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Excerpt from "THE MOJO CHATEAU"
by Shannon Frach
From PBW Disk Magazine
Price: $2 or TRADE.
130 W. Limestone
Yellow Springs, Ohio 45387
When you're pinned underneath the weight of a sweating, four-hundred pound lesbian, little else in the world seems to matter. To hell with happy horseshit like self-fulfillment or refining the coarser human instincts, because what you're dealing with in the stark reality of getting away from this immense mountain of woman-flesh that's hunkering over your body like a human forklift.
"I want to sit on your face, baby," she says.
Christ the King on a life raft, I think. All I came here to do was sell a goddamn vacuum cleaner.
Things haven't quite been the same in my life since I started working for the Acme Vacuum Cleaner Company. As far as I'm concerned, the name of the company alone says a lot. I keep having this mental image of a cartoon coyote at the bottom of the canyon holding one of these mutant bastard vacuum cleaners while the Road Runner honks out his two-beep salute and dashes down the highway as if his gonads were boiling.
Would it help if I told you that my boss thinks that he's a reincarnation of a foot soldier who happens to be a veteran of the Punic Wars?
He often talks of how he bravely met his demise in another life by way of direct, frenetic hand-to-hand combat with two heavily-armed opponents, although I secretly suspect that the pimply little sonuvabitch would have more likely croaked by slipping in a jumbo mound of steaming elephant shit and falling on his own sword.
To return momentarily to my own piss-ant existence, I seem to remember that in another life, a few paragraphs ago, I was being viciously nailed to the floor by a dildo-wielding bulldyke with halitosis. Thanks to Cortez E. Beauchamp, my aforementioned boss, the general course of events in my life has taken a number of monstrously shitty turns, but nothing thus far has come close to matching this screwed-up spectacle.
I got hooked up with Acme in the first place after having been forcibly ejected from my former position as the shipping/receiving manager for Cuthbert-Halliwell Imperial Dental Fixtures after getting drunk at a company party and informing the boss that his wife dances like an epileptic baboon. Following that splendid career decision, I wandered aimlessly around the Great Pacific Northwest selling fresh, hearty garden vegetables and giving head to truck drivers.
One of these truck drivers, a neckless, inbred beast named Boo-Boo Weinstein, informed me about a minute before he splattered my tonsils with a fetid blast of rotten, yellow jism that he had a buddy by the name of Beauchamp who ran an outfit in Arkansas called Acme Vacuum Cleaner Company. I took the card Weinstein handed me with Beauchamp's number scrawled on it, thanked him quickly, and swiftly ran to the back of the rig and puked my goddamned brains out.
I hopped the Greyhound to Arkansas and eventually found Acme Vacuum headquarters, where I was forced to suffer through a merciless clusterfuck of questions from Cortez E. Beauchamp Himself concerning why he should give a job in his God-appointed corporation to a man who just days ago was sucking off a bunch of truckers who possessed the collective mental capacity of a duffel bag full of cat turds.
Really, it beat me, too, but I got the job. Weighing the possibilities, I supposed that pounding the streets selling vacuum cleaners might rate somewhat better hierarchically than giving blow jobs to redneck idiots with their names stamped on the back of their belts.
Maybe.
My first customer was a blue-haired great-grandmother who claimed that she had once, in the summer of 1954, squeezed Frank Sinatra's butt. She was a mortal pain in the ass, but she bought a frigging vacuum cleaner, which made having to sit through a course of her special recipe meat loaf and about a dozen glasses of vile, foaming iced tea worthwhile.
After that sale, my confidence was bolstered significantly. I sold
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