Wu Tong & The e-acid Donkey Haul

Fucked up frenzy—into the wild blue.  Kegs of schlock ready for squelching.  No weak cunts out here, just pure and nasty rough riders, leather chaps and all.  Came off the donkey haul, dry mouths and a belly full of balls,

‘Some trip ay?’ says Tong, ‘Oh yeah!’ says Wu. 

Paid for the cowboy trip of a lifetime, Westworld style--robotic cowboys with faces hiding wired-up computer plates, memories and all.  These guys get a kick outta’ shootin’ up a place, but the goddamn robots are taking their women with the tiny titties, ant-tight holes.  Robots stay hard long time. 

‘Oh, shit Wu, we been duped!  Let’s make for the horizon on our headless horses! Grab the reigns and crack that whip, leave those ho’s behind!.  The rear-quarters aint worth the money.’

‘How we gettin’ back to reality?’ asks Tong.  Wu says, ‘Just follow the sun, and we’ll be eatin’ grits by noon.’  Tong clenches his cheeks on the smooth saddle and riDes, riDEs rIDES into the desert--dust swirling in rounds behind the metallic anus of his ass. 

‘Fuck.  Something went wrong with this fantasy,’ says Tong.  Wu just smiles, enjoying the computerised placard of fantasy acid clamped to the inside of his armpit and rolls his eyes, yelling, ‘Yippee ki-yay mutha’ fucka’!’