The Milk of Reality

I defeated those grey old bastards, got while the getting was good and left nary a trace - an escape so clean they couldn't even find my house to turn it over looking for clues, the fools, which I suppose I should be glad about, but part of me feels for those goons who couldn't even so much as locate my town, and offered little to no chase whatsover. Where's the sport in that? But who can complain with a belly full of fine spirits and limitless cuisine dripping from your sunburned chin and all over your powder blue linen panel shirt. A buck goes far in the Caribbean, and the sun is free.

But all is not hazardless down in the West Indies, as any world traveler will tell you. Other than what has become the generally awful ordeal of air travel, the ground transport wasn't much better, and if you stay still too long, the locals will come at you like cockroaches. Beach Doctors offered Space Cakes, indigenous kitties foraged for lizards and god knows what, local birds swooped indoors to steal eggs from my breakfast - the cannibals! Heavy-set Island women with club-like features grabbed at my arms crackishly, asking why I was afraid of them, insisting I buy their trinkets and geegaws... a day at the beach not for the faint of heart. But fortunately, we are of a robust constitution and can withstand such brackish island charm enough to indulge in the fine pleasures a small island has to offer.

The trip back's teat was ample with the milk of reality - I was treated to a delightful complimentary body scan and sensual rub-rub pat down in Puerto Rico, and a nice fellow in an F-150 thoroughly ratfucked the rear end of my car on the way home from the airport. Welcome back.