#rutherfordnj

Beepers next to the police stacked headquarters. It was a real good place to stand if you carried a beeper. It was located right next to the Black Lord’s filing cabinet abode. It executed commands because swaying from moral perch to moral perch there in that loveable well housed town. The beeper, it participants- quite and of particible; -unknown: Towered beers, yeah they had a smirk. The beeper triangulated off many other beeps, beep beep, all beeping themselves. And every one with their honey they scratched off of being unhospitable to bees (“honey off the materials!”) would sometimes be yelled. Without really checking, they covered their story house’s with lottery tickets. Scratch offs. Scratch off, every damn bar couldn’t, log and phantamosgasmas; some would dip into their foam and smear it around, but nobody could do less than tower and block any skin under their eyes, by their beers. And no one had the outlook they wanted when the judge who sent the flowers, real paramount, the flowers you received in life, of his last will and testament. To this kind of lawless, though still pristinely civic, but certainly rebel and blooming, scratched out name of a town. It was of the last presiding judge’s last will and testament. Now the thing, no one worth any gauge to having wisdom could tell for sure who or how many or what singular ameoba was presiding over the post of their municipal judge. 

Gaping and sinister, The Black Lord had a court case coming up that was so unfair. What he hated, had to be the only thing, all eclipse, total focus, with tool, item, with target as inanimated and levied at, that to “his court case” there were exactly three relevant phantasmosgasmic and drudgingly (because though towers of beers, right on parking, beep beep beep, these men...) There was something of some singualrity with a deep enamel of duplication. A flight? Bee’s helping, who knows honey, had he won? Living here in this town, the Black Lord. These relevant, but should direly just not be, he knew depths, his hooded gnarled and leather hisser. Stretched face. Would stretch his chin like a radiator. Who could not be, for it was criminal their relevancy in any moral and truth, and of the three, one he could not even point postulately in any form or persuasion. Ratatat, construction seemed to move like when people would start running there. Oh in this baskable locale? 

Of the other two, they were both uniform in they wanted to tell him of, the wine, but also the wine stains, of what happened, what so and enamating, strobing sure to, what of the partying in all the capitals and amongst the courts.  He just wanted his cabbinette, smile drift vertical his entire dome, bubbly, with the bubbles of it, tuck cruise, him. And those two, relevant monsters, unscalable and aghast, and abhorific, vicious and pulsing astrayment, in a disregard to the drinkers and winners, their lack of relevance... Well they were uniform in their gab, desire, one was the pallet and dress pairings of perfectly normal, while totally adrift, that would make them, haze and they had never talked to his face. Never an address. Those that would peer like that... Oh a punch on the nose? Smog not loveable clouds, even the thunder and lightning, he was widely a deserver of this enlightened immunity, but the beeps, a fist for the people? He’d never been down to those depths. Thinking of his loveable beverage, while smoothing the smooth of his face.