When me and Rudy heard about the old Chancellor’s kidnapping tax we was like blitzkreiged. What a gruntworthy opp, we thought, the good ship lollypop bearing down on our pissass resources like a cargo hold of T-rexes and bloody hell. We’d do a quick snatch and jab, I says, sting like a butterfly, and make righteous the whole thing, do our homework online and all, and only pick the most ripe. It’d be like smoooooth-aaassss-slick, I told him. And he was like I’m in, like we gonna rich our way to the good stuff, a stretchlimo full of sugar’s best.
So we done the resurf at the liberry and found us a prime, some net guy with bibillions and a fifteen-year-old girlychile named Lulu. Nofuckinway, say Rudy when I tell him. But true as christmas all the same, and so’s we plan it out all legal like—make to keep our snag comfy, notarize the ransom-doc, and sign the agree of fortypercent from the gravyboat paid to the Chancellor like the new law say. All legal and codelike.
But Lulu’s poppy difficult it. He say no, you keep the bitch. He buy twenty new daughters for half what we ask and not pay any tax. The law’s dumber than you, he say, meaning Rudy and me, and Rudy spazzes and hedgetrims the girl’s toe, nail polish and all, since she got like crazy long pianobar fingers and Rudy ain’t no heathen, but poppy he don’t budge.
Next thing we news on the screen is Lulu’s old man offering up our rightful yearned money to some marchingband of legaleagles and judgejudies and they go after the law and Chancellor both, which Rudy say he sorry about, the old guy only doing what’s best for our crowd and COUNTRY, and next thing we know the whole thing’s RhettButlered, and the streets near the palace all fuzzy with jubulation and gunfire, and then the old Chancellor he-self gone and poppy’s out gunning for us. And all that on account of we just asking for what we rightful dessert.
So now we like flies in beeshit, Rudy say, with Lulu along for the ride, no hard feelings about the toe, but starving 24/7, and we about oldmotherhubbard with foodstuff. And what to do?
We fuckt, Rudy say. And I say no, we bin fuckt, and it’s like afters, sprawled on the mat all shot and dry-eyed, wondering if it be it, and should we haul our sweetasses outta there first light, or maybe bummer up and try agin.