You can take the boy out of the Devil but not the Devil out of the boy
When you're born in a burning house, you think the whole world is on fire. But it's not.
Vices shouldn't be safe. They're what remind us we're alive and mortal.
Up ahead, Donut Universe shines like the Virgin Mary doing barrel rolls over Lourdes, so I head over.
Then you better tell whoever is Lucifer, because I’m living in his palace, wearing his clothes, and peeing in his shower.
The angel makes a sharp turn and shoots back at me. I shout some Hellion hoodoo and it has about as much effect as reading cupcake recipes to a lobster.
The Magistrate and Empress stand arm in arm like the monster-movie American Gothic.
That's it, fuckers. I've saved your dumb asses more than once. Let me choke you a little as I vanish into the sky.
Start talking or we’re going to see if you can dog-paddle through fire. I wonder if fried Hellion tastes like spicy or original recipe?
Soon I see that I was right. A bright pinprick of light flares in the distance. It’s either Heaven or we’re about to get hit by the 3:10 to Yuma.
She'd [Allegra] look like Foxy Brown's little sister, except her head is SHAVED SMOOTH.
She looks like a librarian with some money and good taste in clothes, but underneath the Versace, she's Godzilla with tits.
Pale vines follow me as I walk, cooing and sighing, hoping I have oatmeal for brains and will get close enough that they can drag me off and eat me at their leisure. And at the center of all this trea...
Oh God. It’s like you’re smoking a pig’s ass, and the pig isn’t well.
No need to kill everyone. They know not to let their Chihuahuas piss on my lawn.
Ninety-nine percent of these guys are the same. They cruise along in a bubble of dude-bro privilege, then can’t stand it when the world lets them know they’re nothing special. Then everyone has to pay...
My ass and back ache like someone gave me a baseball-bat massage.
Maybe I’ll live long enough to find out. The way the day is going, though, I’ll be lucky to make it through the appetizer course.
Like a man once said: ‘I’m not afraid of death. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.’ The
LOS ANGELES IS a busted jukebox in a forgotten bar at the ass end of the high desert. The city only exists between the pops, skips, and scratches of the old 45s.