Jus’ talkin’ about Shaft…

As a break from my current angst and venom- or perhaps summoned by it- an apparition darkened my doorway. Not some vague, insubstantial wisp or ghostly vapor, but a glowering hulk of leather clad menace, who, as always, looks as if he fuels his bike with the blood of virgins and lunches on unsuspecting families who’s minivans have broken down on some abandoned stretch of highway. You’ve seen Raising Arizona? Remember the biker, roaring along the desert and blowing away lizards with one of his dual slung shotgons as he blew past? Picture him, but impeccably clean, and frighteningly smart. Scowls like a stormcloud.

That’s my droog Raptor.

He blew his way up north over a couple of days from all the way down in (Deleted for security reasons), doubtless leaving crying children and deflowered virgins scattered in his wake.  Apparently, the carrion crows which bear his messages and herald his passage informed him of my recent alterations, and he had to come in person to get a peek, and see if there were any leftovers he could feed his many brides in their basement cells. I beleive it says a great deal about our relationship that my first words to him (After I recovered from the shock of his arrival; bleeding walls can mean so many things) were, in fact: “Lick my stump.”

I had not seen him in far too long. He is a kinsman, and another man who I know would always have my back. The only thing that bothers me is that if we ended up in prison together, he’d get the top bunk. 

Bad news, that.