Saturday, June 4, 2011

Mustard Is A Type Of Ketchup pt.1

      Waking up in a world you never cared for isn't an easy task. Once you find yourself departing from your dreams, you come into consciousness with a lingering grog, be it you snapped awake or gradually crawled into a new day's life. This being achieved, you realize you're alive and instantly dread. You'd kill yourself, you think, but suicide isn't natural. You're a bit neurotic. Especially about what's natural. Otherwise, yeah, you'd jump off a building, or run into traffic. Maybe eat a fuck load of beans and drown yourself in a steaming hot bath. Yes, this would be delightful.

     Morning's preparation is an event to hardly behold. The whole thing with the brushing of the teeth. The shaving. The shower. The drying of the shower's wetness. The beheading of nudity by tossing on the attire of the day. The drudging down to eat breakfast, alone, because you find yourself too miserable for company in the earliest of your morning. The morning's fog and light dew. The walk to work, since you live in an apartment in the city and have no family near by. Then finally, work. 

     You open the door, find your way to your spot, then you work. You work for two hours, take a ten minute break. You work for two hours, take a half hour lunch. You work for two hours, you take a ten minute break. You work for two hours, you leave and go to the bar with the losers that sort of pass for your friends. Yes, this counts as work, because if you didn't drink until drunk and be at least partially social, the thoughts of how you'd kill or burn (and essentially still kill) everything around you become more vivid then usual. Take Jack Rodgers.

     God, how you hate Jack Rodgers. Always bugging you for a pen, after he lost the last one you let him borrow. Always thinking he's so goddamn cool, with his fancy shoes and his fancy hair. Also, remember Dorris, that gorgeous redhead that transferred there for a couple months? You had a big crush on her, and it seemed to be mutual. She was the sunshine that brightened your ever so dark existence. You where always so kind to her. Guess who fucked her? Jack Rodgers, that's who. You occasionally saw her in that pit of cobras with ol' Jacky boy. 

"Another round for my main man, here!" Jack would yell at the bar tender, winking at you. Yes, this seemed nice, but you where going to end up paying for it anyways. Maybe Jack should pay for it. With his face. Into the bar counter. Oh well.

     The walk home is bearable. You know, being drunk and all. Occasionally, you stop at the convenience store a block up from your place, to buy some candy or a hot dog. That, and that cute east Indian girl who's name you can't pronounce works there. 

"Good evening, Raj...Rajii, Rami...Ra.."
"Have a good night." She'd reply while pushing your merchandise towards you. Another oh well for you.

     Then home. You check the mail. Wait. What's this? A package? My god. What could it be? What adventures might it be leading to? It...wait, no. It was put in the wrong box. It's for the neighbors. Splendid. You return it to them with a drunken smile that is hardly sincere as you make your way back to your apartment.

     At least your home coming poo will cheer you up. It does, par usual. Maybe the three hours of droning on the split time of t.v. and computer will wash away the day. It starts to. Maybe you will forget you exist in the ensuing sleep. You do.

Some Songs I've Been Listening to Religiously Lately.

 This article brought to by your friend and ours, the Pabst brewing company.

"Religiously" is sort of a misnomer... the thing is as an atheist, the closest thing I can get to 'god' without psychoactive drugs and the resulting ego death* that follows is through music. And even though I really, REALLY enjoy music, I'd hardly call it a religion. For one, it hasn't made me want to kill an abortionist.

Give it time.

Any-fucking-way, where the hell was I? OH YES! Here's some songs that have been making me feel extra special as of late. Like my genitals, I would feel deep regret if I were to not share them to you.

Yes you.

Not you. You.

Yes. Don't you feel special?

Neutral Milk Hotel's 'King of Carrot Flowers Pt 1' (Not 2 or 3, mind you)


Now, I'd like to point out that there's nothing, and I mean nothing more pretentious then naming two songs 'Part 1' and 'Part 2 & 3' of something. That's like a pretension critical mass. A Billy Corgan level of pretension.
But now, after I've this established this, I'd like like to follow up with a total 180 and say something to the effect of "Go fuck your mother for agreeing with me"
You see, this is a fucking amazing song.
It's romantic in spite of being about parental apathy and a first sexual experience. I've had dental appointments more romantic then my first sexual experience. Bravo sir!

Elefant's 'Eating Stones'

Wait? they're called fairweather friend? What the fuck? Whatever. I like the simple instrumentation, the singer's voice and how pretty she is. Maybe I'm a little biased: theAmazingAtheist plugged the song with his man titties out. Sela vie. The song I assume is written by the Chick and AmazingAtheist's director. Cool shit, want to hear more.

Sufjan Stevens' 'John Wayne Gacy, Jr'

Now, anyone who knows me (100 percent of audience as of posting) will tell you why a song about serial killers just appeals to me by default. What you might not know is that the theological debate it sparked was even more interest then this admittedly haunting song did.
You see, Sufjan Stevens is a Christian, you see. Big whoop, right? As far as I'm aware, being christian doesn't make everything you do as an artist (or anything else) a reflection on your religious views. However, some Christians seem to read the song as saying "If you don't become a christian your soul is just as fucked as Gacy's"
I'm of the opinion that Sufjan is really just saying is "fuck Illinois" but, you know, just my interpretation.

Well, I bid you Adeu.
Listen to the Sex,
Big Mike.

*Tangentially, ego death is more or less a tenet of Buddhism, and we all know Buddhism isn't a religion in the western sense... that entailing you going to a big building every week to feel guilty and then throw money at the problem. 
I can't even relate to you people on acid. How very, very sad.

P.S. "Oh Mike! This isn't a short story! Whats up with that?" Shut the fuck up. Like you read any of my short stories. You can buy the book when it comes out. Mwa ha ha.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Ok, so...

The thing I was working on, is a story. Originally, it was to be a short story, as Big Mike does, but I decided that I was going to make it into an even bigger project.

If you look up at the headers, you will notice that "My Friend The Machine" has replaced "Mustard is a type of Ketchup." Since my new story will be much larger than originally intended, I've decided to just use an entire page for it, and finish off "Mustard is a Type of Ketchup" on the blog's front page, adding another two or three parts to it.

 I know no one cares, but it makes me feel, like, important, and like, stuff. To myself. (Refer to the last paragraph of my last post.) Well, actually, we've had one view from India, and I bet they like me most.

~Xavier R.

p.s. What's worse then a pile of dead babies? Your mom's fat ugly face.

If god didn't want us to eat animals, he wouldn't have made them out of meat

I'm trying to decide on my early morning meal. Believe it or not, the original theme of this post was random, but my choices are either cheerios, or, well, steak. I could just eat both. One stuffed in the other. I am American, after all.

So did you catch the news last night? I didn't. Been too busy not having or wanting a t.v. I should check up on current events though. You know, so I can be aware of the lies being told to me. So I can complain about the world based on what I don't understand.

My posts tend to revolve around me, even in a subtle manner, a lot of the time. Want to know why? Because I poop out of my butt. There, I said it. Only I poop out of MY butt, so I believe I'm entitled to things. Me me me.

~Xavier R.

p.s. What if your childhood goldfish was god? He died and it was your fault. Good going, jerk. You let god die.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

There is something I'd like you to do

Well, beyond welcoming our newest colleague, I also want you to read this article, which is exactly how I've wished to explain my thoughts on the matter, but have been unable to.

There is a film mentioned within that article. You will watch it as well. Here, I'll make it easy for you.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6

Now, assuming you read the article and watched the film, let me make something clear. This isn't "black guy gets to say stuff, but if a white guy says stuff..." because that thought process is more of the weakness. Open your mind, and be willing to get uncomfortable.

~Xavier R.

p.s. Still working on that "thing."

Introducing Rachel Allison

I'd like to introduce you to an our newest colleague and contributor for the panel van (and prophet for the Xavier Rhone religion) Rachel Allison.

Xavier and I met Rachel in a darkened room, she breathed fire and sweated malice. She is a demon. She chops, she dices, she can spackle and sparkle. I heard she ripped a great red oak out the very earth then chopped it into a Swedish dinner set with her bare hands. 

How can she make Swedish furniture out of a federally protected American red oak? That's fucking nothing.

She rode a fleet of dragons. Not mythical dragons, she duct-taped a dozen komodo dragons together then rode them like a raft down the Amazon.

"The Amazon?" you ask "But komodo dragons aren't even native to south America" To which I tell you to kindly shut the fuck up.

She then befriended a notoriously unfriendly and secretive tribe of cannibals only to eat every single one of them raw.

But... Wait...

Shut the fuck up

She is the reason we think zombies, vampires and werewolves don't exist.
She is fluent in every language, which she learns in Mandarin, the most difficult language. 
She is an author, a pornographer, a devout lesbian, a dancer and a legend.

She is also on my blog.

You better fucking enjoy her, and enjoy her fucking your skull.

Big Mike.


Truth be told, I'm not exactly sure how I came across this, but I did, so I figured I'd share it.

I made that picture just now, just for you.

Anyways, still working on "stuff."

~Xavier R.

p.s. Being sober should be illegal, because I feel like shit for being it the night before.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011


So I was working on a particular post, but I figured I'll just post something else for the time being. So uh...heres some old school hip hop.


~Xavier R.

Monday, May 30, 2011

The Third Room.

"Pray for the man in the Middle, one that talks like Doolittle"
Frank Black

Chris twiddled his thumbs, waiting patiently as always for the mail to go through the slot in his front door. Chris didn't do much for work these days so he time to wait around for mail. It was a Tuesday so Chris figured the mail would come around 9 am. Isn't it funny, Chris thought, I don't know who brings me my mail but I know when it comes

No mail came for Chris, so he decided at 9:15 am to pace around his apartment. Next to his dining table was his bathroom. He went into his bathroom at ran the sink, undid the toilet paper that was running clockwise to make sure it was running clockwise and then opened and closed the shower curtain three times. Chris scrubbed his kitchen floor and began to clean inside his oven before he realized he was going to need more Ajax and some food if he was going to clean the scrub down his bathroom today.

Chris took the bus to the store, was called a faggot by another customer and then short changed by the lady  the register. Chris said nothing the whole time. Chris cleaned the bathroom and ate a bologne and white bread sandwich, Chris came to the realization that he hated bologne but couldn't afford anything else.

Chris cried himself to sleep.

Chris twiddled his thumbs, patiently waiting as always for the mail to go through the slot in his front door. Chris didn't do much for work these days so he time to wait around for mail. It was a Wednesday so Chris figured the mail would come around 8. Isn't it funny, Chris thought, I don't know who brings me my mail but I know when it comes.

No mail came for Chris, so he decided at 8:15 am to go into his bedroom and get ready for work. Next to his dresser was a radio clock. He turned on the radio and detuned it back and forth all the way on the AM band. He did this three times and then tuned it back to classical. Chris took the bus to work where he was a dishwasher at a fast food cheap diner, he stood and stared at a wall all day washing dishes. His only two co-workers didn't talk to him, but Chris could tell they were saying mean things about him. Chris said nothing the whole time. Chris came home and scrubbed the walls in his living/bedroom and ate a bologne and white bread sandwich.

Chris cried himself to sleep.

Chris twiddled his thumbs, waiting patiently as always for the mail to go through the slot in his front door. Chris didn't do much for work these days so he time to wait around for mail. It was a Thursday so Chris figured the mail would come around 9 am. Isn't it funny, Chris thought, I don't know who brings me my mail but I know when it comes.

No mail came for Chris.

Chris scrubbed his kitchen floor and began to clean inside his oven before he realized he was going to need to go to the store. Chris took the bus to the store, was called a retard by someone in the parking lot and then given weird looks by the clerks at the sporting goods counter. Chris said nothing the whole time.

Chris made a mop bucket and placed it outside his bathroom with some clean towels. He then removed the floor mat, the used towels and shower curtain and put them in the washing machine. He took his clothes off and put them in the trash. Chris then ate a bologna sandwich as he sat naked on the toilet. Chris then put the Remington shotgun under his chin and then let rip.

The last thing Chris felt was the corners of his mouth curling up into his cheeks.


"Yeah, last guy was real quiet, real clean liver, always paid his rent on time" Pauly the landlord said, his eyes looking towards the bathroom nervously.
"So you said this place came with a washer and dryer, right?" said Charlie.
"Yeah" said Pauly " Washer and Dryer are just behind that closet door. All the basics are here, ya got your living-slash-sleepin' area there, and your bathroom"
Two rooms, Charlie thought, shit.
"It's 650-"
"-a month, I can waive the uh... deposit for ya" finished Pauly, still fixated on the bathroom.
Charlie thought it was a shithole, but it's all he could afford. Atleast it's clean, Charlie figured. It didn't even looked lived in. He moved in on a friday.

Charlie was in moving boxes of records when he noticed something different. He felt something was awry: no longer did the apartment feel clean and empty. It's tone had changed. Of course the apartment was still clean, save for the boxes charlie was moving in, but the mood the studio apartment made him feel was no longer sterile
He'd say you call him crazy if he said this, but he felt unwelcome. No, not unwelcome, but that even though he was in his apartment, he wasn't really in his apartment. It belonged to someone else. Then it hit him.

"What the fuck?" Charlie couldn't help but notice the big door in his kitchen where his fridge used to be.

The door was wooden, with fogged glass and painted in neat little writing with a single word on it. Charlie had to be close enough to open it to read the word "Regret" written in red. Opon touching the ornate door handle Charlie felt both a static shock and a chill up his spine. He tried to look through the fogged glass but it was no use. He just had to walk through.

To be honest, Charlie would have been surprized by anything he found in the third room of his supposedly two room apartment. But what he saw gave him room for even more pause the he originally bargained for when he opened the door.
What he saw were 4 objects in a room about 6 feet by 4. First was a Remington shotgun in the corner imediatly to his left. Secondly he saw a grocery store register desk complete with grocery bags on a hook and a conveyer belt. Then he saw an industrial sink full of dishes in the far right corner. Last he saw a mailman's bag full of letters adressed to no one. Just envelopes with the words "Regret" or "Ajax" written on them.

The thing that frightened charlie the most wasn't the fact that his fridge had literally just disappeared or that he really should be in his neighbors livingroom right now. It was the eerie randomness the objects had. He looked at them all individually. He put his hands in the sink, it was ice cold. He opened the register, it only had 35 cents in it. He held the shotgun, it...

Oh shit Charlie thought.

"I need your help, Charlie" Said the man with half a head, sitting on the conveyer belt, swinging his legs.


Charlie was at his wits end. He hadn't got a decent nights sleep in weeks.  
If Chris keeps fucking detuning my radio Charlie scornfully thought to himself I'll blow my fucking brains out too.
"I told you to help me, it's the only way I think I'll get out of this place" Chris said as if answering a question never asked.
Chris began to detune the radio.
Charlie could feel himself getting an anyuerism. He knew what Charlie wanted him to do, but goddamn it he wasn't going to do it. No way. No fucking way.
"If you want me to stop screwing with your stuff, I told you what you can do"
Charlie pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. "You can read my fucking mind?"
Charlie paused for a beat.
"34" Chris said.

Oh for fuck'sake, charlie thought as he grabbed the remington shotgun and headed outside to his car. Charlie floated behind him 4 or so inches off the ground, smiling with what was left of his head.


First stop was the grocery store just down the road. Charlie sighed, he knew he had a real decent court case for insanity, but Chris had told him it would never come to that. He'd never get caught, Chris told him over and over again. Charlie didn't know if that was even possible, given the tasks he was given in lurid detail to acomplish.

Eitherway, he guessed it would be crazy NOT to do everything the obsessive compulsive ghost told him to do.

Inside the grocery store Charlie found the lady at the ten items or less check out. She was in her late teens and had Pink dyed hair and seemed to be every bit the little bitch Chris had said. Even though, Charlie thought, God forgive me for what I've gotta do.
The little dyed haired bitch behind the register was talking on her cellphone about finals when Charlie brought the wonderbread and Ajax he was instructed to bring to the belt. Even as she rung him up, she never looked at Charlie. Charlie gulped.
"35 cents" Charlie said.
The little bitch wasn't even phased.
"35 cents" Charlie said, louder.
"wait a second... WHAT?" She said, as if Charlie was the one being rude.
"You owe Chris 35 cents"
Right as the cashier was about to say 'Who's chris?' Charlie did as he was instructed. He took the Remington shotgun and beat the living piss out of who Charlie only just realized was named "Suzy" as he did it.
First he only just swung the butt out at her, which knocked her in the mouth, shocked her and made her fall back into the little space she worked in. Charlie was to then get both hands on the shotgun to get more purchase. He blackened both her eyes, broke her nose, knocked out her teeth and broke her jaw. He wasn't sure if there was anyone coming to her aide or not because she was screaming bloody murder the whole time. To be honest, Charlie was too. This wasn't how he wanted to spend his Saturday.

The Second stop was a shitty little diner where the were just restaurantesque enough to feed people off of plates but too cheap to hire a dishwasher for more then 25 hours a week. Chis told Charlie this is where he use to work, and why Charlie found so many shells with the Gun. Charlie sighed and got out of the car. He decided not to sit too long and think about what he had to do. What he did at the grocery store was just to limber him up.

Charlie walked through the door with the shotgun aimed at waitress. She had neither time enough to ask him "Smoking or nonsmoking?" or scream "please don't kill me!" before she had a slug in her chest, roughly stopping her heart instantly. Or ripping it out. Charlie didn't ponder the physics of it. Next was the fry cooks. One, an older black man, never said anything bad about Chris, he was to be nodded out the back door. "Chris told me to let you go" Charlie said loud. The black man made no argument, he just ran.
"Now you, Merko, you fucking prick" screamed Charlie, in a voice not all his own.
The other frycook began to piss his pants "What!? Who are you!? How do you know my name?"
Charlie smacked him accross the skull with the butt of the shotgun, the wrath of an old testament god coursing through his veins. "Chris sent me, you cocksuckers!"
Merko began to scream back, his last attempt at asserting dominance "What? That fucking freak dishwasher? Fuck him! I'm glad he killed himself!"
Charlie found no difficulty in forcing the barrell of the shotgun through Merko's pursed lips and into the back of his throat. Charlie thought he heard Merko say something like "Stop" or "Please don't" when he told Merko to cry and beg for his life. It was kinda hear the around the gun barrell. Charlie then uncerimoniously blew Merko's brains out.
Charlie found Susana exactly where Chris said she'd be: Cowering in her office, trying in vein to call the police, and crying loudly. Charlie casted a shaddow over Susana as he balanced the gun over his shoulder.
"Phones don't work, do they?" Charlie asked, calmly
Susana sniffled pathetically
"I figured" Charlie said, holding just the slightest of smiles. Susana wasn't unnattractive, infact, if she wasn't balling her eyes out right now she'd actually be quite sexy. This made what Charlie had to do seem all the more fucked up, even worse the greivious bodily harm and double homicide. Was it worth a fridge and a decent nights sleep? Maybe because he was sleep deprived and had been fast food fed for the last month or two, he was inclined to say yes.
He put the shotgun down and lunged at Susana, grabbing her by the belt. Her hips and legs squirming as she screamed "No! No! Please don't! Don't rape me!".
"Lay still or I will fucking kill you" Charlie spoke stern, shutting her up. She just wimpered as he took off her belt, then ripped open her jeans. She was starting to cry loud again but Charlie just kept working on taking her pants off, or atleast down. After what seemed like forever, and funnily, given the gravitas of the situation, made Charlie ponder why are womens jeans so much harder to get in an out of then mens?, Charlie got her down to her underwear.
Susana saw Charlie look behind him at the dish sink and ask "What now?" he chuckled, "You serious?" Charlie looked back at Susana almost as if to say "Sorry" and put his fingers behind the front of her underwear. He felt first the warm, soft skin of her lower belly, then her pubic hair. He then grabbed at the underwear before he felt anything more personal and yanked her underwear all the way down. He saw her bush, trimed into a triangle, her pussy and a tattoo of a little tiny butterfly on her right hip. There was a long pause where Susana wondered if anything was going to happen. Finally Susana saw Charlie asked the dish sink behind him if it was satisfied. After another pause he looked back as Susana and stood up.
"You can put your pants back on" Charlie said, glibly.
"Wh... wh... why are you doing this?" Susana cried as she hastily yaked her pants up.
"Don't worry about it" Charlie said calmly as he yanked up the shotgun up to his shoulder and painted the walls.


"How do you know the mailman is coming in ten minutes?" Asked charlie sitting at the dining table twiddling his thumbs.
"Trust me" said chris watching the clock every 4 seconds and compulsivly organizing Charlie's record collection. "They should be outside... right... about... now"
Charlie walked out and shouldn't have been surprized to see a mail woman. A kinda cute one too. Charlie nonchalantly said "Hi, what's up?"
"Oh, you know, doing my job" Said the mail woman, nonchalantlier. "What are you doing, stranger?"
"Y'know, just moved in, killing... time. Killing time."
"You just moved in?" She said concerned "What happen to the last guy?"
"He, uh... He killed himself"
"Oh no!" She said, seeming sincerely sad "He was such a sweet guy, so quiet. Christopher, right?"
"Yeah, Chris"
"That's so sad, I could tell he was so lonely here, I hope he's in a better place now"
"Yeah, me too"
fucking 'A' Charlie thought.
"Hey, are you covered in... blood?" the mail woman inquired, eyebrow raised
"Uhm, yeah kinda"
"Why?" more confused then alarmed
"Long story" Charlie grimaced
"Well have fun with that stranger" The mail lady chuckled as she began to walk away.
"Hey, what is your name?" Charlie asked her.
"My name is Cindy" the mail woman said.
"I'm Charlie"
"Nice to meet you Charlie"
"You too"

Charlie walked back into his apartment and was flooded with a sense that all was alright. when he opened his eyes he saw a refrigerator. He walked up to the fridge and opened it, all that was in it was a half eaten tube of bologna and the wonder bread he stole earlier.

Charlie sat on his couch eating a bologna sandwich and stared at the morning sun through his window.

God, did Charlie love bologna.

Feeeeew *Wipes brow*
My back hurts!
Big Mike.

Sunday, May 29, 2011

Cowboys in Gayville

Jeb and Zeek shifted uncomfortably in the trash compacter the authorities called an APC (or Aerospace People Carrier) although Jeb and Zeek damn well knew a fucking horse trailer when they saw it. This was a goddamn horse trailer.

Jeb and Zeek were traveling about 69000 kilometers an hour to the space colony named "47", but more infamously known as "Gayville". Jeb and Zeek didn't know why they were on this APC. To be honest, the last week has been a real blur.

Jeb and Zeek were picked up by the authorities last week when they were out in the woods. Jeb and Zeek pleaded that what the authorities saw wasn't what it seemed. It wasn't. But they were put in quarentine anyway, then on this APC.

Jeb whispered to Zeek "I think that fag is staring at me, I oughta kick his ass". Zeek grabbed Jeb's arm and whispered back "We've gotta keep cool, Jeb. We'll have to play along as to not draw no attention to ourselves."
"Whatchu mean, play along?"
"Y'know, pretend we're fags too."
"I aint no fag!" Jeb said a little too loud, as if the cowboy garb they were wearing wasn't drawing enough attention to themselves.
The vaguely feminine looking man in the aeropostle shirt sitting across the walk space from Jeb breathed through his lips and rolled his eyes.
"Hey, queer! You got a problem?" Jeb shouted, getting everyone's attention.
"Hey, Jeb! You need to calm down! This is the only place we've got now. Just play it cool until we find a way to get out." Zeek stressed out through his teeth. Trying to keep his voice low, even though everyone in the sardine can were paying close attention.
"I'm sorry to break it to ya, but there aint no way out" Said the queer in the Aeropostle shirt in a mocking southern accent. "And for your information, you bigots are the fags here"

When the APC landed they saw a large metropolis in front of them. Space colony 36, where Jeb and Zeek where born and raised, was a much larger and sparsely populated colony then 47. Jeb and Zeek came from rich families who could afford to live the privileged and old fashioned southern lifestyle of earth in space; open tracks of land, plantations, ranches and farmland. What Jeb and Zeek saw here intimidated them; 3000 feet buildings, millions of people walking about there business in the hundreds of spaceport overpasses and underpasses all within sight. Jeb and Zeek stood dumbfounded for several minutes, mouths agape. They'd never seen so many people, heard so much noise and seen so many lights in their lives. Then they heard a voice.

"You cowboys looking for something?" A rather butch lesbian, sporting a Mohawk and tartan, skintight pants asked Jeb and Zeek.
"We want to get back to Colony 36" Zeek offered. Jeb was aghast; he's never seen a woman look like that.
"HaHaHaHa" The lesbian laughed heartily, her shrunken chest bobbing up and down. "You ain't ever goin' back to 36" Said the lesbian said in a more noticable southern accent. One the cowboys would recognize.
"You're from 36?" Jeb asked, with a bizarre mix of incredulity and hometown pride.
"Fear god, fear the flag" The lesbian said, reciting the colony motto. "Yep, born and raised. Got kicked out age 13, caught me kissing my step sis. Once you get sent off on the gay love boat, they never let you back."

Jeb sunk to his knees. It finally sunk in. He was never going back home. He heard things about 47 from his Sunday school teacher. That it was full of heathens, sinners, the unclean. That they were evil, and to be feared and despised by country church folk as themselves. He heard stories on the playground that they ship in straight men from all over the universe just to be slaves to rich gay men. That if they ever knew he was straight, they'd rape him, then sell him into slavery.

Jeb and Zeek wandered the streets neighboring the spaceport, saddened and confused until an artificial night fell. As the artificial sun at the center of the colony dimmed, the people of 47 began to disperse either home or to bars littering every other city block. That's when Jeb and Zeek, conspicuous as all get out, saw a police car. The Cowboys ran as fast as they could away from the police car. Jeb and Zeek kept running what must have been a mile down the road, never looking back to see whether or not the cop was making chase. Whether or not there was more cops coming. Coming to come inside Jeb and Zeek.

Jeb and Zeek finally ran into an alleyway outside a closed french restaurant. They breathed heavier and heavier until they both came to tears.

"I'm not a fag! I'm not meant to be here!" Jeb cried, leaning against a wall.
Zeek was bent over, hands on knees, was still trying to catch his breath.
"I'm not a fag!" Zeek sobbed louder.
Zeek stood straight up and looked at Jeb.
"I'm not a fag" Jeb crying softer.
Zeek held Jeb in his arms and kissed his neck.
"I'm not a fag..." Jeb cryed softly, barely even making a noise
"Shush" Zeek said, quietly in Jeb's ear
"I'm not a fag..." Jeb mouthed silently, staring straight ahead, seeing nothing.
"It's okay Jeb, it's okay. We're home now" Zeek whispered reassuring in his ear. "Now take off your jeans, honey"
Jeb sniffed and smiled, "This sorta behavior got us 'ere in the first place, babe." he laughed as he worked off his large belt buckle.
"Shut up and lemme blow you" Zeek smirked, licking his lips and forcing jebs pants all the down to his cowboy boots.

The belt buckle read "Fear God, Fear the Flag"

Awwwwww, how sweet.
Big Mike.