sixwordstories | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Sorry, David Byrne still beats Morrissey.

Ahhh ok, see, now I get it: you're so distracted by my junk that you've never bothered to look up north. If that ain't the epitome of rude, I don't know what is.

And no, you may not touch.

I said anywhere but. I was busy looking off at that wall.

I wouldn't want to. It's probably all burnt and mangled and hideous. And if it isn't, I'd rather not know.

Haven't we been over this already? Is this becoming a fetish for you? I know you like to dwell on it, but I feel like a broken record when I have to tell you for the 76th time that my dick isn't black and charred and in fact, ladies line up for that shit.

Not really. I forget the conversation shortly after we've had it.

Yeah, and women line up for Cobblepot, too. Desperate women interested in money or a thrill. Sorry, you're not my type. I'm rich, famous, hot, and can do better than you for a one night stand any time.

Whoa whoa whoa, I never said I was offering.

I don't do drag queens.

Yeah. That's just the nonchalant answer guys that know they're hideous and couldn't get with a chick as hot as me ever say. I feel bad for you. I really do.

But not enough to screw you.

That's a damned lie and you know it. I wonder how Daddy would feel knowing his little girl was a liar and a whore?

Disappointed, I bet.

My father would beat the shit out of you, just like he did those Nazi bastards as part of the All-Star Squadron.

And then? Sargon would beat the shit out of you. And Rose Psychic and Doctor Occult and every damn magic user you could ever think of.

And then you'd watch the videotape over and over and over again, you disgusting voyeur.

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