Post foo ost guts, he replied.
Belly be ckons, flap/ping G, (was the response, echoing from the back forty, a familiar holler, soft & rounded, with emphasis on the c, g, and / ).
Iota, oh, oh, ohgod ohgod, was his chirp, although everyone knew he didn't rally behind those words, it was more like he did it under duress, like that guy on tv once did.
Shi doe snnn, annn, ftssss, what was all the (pause) thuh thuh... (spoke the voice from behind the door, raspy, as if having had a sour beer and was faking enjoying the contents).
Rrrrxxxxx, said a mom-type, holding the X out with a series of secondary drones, with a subwoofer layer that resonated within the gauges of a dropped E string, 56? 74? practically a bass, but with the sheering attack of a baritone, maybe a Fender, but I doubt it, given the sustain which blasted the ears with a good forty minutes.
Huv, torp, languishing in redge, he summoned, maybe a bit too fatherly, but then again, none were privy to his past, so maybe he did sire a child or two, a wife in every port, a penis untethered, an every-man's dream, a guy we could all like, a rapist, a fucker, a molester, an abuser, a user, a bro, a fascist, a man who didn't mind using racial epithets.
Funny, I dote on toilets, gurgled someone, not sure who.
Hu. No, I said, H-U, coughed a stern male voice.
Who? a whisper repeated.
<ø))~~~§<
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