The Postage Stamp Consensus

"What I call 'The Postage Stamp Consensus' is this incredibly, ludicrously, laughably, narrow band of information and possibility that is fed to us by the mainstream everything from cradle to grave."

― David Icke

Creepier than an ice cream man with a hard-on, the guy obliterated the scales at 447 pounds. Leaking sweat, and pissing adrenaline, he steered the rudder of the aptly named Ford Escape toward the border.

The plan was Weslaco. He'd cross there.

Nogales had been the original notion, since that was a straight shot from Sin City ― where he resided. Occam's Razor? Fastest route?

For some reason, though, the closer he'd gotten to the checkpoints, the more adamantly that voice inside his head screamed, "Texas!"

Goddamned gats on his hip were weighin' him down.

A Ruger LCP jammed in his left pocket, an S & W 9 in his right, he'd stuffed a SIG down the back of his shorts that was currently tickling his hairy ass crack.

Why be loaded for Yogi, when you were gonna meet a cyber grizzly?

Fidgety in El Paso, he'd stopped for a pint to clear his head.

"Should I cross here?" he'd taxed his overheating mind.

"Pint a' Beam," he'd called his poison at the Mexi-Mart. Peelin' a hunny off an oily wad, he'd paid Miles — the walking zit behind the counter with a name tag.

Dumpin' the 473 into an empty Big Swig, he'd topped the beverage with Thermo Tropical Rockstar, and chugged.

What the fuck did he care? At his weight, he could drink a case of 3.2, and not catch a buzz.

Gulping as he drove, he realized this had been the shittiest idea ever.

Sticking his cock in the nozzle of his aunt's vacuum cleaner ― back in junior high school ― had been pretty fuckin' bad. Especially after he'd plugged in the Kirby, and lost three inches off his dick.

For decades, he'd been certain he'd never be able to top that poor decision. Two days ago, he'd proved himself wrong.

The hatchback of his spit-shined vehicle was empty, save for a white, five gallon bucket most people keep live fish, dirt, or severed heads in.

Inside the pail were thousands of bills ― all denominations ― rolled and stuffed into Dixie cups.

He didn't have a dirty bomb in the back seat, but this is a true story, so it's obviously got the makings of some tasty vittles.

Couple that with the fact U.S. Marshals were 207 miles behind, and closin' the gap, and you're lookin' at a potboiler.

Darren was the guy's name, and he was a fuckin' asshole. More on that later, but suffice it to say, this wasn't the kind of shitheel anybody should feel sorry for.

Riddled with gout, as well as diabetes, he had a huge patch of psoriasis ― in the shape of Idaho ― on his left leg. On the brink of a coronary, he wasn't healthy.

In addition, he hadn't showered in 53 hours, and was too fat to wipe his own ass. As such, he never did. Suffice it to say, the interior of his SUV didn't smell like freshly baked cookies.

See, Darren was the general manager of a gigantic nightclub in Vegas. Well, at least he had been, 48 hours prior.

Now, he was fired, and on the lamb.

Such had transpired, after he'd rounded up all the banks from the venue's bartenders and servers one night, and absconded with the moldy cheese.

He still didn't know why he'd done it. Frustration maybe?

Frank was a prick, and didn't appreciate the overtime Darren put in.

Then again, all Darren did — while on the clock — was gouge profits. The obese oaf could put back a 750 of Julio '42, and walk away from the table, without stumbling.

Bastard never drank it cheap. It was always high end.

And now, he found himself headin' for the border ― $128,000 in the trunk of his portable living room.

Indecisiveness exacerbated his dilemma, when he couldn't decide where to cross. Such hesitation would end up costing him dearly.

Darren didn't speak Spanish. What the fuck was he gonna do in Mexico? How would he survive?

Then again, he'd have 128 boxes of ziti on hand. Unless he got rolled, that would take him a long way, right?

I mean, what were the exchange rates, when it came to the peso?

See? He hadn't done his research on this one.

Snatching a five gallon bucket outta the club's kitchen was proof he'd had no plan.

Maybe he could just return the cash, and none would be the wiser.

What the fuck was he thinking?!?

Goin' back now would be walkin' into the gas chamber. Goddamned place was probably crawlin' with oinkers, 36 hours ago.

Naw, this was his fate. He'd paved his path, and had to follow through, or die tryin'.

Patting the heater in his left pocket, he prayed it wouldn't come to that.

Atop a dashboard dusted in hooker coke, the Sammy bobblehead mocked him ― perpetually smiling, in light of this somber situation.

Even though Darren wasn't gay, he had a thing for Sammy Davis, Jr. Always did. If he'd ever met the guy, he probably would've fucked him. For whatever reason, short, black, one-eyed Jews turned him on.

Now, what had been his good luck charm for years taunted him without end.

All the while, Marshals rocketed his way at twice the speed he was traveling.

Of this, he was unaware.

It would be anybody's guess, as to who reached the border first.

When the shit finally came down, the behemoth would linger too long. He'd travel the 2, up and back, thinkin' perhaps headin' east might be a better plan.

But how far could he go? Fort Lauderdale? And then where? Hop a trawler, and get lost in the Bermuda Triangle?

He was fucked!

Two hours and 47 minutes later, he definitely would be, as eight Marshals ― armed for a sleuth of cyber grizzlies ― would catch up with his lard wagon.

Out of options, Darren would finally make the decision to cross. At that point, however, it would be too late.

An ad hoc roadblock, suffocating his chances of entering Mexico, would force him to make a stand at centerline, atop the cooling asphalt of the 83.

Armed to the teeth, he wouldn't go quietly.

Things wouldn't escalate to a shootout, but the monster would exit his vehicle, screaming ― hands on handles.

Eventually, Walker Texas Ranger would surround the 400 pounder, forcing him to bloody knees, and finally to his face. It would take Serpico, and his seven dwarfs, to subdue the 6' 7" gargantuan.

Whatever happened to Darren?

Who the fuck cares? This consummate cock craver caused me to battle homelessness. I just happened to read about his flight from "justice" in an online post, sometime after he fired me for fucking a waitress he wanted to pile drive.

Who was I? At the time I knew Darren, I was a lowly bartender at a seaside nightclub in L.A.

Now, I'm an ex-swinger, with a over 5,000 hatch marks on my chalkboard.

During the three months I interacted with this douche dog, I was a sportfucker then, as well. Since I only knew this maniacal monolith, due to the fact he'd been my "boss," we'll just keep things in that context.

Mind Erasers.

Such a lovely cocktail. Three ingredients: Kahlua, vodka, soda. Insert a couple straws, and finish without breathing.

The effect, akin to the title, is the obliteration of your brain. Why not? For most, the cranium is just a place to house the clunky organ that makes us ambulatory.

Mind Erasers were Riley's favorite cocktail, and Riley was my favorite waitress.

At the time, I had a fetish for the name Riley. Suppose I still do, although I've hung up my spurs.

For whatever reason, the Irish moniker turns me the fuck on!

Every night, all 5' 1" inches of Riley's perfect, Irish ass would saunter over to my well, and every night I'd ply her with as many Quincy MEs as she could hold.

Chick had a hell of a tolerance, even though she only weighed a century note. She'd put back seven or eight of her faves, and never fucked up a drink order.

Akin to her incredible posterior, it was amazing to watch.

After closing, Riley and I would retire to her bungalow ― a sewer with an inflatable air mattress ― and fuck like bunnies.

It wasn't a black ops program the tiny tart and I were dancin' the disco. Riley loved to fuck, and I? Well, I loved to fuck, too.

Hence, we wrapped around each other like pigs in a blanket.

I didn't know what I was doin' in the sack, back then, but I've got 9 1/2 inches of cock, so I didn't care.

Riley couldn't have given a fuck, either, since she was dumpin' her payload, on a nightly basis.

Rollerskating along the beach in a thong, while slurping popsicle sticks, it wasn't as though this broad was monogamy material.

I was fucking everything that had a hole, so the possibility of an Ozzie and Harriet ending for us was an obese zero.

In bed one evening, lying atop my concave chest, sweet R asserted, "Darren called me into his office, this afternoon."

"Did you blow him?" I questioned, still hard, and stroking my best friend ever.

"Fucking gross!" the goddess crinkled her nose.

"Just lookin' for a visual."

"No. He did ask me out, though."

"You should blow him, take pics, and send 'em to me," I smiled.

"You're disgusting!" she punched my arm.

"That's why you keep fucking me," I responded.

"No. This is why I keep fucking you," the sexy slut gripped my cock. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom. Remember, don't look in the closet."

With that, she hopped up, disappearing nude into the hallway.

I watched, as Riley went. She really was stunning. If I hadn't set a goal, years prior, to play with 5,000 women, I probably would've―

" 'Don't look in the closet'?" I pondered. Of course, the only thing I wanted to do now was...

Gazing across the room at an ajar door, this hadn't been the first time Riley had admonished against digging through her domestic storage shed.

Of course — as was the case, each time prior — I'd whip back the sheets, and creep to the closet.

A moment later, Riley would exit the bathroom.

In response, I'd leap to the mattress, return beneath the bedding, and pretend I didn't wanna go the way of the cat. After all, curiosity killed it, right?

Riley and I would cease our sexcapades, before I ever discovered what the fuck she housed in the small room, just off her boudoir.

Dead bodies of previous lovers?

Some Phantom Tollbooth shit — perhaps a portal to an alternate dimension?

Maybe she had a husband, and his fetish was hiding in the closet, watching me and his woman fuck.

Who the hell knew? Who the hell cared? Riley did, but the answer to that conundrum suffered a myocardial infarction, when we found a crossroads shortly thereafter, and traversed separate paths.

Such occurred days subsequent Darren asking her out, and her turning him down.

"Collusion!" Paul Bunyan minus a metabolism thundered, crushing a stress ball to the point its contents exploded in a mushroom cloud of smoke.

What the fuck was I gonna say? I knew what the word meant. I'd been sedulously scribblin' books for two decades, at that point, so I knew what a lot of words meant. Still, this behemoth was four times my weight!

"That's right!" the wild-eyed ogre bellowed forth, making an admirable attempt to stand from his office chair. "You and Riley are guilty of collusion, you little fucker!"

I had no idea how the comely cocktail critter and I could've colluded, nor whom we could've colluded against. Everybody who ran the seaside nightclub, where we were enslaved, was more broke than the stress ball in Darren's mammoth paw.

Still, I wasn't a bottom. As such, the words, "Fuck you, fat fuck!" emitted from my mouth, that fateful day in the office.

Such would terminate my time spent on Earth with Darren, as both Kelly and I would be pink slipped for "collusion."

Back in reality, we'd been bequeathed the Syrian torpedo, due to the facts:

A) Darren wanted to fuck Riley

B) Riley didn't want to fuck Darren, and

C) I happened to be fucking Riley, at the time Quinametzin developed his infatuation.

And, we've come full circle.

Such is my brief interaction with Thanos, prior his departure from lucidity, and subsequent flight from Johnny Law.

Decent tale, considering it's true.

Just a brief withdrawal I made from my memory bank. I'm havin' a lot of those, lately, due to the fact humanity has placed itself on hold. As a result, I've far more time to write, than I did in the past.

Such stated, I'm not "quarantining" myself, nor wearing some ludicrous face mask. I know — and can easily prove — there's no "virus," and never has been.

I run every day, even though I'm alone on the streets — save for the seemingly healthy folks who are homeless. If vagrants, with compromised immune systems, aren't droppin' dead from this "disease," doesn't that cause you to question?

Should such be so, Bitchute a little Max Igan action, or doctors Andrew Kaufman, and Carrie Madej, to comprehend what this "plague" is really about.

"There are two histories: official history — lying — and then secret history, where you find the real causes of events."

— Honore de Balzac

Stop scarin' yourselves over bullshit, guys. Go outside. I'm out there all the time, and can assure you there's nothing to fear, except for this shit storm you've created in your minds.

— authored by Hugh Mungus