Four's Number One

Chapter 11

Chicago—not the musical—is where I live. Although we call it Shitcargo because we're quirky like that. Nobody who's currently alive here in Shitcargo has ever been outside of the city or remembers what life was life before. I guess we're all brainless zombies... Hey, that's my thing, though, no fair! Ugh why can't people realize that being beyond my years in stupidity is a trait that can only be unique to me and my voluptuous nose wart. Why do I have one? To cosplay as the Wicked Witch of The West 24/7, duh. God I've been rambling so much. I tend to do that when my mouth isn't full of gigachad cock. Speaking of, I should probably pick up on that strange plot point I left off on.
    Paris. The city of lights. The city of wine. The city of love. The city of dreams. Dreams of being Eiffel-towered by the only two men you care about anymore after abandoning your simp father and beta brother. Sometimes I dream of being lathered up with oil by Negative One Plus The Square Root of Two Hundred Eighty Nine Divided by Him and Peter. Sometimes.
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I walk to my dorm room after a day of tirelessly throwing my fists aimlessly like a weak bitch and missing the punching bags, but being so sensitive that my hands fall off my body because I'm so dainty. With blood gushing out of my hand sockets I drag myself down the hallway. I start to see a pool of blood forming at my feet wherever I step. This is progress. Of what? Oh, um, I don't really know.
    When I open my door I step inside and close the wooden thing behind me. I walk to my and Four's bedroom and there I see him. And he's naked with a rose in his mouth and picture of Paris behind him (Or what Shitcargopants—citizens of Shitcargo—think it would look like) and— AHHHHHH!!!!! OH MY GOD PETER IS THERE NAKED TOO. THEIR MONSTER DICKS ARE SIGHTS FOR SORE EYES AND EVEN SORER THROATS.
    No pleasantries are exchanged before I start groping my big boys. First I like to catcall them from outside the bedroom so they feel self-conscious and hate themselves, then I come in to grope their ball sacks. After I bruise their weak pomegranate nuts I like to shove oysters in their ears because I heard somewhere it was an aphrodisiac...supposed to work like Viagra but for young men. The slurping of the oysters sounds like boogers which is gross but I ignore it and focus on getting members up my ass.
    I'll spare you the gory details, but we Eiffel-towered so hard that we could see France which is doing better than us. Ugh, teehee.