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‘How about Some Sin?’
Said the Proprietor of Safehouse Jersey: 5/29/2022
© 2022 James LaFond
Yesterday afternoon Mister Safrono invited me along to have some light beer and fried codfish at a nice little bar. This bar was a redneck affair, a rural-suburban bar in Amboy-Perth, with a healthy athletic barmaid of 40 years behind the counter and two fresh teenagers, a soygirl and a soyboy, a very low-T pair, who where well-intentioned and mild mannered, with the latter asking us about his beer pouring skills; something he aspired to master at his young age of perhaps 18. But with whatever is in the water, he could have been 25, without a hair on his chin.
The patrons, Boomers, Gen-X and Milennial were all zombied out on their supplication devices, peering endlessly into their hypnotic palm bible. Mister Sofrano did fight the good fight, finding racist songs, country songs, southern fried rock melodies, all in an attempt to generate a single spark of life. The five screens beamed female and ebony athletics and sainthood continuously to the patrons. Those patrons who had retreated outside to avoid the terrible TV screen images of their extinction seemed to like Mister Sofrano’s music. But every time he selected a song, the next song would be selected by the programming bot, and would always be some mindless version of hip hop.
“I could select classical or death metal and these fuckers would still make the next song one with the POZ,” opined my generous guide.
The Soyboy was detailed by C-Cup Barmaid to override the eternally gay matrix. He was fighting this fight as we left.
Driving across the widest bridge complex I have ever seen, over the Raritan we saw a sign, “Best Girls in Town: GoGo.”
Mister Safrona asked, “James, How about some Sin?”
“Sir, after that avalanche of globohomo back at the redneck bar, yes—third world curves and god ole sin sounds like a resurrection!”
We were soon into a wonderland of Pulp Fiction pinup art, most of which came armed with a G-string and about a dozen English words. Mister Safrano surveyed the crowd, “Eesh, this is a little low end for my taste. Note the marquee claim, “In Town, best girls in town. We might opine that across the street is out of town. Well, two of them look almost white—but I see, dear James, that you are already smitten with the Aztec princess there who would sooner throw your head down a pyramid stair…”
“My dear, this is my good friend, James, James LaFond, Aryаn Warrior, from Out of State.”
Her long sleek black hair and cartoonish figure framed a face that could have been seen anywhere on earth in heroic times as she followed my one eye trying to measure her figure and grinned cutely and asked, “Dis nice place, dis Out of State?”
Mister Sofrano hefted her ass cheek and said, “Yes, My Dear, Out of State is a wonderful place. Enjoy, James, here, don’t be shy,” as he handed me a few hundred ones and slapped the ass of another woman, this psychotic redheaded Columbian bitch who dressed like Klark Kent’s office coworker. Maria, a year in from Columbia with six months left to go crawling all over men from the fabled land of Out of State, walked me to the back room and assured me, “Oh Poppy, you so handsome.” Then. Once I was seated in state with this vixen insisting that I hold her hips and squeeze, she checked under the hood and said, “Oh, Poppy, you still strong—you like Maria…”
Then came Malissa, a foot shorter, a foot wider and a foot deeper in the hips, with an even tinier waste and hair down to her knees, doing a fifteen minute dance in front of me trying to see if she could get the unpatched eye to rupture. She said only, “Poppy, me no English,” and wiggled her giant jelly ass like a vending machine, seeming to have fun with the one eye trying to see her form and very pretty face at the same time. She said, “Malissa, one year...back to Columbia. Come smoke, Poppy.”
Malissa was by far the prettiest face in the place. I ironically received a text from Cutie Homesteader, “Sir, have a nice memorial day and may you get a big butt lap dance! America!”
I texted her back a distant pic of Malissa on stage.
Malissa led me to the outside Hookah lounge where a Columbian whigger named Brad suggested I come to his country and enjoy the ladies and hire a good German doctor to fix my eye.
In the Hookah Lounge was Queen Loca, a big-assed caramel slut who was done her shift and had stuck around to prey upon smaller strippers, who she tried to mouth rape any time they were unprotected by a male customer. Two Kyshatria men, the older brother a gangster from Indian who runs girls in California and Denver as well, took turns refereeing this activity.
Elder Kyshatria is a dark, square-headed rakish fellow who was interested in me seeming to be Mister Safrona’s bodyguard. He watched me closely, and decided I was just a friend as soon as he divined by the way I stepped gingerly around a rolling bottle, “Oh, you are drunk—me too, I am drunk. Nothing to fear—enjoy the girls...the girls, so many girls for us…”
The men’s room was sometimes frequented by the tall ebony strippers but was always open and guarded by the attendant. This 14 by 12 foot tiled room has a stainless steel line sink as a urinal, filled with ice, across from two stalls. The trash can is against the left wall and on the right wall sits the massive heavy-jowled attendant on his stool, handing towels to those who wash their hands—meaning me. He has a tip bucket which I placed a few dollars in, next to the sink, above which is an array of candies in single serve wrappers, chap stick, cologne, and other late night date necessities like breathe mints and condoms.
A skeevy old Greek runs the place, with the aid of two Mexican barbacks, a soyboy manager, three security contractors that look like MMA cartoons, two barmaids, some 25 strippers—generally at a one-to-one ratio with customers. Other than the large man who gives me praying hand salute when I tip him for the hand towel, the most interesting character is Juju Quartermaine, a man who I named on the spot and will be a sidekick to Longhsank Kane, a character based on me, if I were tall.
This fellow is an African pygmy—I kid you not! He seems to be the janitor and his eyes are ever at ass cleavage level, perhaps skewing his view of the world that seems like mostly big tits and pretty faces to me… The Elder Kyshatria brother who manages the Hookah Longue engages in low-dance mime capers between the bars with Juju, who can dance nearly as well as his sister, who is one of the barmaids and has the widest hip to height ratio on Planet Earth, as she is only 4 feet tall and her ass is 3 feet wide…
What a cast of characters...then she found me…
To be continued, tomorrow, or, if you have the PDF, right after the page break…
Best Man in a Bad Business
the man cave
‘Out of State!’
night city
crag mouth
advent america
plantation america
z-pill forever
sons of aryаs
solo boxing
time & cosmos
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