Epi walked back and forth in front of the haggis case, examining each of the bulging beauties in turn. “That one,” he said, to the butcher’s hand hovering over them. “That fat one on the left. Let me see it.” The butcher held it up for him. The tight little balloon-knot of the stomach was perfect. “Can I?” Epi asked. The butcher nodded and held it closer. Epi slapped the plump rump of the haggis. It was firm. Ripe. Ready for him. “I’ll take it.” He got a far-away look as the butcher weighed and wrapped the greasy lump. He barely noticed the price, numbly handing over notes that meant nothing from his wallet.
“Have you ever cooked one of these, lad?” asked the butcher, “You need instructions?”
Epi stumbled out into the street without hearing a word.
Andrew and Eric each swirled their tongues around the mouth into a tornado of desert lust. Their mustaches were wet with each other and excited, stiff like the spine ridge of a threatened dog. “It’s about law and order,” Andrew murmured, “we can’t let chaos reign.”
“Of course not,” Eric replied in a hoarse whisper. “Our enemies want to kill us. They wait for us under every bed.”
Eric gasped as Andrew’s thumb slipped into the scaled confines of his anus. Eric rubbed Andrew’s slack testicles in response, gently fondling each veined oblong in turn.
“How,” asked Andrew, “how can it be that I love a libertarian? What will I tell Joe?”
“Tell him,” Eric said, between the flutter of small kisses he was peppering Andrew face with, “that I’m barely a libertarian anyway. I hate Mexicans too.”
Chuck's intern farted a little bit when she leaned forward. Just a little fart. A little dainty lady fart like she might let slip in church standing to sing a hymn, or sliding forward into the stir-ups at a gynecological exam.
Chuck pretended not to notice, but he had a hard time denying the burgeoning erection filling the plain but tight cotton panties he wore. He tried to focus on the paperwork before him, but his eyes were drawn repeatedly to the exciting words in the text: tax, mandate, penalty... the sinuous sumptuousness of redistribution.
Re-dis-tri-bu-tion. Five syllables. An entire first line of a haiku. A haiku he would write about her. Her and her little fart.
