agitated, flushed red in facial colouring, overarchingly animated, excited, and unable to generally keep still, as if he had some form of magic dancing bean being the centre of his core in what was responsible for his existential purpose in general. And the dramatics. Yes the personified vocalization of the equivalent of swallowing a cup or so of liquid and said liquid actually finding its way into one’s windpipe. Basically, a sputtering logorrheic catastrophe was Just-him Truedope. “I think we may have found the missing motherlode of gerbils!” Officer Gauge comically intimated. To Which the Truedope replied, “Nope, I’m alright, I just ate too many pirogies for a midnight snack energy booster. My stomach will surely settle.” And that left but one one masked King Charles the Turd, cock long since down and feeble, waiting to be outed from the sexercise room well past its way to putting the cauc in caucus.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” Officer Gauge let it be known to the sole remaining occupant standing but feet away from a floor to ceiling, wall to wall extravaganza of pleasure and pain so intricately on display for the Ottawan-London-Washington DC connoisseur of Throne Troll dedication, “and I assure you, the hard way is not what you have running through your mind, and surely, not too long ago, what seems to have been running through every orifice in your possession.” And like the shifty Ottawan weasel he would turn out to be, the not so real King Charles let the posse of RCMP, and now SPCA contingent contained within the living room, while standing at least one Covid metre away from the other gangbangers in said question period, that; in a worse British accent than Jagmeet Singh: “But I am the real Queen, oops, King Charles the Turd, and I will prove it to you, for you see, Camilla the dog faced woman is indeed actually a man, and does so possess a penis much greater in aesthetics than that of the honourable Chrystia Freeland.” Sergeant Dredge, with his twenty five years of Ottawan service, plainly vocalized what almost every other officer on site was about ready to state: “Take off that fucking mask Pierre Poilievre, and let that twelve inch strap-on dildo hit the floor while you are at it, there is no need to be packing such in the presence of the SPCA, let alone the RCMP. I could legally strike you for such aggressive behaviour, and geez, would I ever enjoy that, but something tells me the punch would just roll right off, not to mention the splash factor and possible pinkeye infection now that my hazmat hood has been removed.” While, in ever greater roiling discomfort, the Truedope squirmed, squirmed, and squirmed evermore. Those pirogies, clearly a meal to be reckoned with.
Daylight had broken by this time on that non denominationally important Saturday morning, and rumour had quietly spread among many of the residents of said homely geographical location dwelling of the as of yet unconfirmed happenings contained within the confines of Cana-duh’s so fiercely loathed prime minister, Just-him Truedope, so by now a crowd was ever gathering, in fact, not only of said homely locals, but some of the press had actually set up shop outside, though not the CBC (Canadian Brainwashing Corporation) as they had caught wind of a trans-kitty-cat swept away in a backyard swimming pool rupture across town, of which earlier the previous day, said trans-kitty was rejected in the job it had applied for as a junkyard guard dog – which had initially peaked the CBC’s interest, so when they found out that a ruptured swimming pool had conspired with the aforementioned junkyard owner, and clearly every dog within Ottawa city limits, and beyond, the CBC had no choice but to begin a three million dollar exposé and rush it into production so it could be on all airwaves and internet channels before the beginning of the month long celebration of raving pussies. And at this very moment, a very loud motorcycle sprung to life right next door to the home of the nation-assailant in question period, that shameful skunk, Just-him Truedope. The motorcycle in question sounded like a Hardley Davidson.

Ponytail Carl
The robed messiah interjected: “That is just my neighbour Ponytail Carl. He thinks that motorcycle fools the neighbours, and that it makes him tough, cool, to be feared, respected, and most importantly, not a raging homosexual. But I tell you, when I get Ponytail Carl in my sexercise room and strap on that twelve inch ribbed dildo, he turns into putty within my hands; and whoever else’s hands are around to confirm, while attempting to remedy him from the now decade long time period of him no longer able to achieve an erection. Even so, Ponytail Carl scores a sixty-nine on my black book rating!”
To anyone paying attention, it must certainly be clear that there were only four “royal” masked King Charles the Turd sexercisers with ‘Collective Public’ scrawled across their backs in Jumbo Sharpie writing that had been unmasked early that Saturday morning; where very clearly the RCMP surveillance had picked up one unknown person of interest two days prior entering the Truedope’s premises, of whom had failed to yet leave the residence. After having performed what was a diligent search of the house, the posse of RCMP members conferred in conclave and let it be known that a more thorough search must be performed in order to try and locate the mystery person, and having since not found any gerbils in distress, they had better perform one last furry critter check, so they could send the SPCA away and let them get on with their day if they were to come up empty in the Habitrail Tube feeding department.
“Okay Officer Wrangle, you know what to do. Just like we talked about in training not too long ago. And take Officer Hearken with you, as he needs the experience,” said Lieutenant Tackle. Officers Wrangle and Hearken walked toward the robed messiah and informed him that he will have to be detained in handcuffs for now as the RCMP had found evidence to warrant such an action. “How preposterous, this is a travesty, a farce, a two-bit scam – my lawyers will have you working at a dildo manufacturing warehouse by tomorrow morning…” said the Truedope as he danced and squirmed about uncontrollably. “Come on Pookie, take it easy, settle down, just do as the officers say and it will all be over soon,” the at least one COVID metre spaced apart Phil McCrackin. Jagmeet Singh, Hung Lo, and Pierre Poilievre begged simultaneously of the Truedope. So Just-him submitted, he stood at attention, his heartbeat slowed, and some colour returned to his face as he placed his hands behind his back and allowed Officer Hearken to restrain his wrists behind his back. After doing so, Officer Hearken stood off to the side of the robed messiah, but firmly grasped him by the left arm and shoulder and let hiim know that Officer Wrangle just had to perform a little bit of a check on him, and before long it would all be over. Seeing that the Truedope was now restrained and calm, Sergeant Dredge walked over and told Officer Wrangle to stand off to the right side of the robed messiah and grasp his right arm and shoulder as Officer Hearken had just done with his left, and so Officer Wrangle did.
With Just-him Truedope being calm and restrained, Sergeant Dredge walked up to him, put one more hand on his shoulder, and with the other hand, proceeded to tickle the robed messiah’s chin, and tickle it good. “What are you doing? Stop that this instant!” Just-him gigglingly, and adamantly demanded, “I am extremely ticklish, you are going to make me pee my pants. Stop it, I beg of you!” But Sergeant Dredge tickled on and on and on, the Truedope beginning to lose control in hysterical laughter and spastic cringing. Officer Hearken cried out, “This is it, the motherlode, I can sense it!” And sense it Officer Hearken did, so just then he stepped back, and warned Officer Wrangle to do the same; then, they all stood back in amazement in what they were about to see. The two SPCA members clenched their nets in anticipation of the possibility of some live captures coming into play, sweat beading on their foreheads of wonderment as to what such a party trick would reveal from such an obvious treat! Lo and behold, from under the robed messiah, plopped none other than a living and breathing human being, covered in muck and shame, both written and permeated all over his face. His eyes were squinted and blinking profusely, he gazed around the room in shock and disbelief that the Truedope had unpacked him in the middle of a costume party! Then, with a strong UKrainian accent, Volodomyr Zelensky wailed, “My aid payment. Where is my aid payment? Just-him, you told me that when you let me out, my regular duffle bag of cash would be waiting, along with my carton of wet-naps! You lied to me! Not fair, this is not fair. Wah! Wah! Wah!” Nobody spoke. How could anyone speak after bearing witness to that, at least for a good minute. “Call the UKrainian embassy,” Lieutenant Tackle said – “I wonder if diplomatic immunity translates into STD nullification?” Just then, Hung Lo piped in, “So how’s about that Bev Oda affair now? – this Zelensky affair just cost the Canadian taxpayer in excess of fifteen million Euros!”
And if that was not enough for the stunned crowd in attendance, and what would surely be a field day for the press outside if they ever caught wind of what was transpiring within said peepshow house of horrors, a loud knocking began to emanate from the now supposedly vacant sexercise theatre of slippery suggestions. Then in abject frightful thought, it painfully crossed the mind of the robed messiah, as it did simultaneously with the opposite emotion of sweet content and glee across the face of Lieutenant Tackle; two differing conclusions on the very same bearing witness to events recently unfolded: Geez, was the Truedope ever regretting him being the number one proponent of forcing all Ottawa police forces to wear and use body cameras at all time while on duty. And man, was Lieutenant Tackle ever glad that the Truedopehad lobbied so hard to force the Ottawa police forces to wear body cameras at all times, including during the search warrant upon the robed messiah’s prime residence. Humble pie. Yes everything that had transpired up to said moment was recorded many fold over for posterity, as would what was yet to come! Sweet humble pie.
Yes, knocking emanating from the abandoned sexercise room! “Alright officers, cuff up the lot of them, and Officer Gauge, you watch over them as the rest of us check this disruption out. Do not worry, you will not miss a thing. It will be recorded from many different angles!” As the Posse of officers entered the sexercise room, they all agreed that it had to be coming from underneath The “Royal” edition Twister mat draped across the centre of the sexercise room’s floor. Officer Wrangle, hazmat suit still on, apart from the hooded visor, picked up, from the sex-rack, a long, broad, and what seemed to be a battery powered and trigger operated contraption that was labeled as: His & Hers Incaptulator – Model 34.5-X. With it she carefully swept the ooze covered, Twister “Royal” edition mat to the side of the sexercise room, sure enough, revealing what was unquestionably a trap door with a small fold down handle for gaining access. “This is the police, we are going to open the hatch! If you have any weapons, I suggest you drop them now, and be prepared to come out with you hands up!” yelled Sergeant Dredge. To which the posse of RCMP officers immediately heard a scurrying sound and much squeaking and whimpering.
“Okay Wrangle, take that His & Hers Incaptulator – Model 34.5-X device, and with the obverse hook, grab hold of the latch handle and slowly lift the hatch open. Everyone else, flashlights in one hand, glocks in the other. Once Wrangle has the hatch open I will creep up to the hole and see what we are in store for. Please take a moment to ensure that your body cameras are still turned on,” Sergeant Dredge commanded. As officer Wrangle began to open the hatch and let some light in, and needless to say, some stench out, the scurrying, squeaking and whimpering grew louder, as did the familiar stench. Well, somewhat familiar stench anyways. It smelled like a pet store. A souring and spoiling pet store that is. Sergeant Dredge crept up to the edge and cautiously shone his flashlight within as he slowly leaned forwards, glock aimed down the hatch opening. Dredge glanced down at the floor through the opening, and the floor was alive with frantic, furry movement. He crept a bit closer and got to take in the entirety of what was presented to him in puzzling perplexity. In his twenty five years in Ottawa Police service he had never seen anything like it. Sergeant Dredge motioned for his posse to lower their weapons and gather around the sight to behold.
The RCMP Posse, and the SPCA pairing all gazed in wonderment at what they were looking down upon. The compartment was about six feet tall, and close to eight foot by eight foot square. In the one corner there appeared to be what could be described as nothing other than a three foot long by one foot deep slop-trough contained within the floor, and subsequently fed and filled by the slurry of what was definitively confirmed to be a garburator, beneath the industrial floor drain in the lowest north-east corner of the sloped sexercise room floor above this decrepit compartment. And if that was not wholly enough a descriptive quandary of decency to behold in Habitrail amazement, there was indeed a five foot in diameter hamster wheel attached to the wall upon a central bearing of magnificent function. In fact, Officer Gauge grasped it, then gave but a flick of the wrist, then on and on and on and on it went; so much so, that resistance seemed futile. As mentioned before, the floor was alive with frantic, furry movement of what appeared to be innumerable gerbil, hamster, guinea pig, and even a few ferrets. But the most astonishing surprise was indubitably a full grown person cowering in the corner, sucking upon his thumb, and wearing what morosely seemed to be a full on furry bodysuit sewed together and consisting of gerbil, hamster, guinea pig, and possibly ferret pelts. Everyone in attendance peered curiously at this furry, whimpering, cowering, possibly contagious, and seemingly excited, furry little beast, as the hand not feeding his suckled thumb to such an eager mouth, was indeed pawing at where one would likely find the genetalia of a hamster, gerbil, ferret, gunea pig, ferret, or human being. Pawing, and pawing rapidly at that, whatever it was. Just then, they had all had enough, they glanced at each other around this sordid display of the absolute moral bankruptcy that they had come to know too familiarly on this non denominationally important Saturday morning, and Lieutenant Tackle, making sure that his body camera had a prime viewing angle into the depths of despair, calmly and sternly said, “Will the real King Charles please stand up.”
That not so cute furry beast did comply in resting on its haunches, thumb in mouth, still pawing and pawing away. “Chuck! cut it out this instant,” bellowed Officer Hearken – “this is one heck of a sticky situation, do you have anything to say for yourself, before your catch and release?” At which point the real King Charles whimpered, “Mummy, I want my Mummy – how I wish that I never smothered her to death with a pillow not too long ago. Damn codswallop to think that I could look after myself so. Those curtain twitchers were correct in predicting my absolute failure and slide back so regressively and beyond into my Jimmy Saville years. I want Mummy! Mummy where are you?” Officer Hearken replied, “don’t you worry about your Mummy, as you call her, something tells me you two will be reunited in Hell sooner than you expect, followed not too long after by your two useless children.”
The posse of RCMP officers rounded them all into the living room, where Lieutenant Tackle informed the gathering of political futility and loose assembly of cling-on prostitutes that they would all be taking a ride to the station in the awaiting paddy wagon, but not before being stripped of all clothing articles tainted immensely by elements of who knows what due to the health hazard that they were. Lieutenant Tackle said to Officer Wrangle, “Go to the kitchen and bring back seven tea towels, while the other officers remove the remaining clothing from these sexercising fools and then handcuffs them all with their hands out front, then give one tea towel to each of them so they have something to cover themselves as they perform their walk of shame before the eyes of the nation.” A viral sensation no doubt, in more ways than one.
As Officer Wrangle went to retrieve the tea towels, and the other officers began the tainted clothes removal, Sergeant Dredge turned, in need of some clarification, in the Truedope’s direction and asked, “How is it that the sixth man entered the premises, when we only witnessed five people enter the property over the course of two days?” Then remembering what he had just witnessed over the course of said non-denominational Saturday morning, he realized that there was no need to have asked such a question, as it was quite clear that Just-him Truedope was indeed, quite literally, the shallowest political slob in existence while simultaneously being the most cavernous, if one is able to catch his drift. But there was one question that Sergeant Dredge thought necessary to ask the robed messiah, strictly out of curiosity of course, and certainly not of replicative admiration, so Sergeant Dredge asked politely, and perhaps a little too inquisitively: “So who does one call if one wants such a customized sexercise room to built within their residence?” To which the Truedope winked, then let it be known: “Some guy out of Burnaby, British Columbia – his company is called Freelance Enterprises. A real professional. Though he don’t swing that way. Trust me, I tried and tried! You just have to keep him stocked in Hustler magazines and varying brands of Pale Ales. Let’s just say the garburator is no longer a virgin once he is done the job; it is the first thing installed and the last to be finished with. He has a strict ‘Do Not Disturb’ clause.”
With all of the bad actors except for one now stripped down, tea towels in place for their upcoming perv-walk into the public domain, Lieutenant Tackle said to the robed messiah, “Okay, time to disrobe, before we read you your rights and take you down to the station for booking.” Then and there the robed messiah became the naked messiah. The exceedingly naked messiah, actually, for it seemed that some time ago somebody had actually crucified the testicles and penis of the Truedope, Crucified them to the threshold of them dying upon the double-cross. There was literally just a pissing hole where one must assume there was at one time a penis? A veritable eunuch, in the now not so complete flesh. And as the eunuch messiah turned to have his rights read to him by Officer Wrangle, it all suddenly made sense to Lieutenant Tackle, for you see, as the Truedope turned away, it revealed a tramp-stamp of tramp-stamps, in epic proportions of which read, in bold, capitalized font: PROPERTY OF DAVOS!
Then Officer Wrangle read the eunuch messiah the warranted rights and informed him that “he” was indeed under arrest for conspiring with foreign Globalist conspirators to undermine the sovereignty and political discourse of the nation, as well as numerous counts of fraud regarding the awarding of COVID vaccine contracts leading to the forced vaccination upon the vast majority of the nation, for which he would be facing assault causing bodily harm and mental anguish by every Canadian that decided to come forward and sign the petition that would allow them to press charges at will in a class action criminal indictment against a classless Globalist Eunuch unable to see “his” own reflection in such a hideously non-reflective anomaly known as his life. Not to mention the numerous counts of money laundering and tax evasion stemming from uncovered offshore numbered bank accounts. Oh right, and the eight-hundred and sixty-seven felonies of being a filty, dirty-rotten, pathological lying fuck-face supreme. As well, possession of four, His & Hers Incaptulator – Model 34.5-X’s of which had yet to be approved by the Canadian Standards Association. Yeah, the unpolished brass opted to not go for the treason charge and hang that eunuch messiah on parliament hill. What a pity.
Then, out the front door the tea towel clasping degenerates walked, though most waddled, and surely the station chief was going to have a field day in deciding whether or not is was even worth attempting to figure out what such a veteran gruesome crew was packing. It would probably be best, as the force could hardly afford have numerous officers out for prolonged amounts of time after suffering PTSD from engaging in such a task. And so they waddled past the now gathered mass of irate citizenry, on all sides of the political spectrum finally, after being literally bombarded with the true perception of what Globalist parliamentary “democracy” truly was: Just a bunch of defunct cowards, degenerates, pathological liars, fawning pukes, and all out scrambled personalities hiding behind closed doors while royally fucking the collective public at large with all of the tools at their disposal, as they force feed us a slurry of lies and expect us to swallow such as ultimate truisms. Welcome to the garburator, you have been rendered, consumed, swallowed whole, then regurgitated in a vicious cycle, and all for their perverted pleasure and power games of insatiably lubed trails of slime leading to a horror show beyond belief. So pick one of their sides and join the funeral. They are one and the same. A vicious circle-jerk of filth “Royal” Twister addition leading into a cancelling of the ages and a clearing of the hold.
Just then Officer Wrangle piped up, “Do you really think it is wise to put them all in the same paddy wagon for the fifteen minute ride back to the station? I would not be surprised if they were all drowned in a filled to the ceiling catastrophe of filth in that amount of time. Imagine the paper work on that one!”
So goes the allegory.
No, you can not pick the allegory off of the rack!