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Countess Razee and her Groupies

June 14th, 2009 by razee

Countess Razee reappears dressed in a black cocktail dress. She is a whore, who has been raped. Standing next to a 1947 pickup truck, she tells a story about an ugly man named PimpDaddy Longlegs. She pulls out a shotgun, and explains that she is going to hunt him down and kill him. RazBrat agrees to help her. That night, they both dream about kidnapping PimpDaddy Longlegs.The next clue can be found here. Wicked Uncle Charlie, the horse thief, departs the Grim Valley Ranch for unknown frontiers. You-know-who is missing at the moment.
Is he in rehab?
I have no clue.
Maybe he is dead.
Let’s hope so.
I am sure that there are a lot of people who wish that. He is pure evil. It would be a caustic end to a caustic person.

Walking past the rows and rows of fallen soldiers and the innocents, she stops for a while, in front of a familiar gravestone. Razee Cult? Now, there is a scary thought.

The girls along Cold Facts Avenue wore their bight clothes like flags of discontent, trying helplessly to bring to the male attention the news of their mysterious trouble. We plan on taking over the world, a little bit at a time. It is not going to be an easy task, but we are prepared to face the music. It is an ugly world, but we plan on purchasing a makeover- a massage, pedicure, and manicure. We are armed and dangerous.

Choking on war, we count the dead, like sheep, before a nightmare-stained sleep. Barricaded in the womb-tomb room, under seize, we lick our wounds and contemplate an escape. It ain’t easy being a pimp in suburbia. What are you going to do? Put the President into a line-up. This reality is a forgery.

It is simple to slip between the pages and stages of another day, filled with rain and pain, just another afternoon sliding into darkness. It was not easy to ignore the singing and dancing of Freedom as she stood up on the stage. The winds of change crawl through the cracks and crevices of the shanty. There is nothing like travelling though the roads and highways of our psyche.

She opened the box and looked inside.

“Oh no…” she said.

RazeeInk 2009: www.razee.com
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