"Well, I'm not sure yet... Do you like it?" I replied, unexpectedly.
"Absolutely," spoke J-Star with his acid-tongue slithering about in that broad moist upper cavern, "it softens me. Now I want to ask you about [DIE TYE DIE]."
"Oh, him! Oh let's not dally with [DIE TYE DIE], he is but a worm in the swamp of our discarded desires. He is the flower that always wanted to be, but never saw that he never was. Oh, [J-Star], let us not discuss-"
"We must," he interrupted, sexily. "You must understand, and take this with a grain of brown sugar. He has become...my favourite."
The dagger poked into my backside like a girth loosened from a horse drinking from a clear fresh-water pond. Waking from my stupor of disbelief, I felt as if I were forced to drink the tepid black filth dripping from some manly tap, silver but without reflection, as if the tap was too confident in itself, too strong, too...muscular. I opened my eyes and there before me, J-Star smiled that beautiful, sanguine smile I have come to know so intimately well - and to his right, below his relaxed arm, there he was: DIE TYE DIE. And he was smiling too, only his gaze was one of victory, of achievement - for he knew, he had climbed to No. 1.
And then I woke.
And then I saw: in my hand an apple. A Royal Gala apple, from South Africa. With a bite into it, the shape of someone else's mouth. And then, right there, I knew: my fight had begun.
J-Star must be mine.
I will climb up into the light of his soft illumination. I will promise my body to his everlasting wisdom. I will devote my being to the open plains of his chest, the grass being his unkempt yet lingering mess of hair.
J-Star will be mine.
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