Safehouse

I'm up early, comparatively. Friends are visiting but they are still asleep. It seems since I've gotten back from Europe I've had more friends visit than I have the entire time I've lived in San Francisco. An Irish Canadian (the most dangerous kind) and an upperclass white-trash giant from Arizona are currently unconscious in the next room. They arrived at my apartment when I did, at 7:00 this morning. We'd split up last night, when I went to pursue the sweet sweet velvety deliciousness of my girlfriend's bagina. It's a cross between a freshly baked, warm baguette and a vagina. I told her I wanted to use her body, that I was just there so my dough could rise, but after the deed was done she wouldn't let me leave to go see my friends. Like a boa constrictor she wrapped herself around me until I could no longer flee. Her softness was irresistible and so I did the only thing I could. I slept. We broke bread once more in the morning and then I left to return home. I had to shit fantastically so once I exited the Uber I ran up the stairs of my building and approached the door. I was greeted by the fresh scent of menthol and stale liquor. Two pairs of hastily discarded shoes lay at the foot of my door. When I entered I saw Big P lying in my bed with his pants down and a bearded Irishmen collapsed on the air mattress I inflated before going out last night. He was wrapped up in a blanket and was wearing a red cape. They were in a deep fog and, chuckling, P told me they'd just gotten in. I felt my anus about to discharge, so I ran into the bathroom. After the detonation I resumed talks with my out of town refugees. They looked war-torn and battered, beleaguered and in need of mercy. A name was whispered, of a very bad man: Terry. He'd done this to them, they said. I was familiar with the man, and what he was capable of.

Knowingly I nodded and told them they were safe here, that I wouldn't let him hurt them ever again.