Jason Z. Christie's Blog, page 30

Intro to 'Ultimate Hustle'

Yeah, yeah, I haven't published Penultimate Hustle yet. Sorry. Working on it now. In the meantime, here's the first part of the sequel.







Chris Turner checked his watch a final time and opened the motel room door. There she was. Right on time. Blonde. Petite. High heels. He put his hand over her mouth and dragged her inside with an absence of effort that comes with years of practice.



He closed the door behind them and rolled her to the end of his arm like Gene Kelly, releasing the hold he had on her mouth. He looked her up and down, nodding approvingly to himself. Janique knew how to pick them, that was for sure.



"Mister, I'm only sevent-" was all she had time to say before Chris popped a ping-pong ball in her mouth and covered it with a strip of duct tape. Janique's latest kick was a series with household objects as sex toys. People didn't need expensive bondage gear, she said. It was all around the house.



He considered removing the tape and lecturing her on current federal statutes pertaining to the adult film industry and decided he'd talk to her afterward and let them fix it in the edit. Right now, he wanted to unwrap this latest bundle.



The thin white blouse tore right off, revealing a white silken bra and pert B-cup breasts. Chris regretted that Janique wasn't there to enjoy this with him. He spun the girl around roughly and pushed her toward the bed, forcing her to face away from him and brace herself with her arms.



He pulled down the brass zipper of her skirt with one hand, and pulled the skirt off with the other, leaving it bunched around her ankles. Chris then turned her to face him and saw a look of genuine fear in the girl's eyes.



Nice. It was one of the many details of Janique's work that he appreciated. Whenever possible, she demanded acting skills, and went to far as to teach classes on the art. She had several worthy understudies, but so far, none could match Janique's ability to appear terrified during a scene, much less that magical animal quality she exhibited when she got deep into her role.



Chris produced a wad of old clothesline from the dresser and considered his options. The girl had a real damsel-in-distress quality about her that begged for a classic pose. He folded her arms behind her back and tied her wrists together, then bound her upper arms tightly. He began to get excited by her obvious discomfort.



When he turned her around on the bed to tie her legs, he caught a glimpse of her obviously unshaven pubic hair through her, naturally, plain white panties. That was also a refreshing new twist from Janique. Most of the Ultimate Hustle girls favored Brazilian waxes.



In this poor girl's case, it increased her desirability. Chris bent her legs at the knees and tied them individually, doing his best to imitate the style Janique liked, with wide bands of tightly constricting rope. It took longer than it should have due to her thrashing about and resisting him, once getting him so aggravated he slapped her across the face. After that, she acquiesced, moving her legs or shifting her body weight to accommodate his demands.



When she was at last utterly helpless to move, Chris began kissing her inner thighs. Soon he had his mouth on her panties, kissing her there, rubbing his mouth against her. The girl's body responded of its own accord, and she began to thrust forward toward him as best she could.



His tongue began to work its way under the edges of her panties. Soon, he was sucking on her pussy from the sides, pulling her lips beyond the confines of her underwear. He made a commendable effort, considering he had yet to use his hands. Chris had just made first tentative contact with her clit when he decided to rip her panties off.



He rolled her onto her side and the sight of her quivering ass and snatch became too much to bear. Chris dropped his pants and climbed onto the bed behind her. He leaned over to kiss her face and neck, and she arched her back to him and moaned. The touch of his lips to her neck appeared to drive her wild. Just as he prepared to enter her for the first time, he stopped.



She didn't have an Ultimate Hustle tattoo.



In a panic, Chris pulled the strip of tape from her mouth. She stared at him for a moment and then spit the ping-pong ball at him.



"Who are you?" he said.



"Who are you?" she replied.



"I think I made a mistake."



"Well, don't stop now."



Chris eyed her intently.



"What? I'm on vacation."



"How old are you? Wait, don't tell me. I don't like grape."



At their request, Brad had designed a circuit that sat between the cameras and recorders and listened for Janique's unused safe word. Upon recognition, it killed all recording.



"Grapes? What?"



"Nothing."



Despite his worry, he never lost his erection. At that point, Chis realized he'd have to go through with it. The girl who lay before him helplessly bound was now dominating him, instead. If it wasn't for Janique, he doubted that he would have adjusted to the BDSM lifestyle. The balance of power shifted so fast at times, it was like having sex on a see-saw. Which, thinking about it, they had never done before.



"Hurry," she said. "My parents will be looking for me."



Resigned to his fate, Chris crawled back onto the bed over her.



"I can't wait to tell my friends I was raped by Chris Turner."



Outside on the balcony, an upstart Ultimate Hustle actress from the Ukraine named Milla dialed Janique.



"He's not here," she said.

Prefect Me

A preview of my secretly-titled offshoot of Perfect Me, featuring Project X, Prail Abraxis's brother... This is actually an 'experimental' short story that won't be included in the novel, but gives you some indication as to how wild it will be. I had to reel it in a lot to write the actual book.











Jack, as played by Pex, really thought he blended.



"The soul of a poet on my desk - it's where the jar is."



Somewhere, Sylvia Plath died.



"That's it, bub. Uh, Bob's your uncle," the charitable gentleman said, in what would become the opening salvo in an epic battle.



Pex was sure he was going mad. Their voices filled his brain.



"Um, now may I have something to eat?"



The director looked at him momentarily. He blinked - reblinked - swept poetry from his head. He said, "Here's some vouchers, wot? Golden Arches down the street. The lot here closes at nine - remember not to drink."



Pex looked down into his hand. His hand said, "Your name's Jack. You don't need this chit. This marker. This voucher."



He ignored it. Prail said, "Jason, please stop now. I'm sorry."



He was all about the burgers. There was a rumbly in his tumbly as he passed Stadium Wembley and Shining Time Station.




###




Johnnie: "Fucking British!"




O.D., sent by High-C, bumped off some more "poets". Information society. Needed. Was hiding.




###




Jack walked into the lobby, a wobblie from the sticks. A bubba (Oh, shit.). He placed several of the gift certificates, ten pounds sterling each (yearling, Rod Serling), onto the counter.




"Welcome to McDonald's. May I take your order?"




He spoke standardized American.




"Uh, yeah. Gimme two number ones. Fuck the Yes Men." 




He greenlit the sequel.




"And one fish sandwich - for here or to go?"




"I'll stay," he said.




He ignored the fact that the restaurant was haunted. It's what they wanted.




"Bing," said Eve and Gwen Stefani.




Sherman's wife came to help. He was working. 




"Dismal euphony?"




They screamed, "Her fucking name is Johnnie!"




Pex wrote it down. He probably wouldn't forget it. She was right, he thought. Fucking British.




But the girl who took his order tried to look...familiar. Hmmm. Their Turing Tester was busted - they wanted him to fix it. He and Prail played Pong for hours, and both texted Johnnie back: "Tell him to write one for you."




Ignored her. And smiled.




She paused.




"Look at all those extras littering your set."




Resumed.




I wonder what I should do now, he wondered. Consulted the script. Improvised munitions. Bit, chewed, swallowed. Smiled. Signed.




"I guess I need a job."




It occurred to him that all of his knowledge was theoretical. Andy Kaufman walked off the set of Fridays.




"Oh, Mr. Grant!" cried Mary Tyler Moore.




Back at her new office, Janique and Prail assayed the date Pex relayed.




"Fuck!" they yelled. 




One-time pad. His patented encryption. (Write her a poem!)




Janique blinked. "Praline, do you see what I see?"




"Afraid so. Shit."




The cheeky bastard had scrambled decades of data and arranged it out of sequence to spell "Political Schemer".




Johnnie had a frank discussion - greenlit The Feederz. It was a codeword for endgame, but from Jason to her.




"Alyssa Milano will pay for this!" Janique swore.




"And Tiffany, too," Suzanne added.




Prail said, "Did you hear that?"




"Yeah, but they heard it yesterday," Janique answered.




"So now what?"




"Pull him out."




###




Pex was on the run. He thought it was a game. 




"USL," he said. "Remember this?"




He looked down, creased his brow.




"Payback is a bitch."




And drank. Filed the information away for later. Conveyed it to his homeboy.




###




He thought he heard the goddesses.




They screamed at once, "You did!"




###




Who was fucking with who, Prail wondered. At that point, she thought she'd test his mettle. Her brother was such a method actor. Man. Well, fine, she thought. If he wants to pretend to be an Earthling so bad, I'll teach him about resistance.




"Om," Pex said to the counter girl.




"Slaw?"

When the Levee Breaks

Why did I do it? I had to do something to make you people recognize my genius. I realize you probably lack the cognitive ability necessary to empathize with me, but could you possibly imagine what it would be like to live as a wage slave when you had ideas worth millions bubbling to the surface in your head?



Of course you can't.



But, still. I showed you bastards, didn't I? Worst fucking disaster in the history of the United States. Fuck, maybe the world. This made the Chunnel cave-in look like a leaky pipe, eh?



You know what's the funniest thing about it? You idiots gave me the idea in the first place. Right before you kicked me out of school, no less. In Honors, we were assigned a book about the Mississippi River flood of 1928. Little did I know when I read it that I would be recreating the whole thing in less than two years time.



People write and ask me, reporters ask me, hell, my mom asked me, "What do you have against New Orleans?"



Well, aside from it smelling of piss, being home to a disproportionate number of low-lives, and having the most corrupt police force on Earth, nothing. I don't have anything against the people of New Orleans. They got the treatment for the same reason Hillary climbed Everest: it was there. But it does make a rather dramatic point about the failures of urban planning, does it not?



That's the problem with you people. You fail to recognize and bow to your mental superiors. If I (Or someone like myself. I am far from unique.)  tell you that I can revolutionize television, or plumbing, or whatever the hell it is that needs improvement, you should listen. Otherwise, things continue going along as they are. That is to say, badly. And you gain a disgruntled social architect with a taste for dramatic revenge.



It's really simple, when you consider it. How did we come into a situation where the fucking illiterates have control over the intelligentsia?



In a little over two hundred years time, this country has gone from a burgeoning hotbed of inventive ideas to a lifeless intellectual quagmire. Were the bread and circuses really worth it? Nowadays, it doesn't matter if you did cure cancer. You still have to wait five years for an FDA hearing so they can reject it. Living here is like being in Lilliput, tied down by a thousand ant-like creatures.



It's a wonder more people don't snap. In retrospect, I probably should have done some gene splicing and come up with a virus to kill stupid people.



The other thing everyone seems to be fascinated with is how I did it. It really wasn't that much of a finesse job, but rather a display of brute force coupled with more than a little cunning. Crude, but effective. The average person's tendency to bow to anyone in a uniform, even a fucking oilfield worker's jumpsuit, made it really easy for me.



The hardest thing to do was getting the money together for the drilling equipment. I can't stand working for idiots and assholes. That's ninety-five percent of the business owners in this country. The explosives themselves came from a recipe right off the ole Internet. My enhancements to the formula did increase the yield fourfold, of course. The electronics weren't much more complicated than a child's remote controlled car.



The brilliant part was the detonator.



I burned a CD with an encoding of the signal required to set off the charges interwoven into a four-track recording I made myself. I was surprised at how receptive they were at the radio station. Funny thing is, they liked it so much, they almost broadcast it on the spot when I dropped it off. If I hadn't asked the guy to wait and play it Friday at five P.M., I would have been as screwed as the rest of you people.



I wish I had a video of it. Four miles of Mississippi River levee collapsing to the tune of Led Zeppelin's "When the Levee Breaks".

Promised Land

"You got the shit, nigga?"



"Motherfucker, I got the shit. You got my money?"



"Twenty Gs."



"We said twenty-two."



"So you dip a few ounces."



"Yeah, aight. We do this at my spot."



"Fuck that shit. Muhfukkin' Pirus would do me on sight, money or not."



"I tole you that gang shit was weak. Entangling alliances and shit.  Look at me. I stayed solo, and I'm doin' keys."



"I'm doin' keys."



"You WANT to do keys. But you also got motherfuckers who don't know you that want to kill you. My game is tight. Anyway, I'ma do this for you. Come to the parking garage on Slausen tonight at eleven."



"Crenshaw?"



"Don't sweat it. It's safe. I do it all the time."



"Aight."



"And I know you ain't even thinkin' 'bout bringin' somebody..."



"No, I wasn't."



"Aight, then. I'll see you at eleven. Don't fuck me."



He hung up the telephone and smiled an evil smirk. Stupid fuckin' kid. He couldn't believe how easy it was. Literally candy from babies. But in this case the candy was Colombian crack or shopping bags full of small bills.



He formulated his plan while incarcerated in California for a murder in the early eighties. In a fit of rage, he had shotgunned an acquaintance in Oakland. Didn't even get out of the car, never realizing what a trendsetter he was. He stayed in San Quentin for six years, until the notoriously liberal California justice system decided he was "reformed" and released him. On his own recognizance, as they say.



Things were simpler, then, within prison and without. In lockdown, things were strictly divided along color lines: white, black, hispanic. No real orientals to speak of. The Samoans were motherfuckers. They had allegiance to themselves, and traveled in all worlds equally well, being diplomatic or snapping necks as the situation warranted. Jail was a tense, uneasy experience, but the loose-knit unity and the protection it provided made it bearable. He'd never had to kill in prison.



A few years into his sentence, he began to hear about L.A. Fourteen year-old kids buying Benzes with cash. Kilos. Gold. Women. He wanted it all. So why not just take it?



He decided to do just that.



Now that he had goals and aspirations in life, he literally had years to work toward them before setting them into motion. He immersed himself in urban legend and lore. He listened to the real O.G.s. He actually studied gangsterism from the 20s to the present. He started listening to hip-hop.



In his day, rappin' was disco shit. Party shit. Sugarhill Gang was just funk like Parliament or Rick James. But nowadays, rap was large, and it wasn't disco shit. It was gangsta shit. Ice-T, N.W.A., Above the Law. Rap truly was a black CNN, and he heard the message loud and clear: L.A. was the land of blood and money.

Pet

You bring out the fascist

In my jeans

Runaway slave

Returned

Of her own accord

Imprisoned

By a love that binds

A bird

In a room without walls

Turning the Page

A young Paige Burner stood looking at the bathroom vanity mirror, behind a locked door. In her hand she held a bewildering rainbow array of pharmaceuticals. Gifts from her aspiring rapist of a street pharmacist, on again/off again, erstwhile pseudo-boyfriend Jimmy James.



In front of her on an immaculate porcelain and marble countertop lay a pearl-handled straight razor marked "Tuesday". Yet it was Sunday. She filled her "World's Sexiest Secretary" coffee mug with tap water, smelled it, and grimaced. Ordinarily, she couldn't stomach chlorine.



The tub was filling with piping hot water. She knew enough. She'd once seen a porn, "The Devil in Ms. Jones", that artfully depicted such a suicide. Take the pills, get numb, then get into the bath. She learned from Usenet that you should cut your arms lengthwise, not across the wrists, for maximum effectiveness. Thanks, Spooge.



Paige lifted the first two pills, Rohypnols - small, blue-flecked tranquilizers, to her lips and swallowed them down. The water didn't seem so bad, now. So far, so good, she thought. Suicide really is easy, just like the M.A.S.H. theme song said.



There was, just then, a knock at the door that interrupted this most private moment of solemn reverie.



"Pee?" a voice asked.



It was the indomitable Mr. James. She didn't expect him today, and certainly not this early. He did, however, have a key, and free and open access to her. It was part of their arrangement.



She really didn't like the abbreviated nickname. and had told him never to use it in public.



"P.T. Boat", "P.T. Cruiser", "P.T. Barnum", "Petey Wheatstraw" and others, thankfully, were used even less frequently. Usually when he was high (always) and in a light-hearted mood, which varied with the wind and stars, it seemed.



She was sure the door was locked! She jerked at the sound of her name, clumsily dumping several pills into the sink and onto the cabinet and floor.  Worse yet, she knocked the razor off, where it bounced and clattered on the tile, shattering the handle.



Before she could react, the door opened.



"You okay?" he asked.



He scanned the room. Clearly she was not. The tub was now near overflowing and the mirror had begun to mist over with steam. Paige, officially a failure at suicide, moved to turn the faucet off.



Jimbo took the opportunity to enter. He fully looked the part of caveman lawyer, as usual, but held a bouquet of carnations, roses, baby's breath and fern. The effects of the flowers was mesmerizing.



Such beauty, she thought.



"If I had known you'd react this badly to a marriage proposal, I'd have slept in," he said with a grin.



In his other hand, he held a small box.



"Here," he said with graceless intonation, "Ms. Paige S. Burner, would you please consider legal bondage to me?"



Ever the wordsmith, his turn of phrase was not without charm.



She accepted the token, and her eyes met his in what felt like the first time in a long while. She let the box lay on her flat, open palm, as if weighing it. She really didn't know what to say.



"Yes," she finally gurgled.



"Great! Let's go to Huddle House to celebrate. The sky's the limit."



He was pretty mirthful, considering the morbidity of the situation. He led her by the hand out of the bathroom, closed the door behind them, and kissed her. Hard and rough, at first. He was an animal, after all, but then tenderly and gently. She required both, herself.



"Don't ever do that again," he said, with just the tiniest bit of menace in his voice. "It would void our marriage contract."



He couldn't help but let a broad smile cross his visage.



"I won't", she said breathlessly.



"Now open it," he directed her. "I gotta pee, Pee."



He made far too many pee jokes. Paige opened the jewelry box. Inside was an ornate diamond and platinum setting, very classy and elegant looking. Quite unlike our Mr. James, she decided.



"Oh, it's real," he said as he opened the door. He had turned the light off, but she knew all the same he had cleaned up her mess. When she checked later, the pills and razor were both gone.



"I got an advance on a screenplay!" he enthused. "And I couldn't think of anything else I wanted aside from you. You know I'm not a car guy."



"H-How much?" she stammered.



"Enough. But never mind that, love. As my wife, I expect silent obedience."



He winked at her, and his eyes twinkled. The pills were kicking in. She was buzzed, but no longer lethargic.



"Let's go get that coffee," he suggested.



"I'm a little fucked-up."



"Twas ever thus," he said. "Nothing that a hard fucking later won't fix."



He grinned again.



"You think that's the final solution to everything, you sex Nazi."



She was starting to get her bearings back.



"Oh, it pretty much is. That and laughter," he said, rather seriously.



With an uncharacteristic suddenness, he snatched the box from her loose grip and dropped to one knee.



"Paige, I reiterate. Will you please do me the honor of being my wife #1?"



Her eyebrows raised, intrigued by this new wrinkle. Polyamory was a subject they had discussed often.



"I already said yes once, you dick. Don't make me repeat myself."



And with that, they walked arm-in-arm to face the rising sun. Together.



6-8-08

Halloween 2000

(A write-up about Me, Brian Magar of Guntgrutcher/Pyroclastix, and Brad of The Black Method in New Orleans.)





Halloween 2000. Brad (Chemical) and I
are scheduled to be in New Orleans. I made plans to meet the infamous
JASON GORTICIAN a month in advance. So the whole time before "the day"
we were waiting in anticipation. Wondering what this guy was actually
gonna be like. To give some background. I have been corresponding with
Jason Christie for about 5 years via email. He's always been down with
what I've been doing and vice versa. Not familiar with GORTICIAN? Poke
around on a search engine for a few minutes. I'm sure you'll be able to
find some kind of press on Gortician.



So anyway. It comes down to
"the day" we are supposed to meet. Brad and I are conjuring up all
these scenario's of what this guy will actually be like. Laughing and
bonding away on Bourbon Street until he calls. "He's on his way." We
meet Jason in the lobby of the Marriot right off the French Quarter. He
comes strolling in with a beat up leather jacket. Leather top hat, and a
GUNTGRUTCHER shirt. FUCK YES!!!. We get his wife and kids squared away
in our hotel room and go hit the streets. Halloween in New Orleans is
surreal. Big floats and shit. Everyone is dressed up, drunk, naked and
crazy as fuck. This definitely added to the insanity.



First stop
was a craphole strip joint. We go in and I buy Jason 2 beers, a shot of
jagermeister and a long island iced tea. He kills these in 5 minutes. We
hang out and watch some big breasted stripper dance for 3 seconds. Then
some crackhead broad comes out and dances. The whole time Jason is
talking about virtual reality and concepts for DOT COM companies. To be
honest I am not a tech guy, so I didn't understand a lot of the
technical lingo. Later on Brad confirmed that Jason was no joke in the
tech department. The strippers and belligerent hillbillies weren't
giving us a good vibe at this place, so we left.



On to the next
strip club. On the way there. Jason says, "Hey man, you know how you can
tell it's not Mardi Gras?" I say. "No?". He says "Watch this." Jason
proceeds in pinching this really hot girl's ass who was walking down the
street. She turns around and says "Get the fuck off of me you sick-o."
All three of us were laughing. It was about at this point that I
realized that Jason's online persona is actually quite tame compared to
the real deal.



So we all go to this other strip club. Once again.
I take care of a large round of drinks for Jason. All in all. I think I
spent about 60 bucks on Jasons drinks. So we're sittin there, Shootin'
the shit about all things death metal and gore. Just chillin. Watching a
few HOT strippers in action. Jason says "Man, I need to go smoke some
weed. I'll be back." He goes in the back of the club and fires it up in
the bathroom.



5 minutes later he's back in action. "Oooo..Ok
man..You don't know me." This is what Jason said and moved to the back
of the stripper wheel. I had no idea what he was talking about. Just
then Brad bumps my shoulder and says "Hey man, Check out the wheel." I
look up and see this stripper perched on a spinning wheel with
GUNTGRUTCHER, GORTICIAN and 3 pentagrams slapped on the side. Turns out
that Jason was sitting back there tagging the shit up as the stripper
was dancing. I hear the bathroom has some nice tags as well.



Jason
moves back and Brad goes in the VIP for some Lap dance action. Jason
and I are shooting the shit some more. All the while I'm tipping this
chick. Just then Jason stands up and says "Here, you want my fuckin'
money? Here..Take it." He crumbles dollar bills up into little balls and
proceeds to throw them as hard as he could at the womans ass.
"Here...here's your fuckin' money!!!" It was pretty insane. Only because
it isn't everyday that you see someone literally throwing money at
someone's ass.



So we all get bored of that shit and decide to go
out and try and find us a show. The Misfits where playing at the House
of Blues that night. But It didn't really seem like the thing to do. So
we walked around into uncharted territory. Jason fires up a joint like 5
feet away from a cop. Then he blows it in someones face. Walking around
like the mad hatter. It was surreal in a way that I cannot really
describe. Then we came across a huge group of hippies burning shit in
the street around a drum circle. This wasn't our scene. We end up
sitting in front of some store for a few hours just shootin the shit.
It's like 6 am at this point and I'm tired.



We go back to the
hotel and Jason hooks Brad and I up with some GORTICIAN CD's and a
FESTERING SORE (Jason's other deal. Kind of reminds me of Bathory mixed
with Venom) promo. ROCK!!!



I remember reading a short clip on the
BRUTAL TRUTH newsletter a while back about Jason. It said something
like "Special thanks to Jason Christie for the shirts and the killer
time in Louisiana." That stuck in my head all night for some reason. Now
I know why they felt the need to thank him for the good time. A few
words come to mind when thinking about Jason. CULT is one of them. Jason
is total CULT. A one man army fueled by insanity. Words cannot describe
it. Jason is a man truly living the underground.

Google Analytics - Obsess In Style

How do indie writers get any work done, checking their sales stats all day long? I have it easy. I don't have any sales stats. Still, I manage to not write on most days.



Anyway.



Want some stats that will keep you interested, and are actually somewhat useful? Google Analytics will keep you mesmerized for days. Sign up, plug a tiny bit of code into your page, and you're off. Blogspot has a place to put your GA number in their preferences, I believe. So you don't even have to mess with HTML. Like that's something scary.



So, activate your account, plug in the code, and...nothing. It takes a day for stats to start coming in. But when they do?



Wow. I just added it here for the heck of it. I learned a lot about the behavior of visitors to my site. For instance, I used to get fifty hits, I thought that meant fifty people. Nope. More like six or so, clicking on eight pages each.



See? That's useful to know.



You can follow the trail through the pages they visit, from the landing page to the jump page when then leave your site again. Simply put, there is a wealth of information to be had here. If you have an author's website, you really should be running Google Analytics.



You just need to know what to do with it after that, I guess.

A Hierarchical List of Ways I Shall Love Thee

A Hierarchical List Of Ways I Shall Love Thee

Missionary Position

            Knees to Your Head

            Kissing

            Choking

ETC.

Doggy to Froggy and Back Again           

            Reverse
Cowgirl Toe Shrimping

Your Ass – Don’t Even Get Me Started

Your Incredible Delicious Precious Little Pussy

            My
Fist

I want to dress and undress you in a thousand outfits of my
choice

Bound and gagged, yet you render me immobile, foaming at the
mouth

            Did
my involuntary growling alarm you?

And yet, all of that considerable delight aside, my love, it
is the fact that

            We
have touched souls, and found we were perfectly suited for one another

For not only are you a vision to behold

Your touch is light, your heart sincere

I’m yours
forever more

Homestead

Exploring undiscovered lands

In your valleys and your hills

Each mounting ridge, I stake my claim

Each dewy pool I sup

My oasis

You are the country of my heart

Forever am I stained

Until the day you’re at my side

My agony remains

My wife, my wife, I cannot wait

To dine our nightly feast

To see the joy upon your face

And press you close to me