Across the prairie, a lone rider approaches. The sun rises behind him, shrouding him in darkness. Black against red.
He rides closer. The sun creeps upward, a flame lapping at the hem of a curtain. The morning's heat makes his shape waver and dance. A man astride a horse at one moment; a beast of a thousand hands at another.
He rides closer. The sun is high. Staring straight down, accusing. The only signs of his progress are puffs of…
♫ This is the Captain, brace that ass for impact
Don't doubt, motherfucker, ain't in the abstract
Bird strikin' tiddies, with bitches that is stacked
Black box, listen close, make your balls retract ♫
♫ Ain't no crash, perfect forced water landing
Back the fuck off, 'fore I piss where you standing
I'm fucking filthy, just got the right branding
Ride on my mustache, that pussy commanding ♫
♫ Can't sully this Sully, King of the Controls
Going ballistic, laying pipe 'round the poles
She start chanting, while I'm filling her holes:
He did it, one hundred and fifty-five souls ♫
Holy shit the things I would do to Barbara Stanwyck.*
*I would quickly dissatisfy her intellectually, emotionally, psychically, and clitorilly.
Y'know, this is the fourth time I've let Colin Trevorrow take a shit in my mouth and I'm starting to think it's my fault.
