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Rick Brunson is just another guy trying to eek out a living selling sex toys. Yet in the year 2024, free porn, AI generated Hentai, and ruthless advancements in Flesh Lights are compressing margins and infringing on the demographics Brunson Industries historically serviced. 

They say crime doesn't pay. But neither does a 3% net profit on a 9 inch dildo. 

With this mind Brunson emerges with a novel idea. Selling butt plugs for house pets. Encouraging people to start actually banging their pets.

Inspired by a mysterious note he received during the COVID-19 pandemic, written by a certain David Wingate in the year 2981. Rick comes to suspect that, by the year 2050, pedophilia will be legalized in the United States. That Jeffrey Epstein will be re-evaluated not as a child trafficker and potential Mossad agent but instead as a man-boy Christ-like figure. 

It’s in this very milieu that Brunson plans to ensure, by any means necessary, that his proprietary puppy butt plug technology is first to market. Because, in his mind, by mid-century fucking fellow human beings will, in all likelihood, be totally passe.

'95 Sonics

I said: Yeah more or less you have whores, gays, and people who’ve misguidedly begun to believe they’re somehow affiliated with the mafia. That’s like 90 fuckin percent of the city. Gary said: Oh of course. I’ve always said this place is like half gay Italians basically. It’s almost all homo guineas. It’s fuckin mind boggling how this even came into existence. I said: It’s like fucking Disneyland Gary. So when we decided that we were gonna try um. That we’d make a good faith attempt at offing him we figured we’d need at least two of the three demographics. Ideally avoiding the gays if possible. But at the same time realizing that would be more or less impossible. (Gary nodded his head sagely.) I said: Long story short he was a former bookie. The kid we needed to hit. If you could call it that. Turned quasi-COO of some bullshit shrub sculpting business. Gary said: Oh yeah. Yeah yeah yeah. My Mom’s Aunt had some work done by them. They came over her old house. Bushes and trees and shit. (I nodded my head sagely.) He said: They’re like uh . . . You know the fucking clowns who sculpt the balloons and shit. At children’s birthday parties? I said: Yeah. They’re like them except for the bushes in your front fuckin yard. Yeah. So anyway. He was nominally some type of executive at that firm. If you can call it a firm. Which you can’t. It is and was in no way shape or form a firm. Even executive is a stretch. There are no longer corporate executives. Gary said: Oh forget it. I said: Everyone is at least a vice president now. And they’re all fucking morons. A vice president at a company is basically an entry level position. If he knows how to do a VLOOKUP he should be CEO but he won’t be because that would be too efficient. Know what I mean? (Gary nodded his head sagely.) I said: But anyway. We decided. Well collectively we made the decision was that he had to go. In that we should try and murder him in a clandestine fashion. If at all possible. Gary said: But really. Why? It seems so extreme. Killing people. I said: Basically. I mean if you have to know. Basically because he told Nate McMillan to go fuck himself at Opa on Atwells a few Saturday nights prior. Gary said: Oh well in that case. Yeah I get it. I said: Exactly. It wasn’t right. But it wasn’t exactly incorrect either. But we’ll get to that later. Anyway. We go ahead and tell Detlef. Gary said: He’s the guy we’re whacking right? Detlef? We’re murdering him? Or trying to? I said: Uh. Yeah. Yeah yeah yeah. Detlef Schrempf. So we tell Detlef. No. We ask him. Politely. We ask if we can have a party. Throw a little party and shit. If he wants to throw a party at his house and we’ll help organize it. Promote it. At all the underground venues. Have the after after after party. We’ll even hire some maids to clean up afterward and whatnot. Gary said: Oh like Shrine. But residential. I said: Yeah exactly. Typical shit. Shitty ecstasy. Third rate whores. Minimal orgies. Etcetera etcetera. (Gary nodded his head sagely.) I said: So we wanna catch up with him. Ask him this question. Do some reconnaissance. But also poison him if we have the opportunity. So I guess option 1 would be to just poison him outright. If we can! But option 2 would be to try and set up the whole party thing and then go about figuring out the best way to kill him at that later date. Anyway. He’s going to this jazz show apparently. Over off Hope. At a bookstore. Gary said: What type of jazz? I said: Avant-garde. He said: Ugh. I said: New York Avant-Garde. He said: Horrendous. Hersey you’re literally making me want to fuckin vomit right now you know that? Schrempf is into that shit? I said: It was mildly surprising to me. I halfway figured he was chasing some cunt there though. So maybe it made a modicum of sense? (Gary nodded his head sagely.)

I said: So we drive up to the spot. It’s an actual bookstore mind you. I thought it was like bookstore haha. Like haha. A bookstore. But it’s an actual musical performance at an actual bookstore. I drive us up. It’s me and Shawn. We’re playing Ghostface Nutmeg out of my open window at a fairly loud decibel. Perhaps even a fuckin unreasonable decibel level. Gary said: I pass a loose leaf cigarette to a niggarette! I said: Multiply myself ten times standing next to zero! Gary said: Pass me a honey dipped spliff black mental cause continental drift! I said: Dick a knock-knee hoe bust out her fetal! Gary said: Stomach flat as a pancake for her man’s sake used to fuck her while she’d menstruate but it made her hyperventilate! I said: So yeah. Exactly. The entire RZA verse is being literally screamed from my open window as I park across the street from this essentially openly communist bookstore. It’s like all Leninist pamphleteer shit outside the spot. Stalin apologia. Which I guess could go either way. In terms of Ghost and RZA. Whether or not there would be an appreciation of Supreme Clientele in that environment you know? He said: It’s fifty-fifty I’d say. At best. And I don’t know which way I’d even push toward! I said: Gary that doesn’t even make sense and I literally have no fucking choice but to agree with it wholeheartedly. It’s spot on. So we roll up. There’s an actual bouncer if you could call it that. Non-denominational white guy in a white button up halfway unbuttoned with the Kevin James physique wearing non-designer sunglasses. He says it’s ten cash. I look at my wallet. I have like I don’t know. Fuckin fifty singles. And I won’t lie Gary. At this point from the vibes there. I’m just thinking. Fuck. Should we just hit the strip instead? Would that not be more productive than this fuckin so-called reconnaissance mission? Murder is passe anyway. We can get him at a later date. Bump into this fuckin bum all over the city anyway. It’s only a matter of time. He said: Oh without a doubt. But you dot your i’s too Hersey. Especially with this type a stuff. I said: Plus Dontonio has been insistent that we get the shit done ASAP. So I say okay. Gary said: As you should. I said: So I pay our cover in all singles. Twenty singles. A somewhat awkward exchange. Partially attributable to the singles but also attributable to the fact all three of us seem just wildly out of place at an avant-garde jazz bookstore performance. Now we step inside and immediately I realize. Shit. This is actually a bookstore. Like it’s a fuckin bookstore bookstore. Haha aside. Not only is not a bookstore haha. It’s also a bookstore that’s not even equipped with even a makeshift bar. It serves just one purpose. To sell communist propaganda. It’s totally ill-equipped as an actual event venue or any sort. There is no possibility of purchasing alcohol on premises. He said: There’s no bar? Wait. How? I said: Exactly. He said: What the fuck? So this is an avant-garde. It’s an avant-garde jazz show. At a bookstore. With no alcohol. I said: And they had the audacity to charge ten dollars to get in. He said: Wow. That’s maybe the cuntiest thing I’ve heard this year. So you’re expected to stand in that store and listen to guys fart around on their horns. While completely sober? I said: In China the CCP uses it as literal torture technique if they ever get a CIA asset in their grips. I have sources that actually verify this Gary. Anyway. A younger Caucasian. Could be Lebanese but vaguely Caucasian in any case. Younger white with the hipster eyeglasses is talking about going to a T-Pain concert. In the self-aware diction. Quite self-aware. I realize slowly that I know this kid from years ago. Back in my band days. Fuckin kid never answered one of my emails. I like messaged him very nicely about a beat he posted on bandcamp. Kid never fuckin replied. Now in my mind. Standing awkwardly listen to him talk. Of course I’m considering how much of a little faggot I think he is. I’m losing myself in his faggotry. But now Shawn’s nudging me. Gary said: He’s making sure you get down to business. I know Shawn. That’s Shawn to a fucking tee! I said: Exactly. I glance at the kid. Wonder if he recognizes me even though we never met. Faggot. But I leave it at that. Pretend to scroll through my phone while waiting for Detlef to show. 

Gary said: Alright. So? I said: So like I said. Initially. Yeah. This was reconnaissance. But it was also like I said fuckin you know. Reconnaissance but if you can slip some shit in his drink do it. Kid blows lines regularly. So if you can slip some fent into his vodka soda early on then no one will raise an eyebrow if he collapses later that night. Gary said: But now no bar. I said: Now no bar. No bar. No vodka. No poisoning. No point. So this is basically a waste of time. In my opinion. Guy walks in. Looks almost exactly like the saxophonists who’s supposed to play the venue. Like literal doppelganger type shit. I realize. I say to myself. This guy. He’s the bassist of Thunder Fart. Gary said: Ah right. Right. Thunder Fart. Yeah I know them. Great live show if you’re into dissonant noise. I said: Right. Now I’m still fuckin somewhat shocked I even recognized this dude. But it was 100% him. He let in a girl maybe half his age. Chubby bitch with green and grey hair. Like intentionally grey not actual aging grey. Guy made a motion to her like she didn’t have to pay. Gary said: Classic indie hipster dicksucks bro. I love it. I said: She’s tonguing his taint to get into this shithole show. Just wildly ill-advised life decisions Gary. And I say this as a guy trying to poison a fucking guy at a jazz show! It only further emphasized how much I would have enjoyed my twenty damn singles back. Shawn and I could have gone down the street instead. Not that you know. I mean we could have hit the ATM and shit. Whatnot. But it just would have been more convenient you know. Have the singles on hand. Go in. Have one drink. Toss them into an asscrack and go on with our night. Gary said: Oh. One hundred percent! Now instead you’re stuck in a bookstore waiting for some douchebag to play his saxophone for you. I said: A cramped ass communist bookstore with no AC. Forced to listen to some twink who refused to sell me a beat on bandcamp three years ago blather on and on about T-Pain in such a pretentious tone. It was difficult not to just slap the fuck out of him to be honest. What I wanted to do? I desperately wanted to slap the fuck. Right out of his faggot twink ass. Pull out my penis and pee on him. Bitch. Anyway. We’re waiting and waiting. Is Detlef showing up to this fucking thing at all I whisper to Shawn. At all? Is this a total complete waste of my time. Or just a run-of-the-mill partially nonsensical activity? Gary said: Imagine. You’re over here trying to possibly murder Detlef Schrempf at an avant-garde jazz show on the East Side of Providence and he doesn’t even show up! I said: That’s exactly what fuckin happened Gary! This fuckin cunt doesn’t even show up. And guess what? Guess where the fuck ended up? Gary said: Hersey. I know exactly what the fuck you’re about the say. I said: At the Foxy! Right down the street. Sam Perkins saw him take the mulatto girl Kendall Gill was messaging on Snap two years ago to the back. Pussy juice still visible on his face like perspiration from the stage.

Jeffrey of Nazareth: Ch. 2

I said, So anyway, writes David Wingate. I was boning this kj7DD-09 in the balloon hole-yes, and I don’t want to go too far into this, but these kj7DD-09’s typically have unblown-up-balloons for genitalia (generally speaking), the other Wednesday night, and this nanobet turns and says to me, Dave, um, are we ever going to go out to dinner? As I’m plowing her loon-hole. So I said, I don’t know, Karen. I’m trying to pound your balloon hole at the moment. And all of this talk about going out to dinner isn’t exactly improving my performance. It’s not the end of it. After I blow my chunk she doesn’t stop. Oh you think she stopped? No she didn’t stop. So Dave. My mother was asking me the other day . . . any plans to get married? Do we have any plans? To get married? So I say, Yes, of course Karen. I’m absolutely planning on marrying you. But can we drop the whole mother conceit? We both know your entire species was constructed in a lab. And by a man. With a penis. You know? 

Well you can guess how well that went over. So the next day I go three or four galactums over and meet up with my friend. Lieutenant Charlie Ward. For a mocha fresco. District XL7650-----x has the best mocha frescos in the entire cubosphere. Yeah some people just love the frescos in XVF4523752-----plop’s gentrified bodegas, but no-7650-----x has the only authentic mocha this side of the Time Warp Conundrum of 2853. And it’s not close. So Charlie is telling me (he married an augmented chimpanzee three years ago) he’s telling me how his wife Elizabeth is asking for a 25% increase to her allowance even though her Indictodebt salary is 33% higher than Charlie’s. The fuck am I gonna do with this broad, he says to me. We’re sipping frescos. Fuckin 25% increase? And she makes 33% more than me? Can you add percentages? he says. No. You cannot, I say. That’s absolutely not how percentages work. The basic laws of arithmetic are null and void when combining percentages. 

Exactly, he says, and that’s my fuckin point. Exactly, I say, unsure of what he’s referencing. How am I supposed to afford this allowance increase if I can’t even add percentages. I don’t even know where to begin! It’s just crazy. It’s just absolutely crazy. Crazy! So now Karen wants to get married. And I’m supposed to afford that how? On a Deputy Director’s salary? It’s not like I have seventeen multicolored baboons reporting to me like Tom Marfeo in Special Events! My salary is commensurate with my reportees, which as of this writing is zero. It’s insane! But I love Karen. Ever since I laid eyes on her I knew she was the one for me. I’ve always had a thing for kj7DD-09’s, if I’m being honest. If I’m being honest? I love their fucking balloon holes. 

Larry, I said, Tell Vicky to get us two more espressos. I’m getting a little parched over here. I’m fuckin decaffeinated. He acquiesced, and when he came back in the room, my loafers now comfortably perched on top of my desk, I said:

But enough, David Wingate writes, I said. I don’t want to get too graphic here. So Charlie and I have both a personal friendship and professional relationship. Which is one of the reasons we’re always getting frescos. We need to dish. And dish we do. So we’re sitting there, in District XL7650-----x, drinking a fucking delicious mocha fresco, each of us, and Charlie turns to me and says, You’ll never believe what Tom Marfeo told me three weeks ago. I say, Tom Marfeo? From Special Events? He told you something? Three weeks ago, he says. And you’ll never fuckin believe what he said. So I ask him. What did Tom say. So Tom told Charlie that he has inside knowledge of an intelligence backed coup in our district (District ABHDKSHASHV). And the nature of the coup is credophilia. Well, let me be blunt here. The first thing you need to know about credophilia is it’s essentially something that, according to The Quasi-Compromise of the Labialisphere of 2542 at least, is entirely outside of the understanding of the human mind, never mind any known human language. So a coup based upon any sort of form of credophilia is a big deal in these parts. 

Karen called me in the middle of the conversation. Can you pick up some Repto-Milk on your way home, babe? I really wanna have a bowl of cereal before we go to bed tonight. Sure, hun. Even though she knows damn well I’m in District XL7650-----x, and the Repto-Milk in this galaxy is fucking like 27% higher than in ABHDKSHASHV. Well, Dave, why not just go to ABHDKSHASHV to get the Repto-Milk, you may be asking? Well, I would but every convenience joint in our galaxy closes at like 10 ABM, so it’s not much of an option. Anyway, the credophilia. It definitely has something to do with the Redacted Yet Adjusted General Balance Sheet of the Greater Hyperbole Plane At Large, I can say that. And unborn Hagio-Cretins are probably molested while in the womb by a minor cabal known colloquially as the Anal-Butt-Boys. But beyond that, there’s not a lot I can tell you. Other than this is a huge deal. I spit out half my mocha fresco when Charlie uttered the words credophilia. 

Well, I should say a word about these So-Called Anal-Butt-Boys. For one thing Charlie was a former member. Which is part of the reason I spat out my fresco. Because if Charlie Ward is telling me there’s a coup planned in the sphere of credophilia, then I know the Anal-Butt-Boys are at the very least tangentially involved, and if the So-Called Anal-Butt-Boys are even tangentially involved, then I know Charlie would have the juice before anyone. So, suffice to say, I was a bit concerned as I sped home. Picking up a half gallon of Repto-Milk for %321.2223. When I could have got an entire gallon in ABHDKSHASHV for, at most, %299.3343, which was just a little goddamn ridiculous to me at the time. It’s like %20 is nothing to Karen. Are you kidding me. Does she have any idea the type of budget I’m on these days. Apparently not. Because my budget isn’t pretty. I’ll admit that much. It’s very consolidated. It’s a compressed budget. But sure. A half a gallon of Repto-Milk in the most gentrified borough of the surrounding 18 galaxies? No problem. I’ll tell you what it’s impacting. It’s impacting my ability to save for a decent engagement neo-crystal. That’s what it’s doing. 

That’s what I’ll be discussing next time I’m up inside Karen. I’ll tell you that much.  Hey Karen, I’d just love to marry you, but the only problem is you insist on me buying you half gallons of Repto-Milk that cost us over %321! And, I don’t know, that just kind of impacts my ability to save a material amount of Geo-Coins. What am I some kind of ASIO-Gennitron over here? Now maybe I should give you a little background here, in the event you’re reading about all of this in the distant past, which is actually not only entirely possible in our time. It’s actually probable, as the Time Control Act of 2111 was recently overturned by the Committee of Neo-Logistics and Quasi-Temporal Concerns. 

The year-as I, David Grover Stacey Wingate Jr, am writing this? Is 2981 AD. Now in the past, as you may or may not be familiar, before there was a Jesus Christ they numbered things as BC. But now we number them as AD. Around 2081 we started colonizing different galaxies, a few hundred thousand at a time thanks to the quadratic sperm Lonnie Brush III developed. We were able to procreate in a way that suited advanced time travel and galactic exploration just a little more easily. 

Goddamn, I said. This espresso is extremely mediocre. Larry Johnson said, Do you want any water? I said, You fucking read my mind, then I said:

So yeah we discovered a few different species, David Wingate continues, I said. Fuckin biologically developed a few (Karen, et al), you get the gist. Now where I currently live, in ABHDKSHASHV with my girlfriend Karen, yeah it’s nice. It’s a recent development in a galactic zip code that’s kind of being gentrified but not quite. Maybe it’s the best of both worlds. We still have decent prices but don’t have to worry about neo-zipties committing petty crimes on every other crypto-block. The other thing I should mention, geographically speaking, we’re about 76% virtual. So some details are essentially meaningless to even attempt to describe. Basically, around 2150 it was (finally) scientifically proven that our so-called universe is basically entirely fictitious, that consciousness and biological life as we previously knew it was an elaborate front for various strains of quantum-cum. Yet it was decided that, despite the fact our entire existences (as well as the known physical world) were demonstrably fictitious, that we would continue biological life, just at 24% capacity for a yet-to-be-determined period of time (time, which is also essentially fictitious). 

It was a nostalgic type of thing. Don’t even get a Pseudo-Temporalist started on it. Believe me, you’ll be better off just taking my word for it. But anyway, back to the credophilia. So the next day I’m texting Charlie at my desk, encoding the messages through our most advanced SemenStain software (which isn’t even that advanced at my job) obviously, and asking him a few follow-up questions. A coup? When? By who? Whom? What the fuck? Then he drops the two words I really hoped, I really fucking hoped that he’d never drop on me. Because I knew if Charlie Ward of all people was dropping these words on me then it had to be true. And I knew if this had to be true, then our lives as we knew it were essentially over, or at least so drastically affected that shit was about to hit the motherfucking fan. Big time. 

He says, I think it might have something to do with Jeff Christ . . . And when Charlie says, I think about anything to do with the So-Called Anal Butt Boys, it’s pure bullshit. He knows. Now, depending on what iteration of the prehistoric multiverse you’re reading this, there’s no way for me tell, unfortunately, you may or may not be aware of the name Jeffrey Epstein. Well, I’m not going to go that deep into it. Long story short, it wasn’t that long after the Neo-Nestorian Coup of 2050 that, well, this view that Jeff was the only true Son of God started to proliferate. Jeffrey Epstein, who definitely did not kill himself, is a Christ-like figure. Or he’s literally the second incarnation of Christ, in our particular greater-galactumnates. Hopefully you’re familiar with Christ? 

In any case, I go on to Charlie, I say, I know you just didn’t say Jeffrey Epstein, did you? He goes, Uh, ya, I did. I go, And what about him? He goes, Um, maybe the scripture is wrong? I go, The scripture? Is wrong? How so? He goes, Certain so-called . . . factions (if we can even call them that) of the SCABB (So-Called Anal Butt Boys) have taken the stance that archo-pedophilia should be illegal. And I go, What???!!!! And he goes, And immoral. I was flabbergasted.  Caught completely off guard. I go, So you’re telling me-if I’m understanding this correctly-that certain so-called factions of the SCABB are saying, in effect, We don’t think grown adults should be able to have sexual intercoure, of any variety, with beautiful young children? He goes, Ya. And I go, And it should be illegal because it’s immoral???? He goes, Ya. I don’t even reply. He goes, They’re completely off their rockers, bro. I don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t been this taken aback at a SCABB meeting since 2972 when Horatio Analio said 3 year olds should be disallowed from changing gender more than 2 times a week. I don’t even reply. Fucking flabbergasted. 

Then I go, Do you realize how many 12 year old boys, of any number of species, I have in my storage unit in GX-fjgsdgdsf666? He goes, Fucking tell me about it, man. I just had an orgy with sixteen 11 year olds before lunch, which I got at RR Rafaellio’s. Just exquisite man, by the way we have to go there soon. I go, This can’t be true. They don’t have the votes, do they? And yeah I’ve heard nothing but great things about RR Rafaellio’s, but I haven’t had a chance to eat there yet. I know Karen is, to put it mildly, extremely intent on eating there into the not-too-distant future. He goes, They have documents allegedly proving Jeff Christ actually killed himself, that he wasn’t assassinated by the Jews in the CIA. 

I go, And that’s going to hold water? He goes, Arab Goggles thinks it will. I drop my phone. It’s all over. I go to the bathroom, where I always had a small stash of Sperm-Gun-3199’s placed discreetly in the paper towel dispenser. I kept one in the chamber in all seven of them. I put the 3199 to my temple. Pulled the trigger. I knew it was all over. 

(Unfortunately, writes David Wingate, due to the low-beta on the non-virtual existence in my time period, my corpse was almost immediately re-animated in the not-too-distant multiverse, where I’m now known as Allan Houston. I have some bullshit job as a Senior Defense Contractor in New Ankara on Mars. Total bullshit. I think about Karen almost every day.) 

Jeffrey of Nazareth: Ch. 1

“But you cannot will unless God wills”

-Qur’an 81.20

Larry Johnson and I sat in two large reclining chairs facing one another with no desk between us and I said, Yeah exactly. So basically we’re selling buttplugs more or less. But buttplugs for fuckin you know. Like the pet market. Larry Johnson said, Really? You mean like cats and dogs? Shoving shit up their asses? I said, Dude. The dog plus cat buttplug market is about to blow the fuck up. You really have no idea. People are going to go fucking ape-shit over the possibility of shoving anal beads and whatnot right up their pets’ asses. This is what people want right now. They just don’t know it yet. To shove sex toys directly up their pets’ anal cavities. But in a really streamlined type of way you know? Basically all this shit. This so-called vision so to speak. It started for me a few years ago. This vision came to me. And by vision I mean that I actually received a physical fuckin letter. No return address. Guy by the name of David Wingate apparently wrote it. Said he was from the year 2981. Middle management type. That pedophilia had been legal for literally hundreds of fucking years. That in the future Jeffrey Epstein actually becomes a Christ-like figure for more than a few galaxies.

Larry said, Like Epstein Island Jeffrey Epstein? I said, Well technically they call him Jeff Christ in 2981. But yeah basically. The pedophile sex trafficker or whatever. So I guess it kind of put this whole idea into my head. Like what’s next for the sex toy market? Larry said, You didn’t want to make. I said, I feel like right now? Running a bootleg pet sex operation will be a lot more politically viable that a child dildo one, you know? He said, Honestly. I don’t disagree at all bro. Do you think we should we get lunch? It’s like 11:40. I said, Fuck yes we should. Where at? He said, Bell Pepper Plus? I said, Eh. He said, You know Bell Pepper Plus? The vegan spot by the river bridge? 

I said, Yeah I know it. Yeah. The river bridge that cost like 2 million to build? He said, Yeah, exactly. I said, Of course.  Honestly. Not a big fan. He said, Of the bridge? I said, Of either to be honest. He said, Yeah I mean I get it. I have some issues with it conceptually myself. I said, Yeah personally? I don’t know. I kind of fucking hate it? Personally. I don’t know. I think it’s a little gay how they have the three different restaurants. It’s allegedly three levels of restaurants. They tell you it’s three restaurants in one. But then when you get there you have to choose which level to sit at? And each level has a distinct menu? Larry said, Oh yeah I know. I’ve always found that slightly off-putting. I said, It’s just like. What the fuck? You have the one building. But if I want a burrito I have to quote-unquote make a reservation for your make-believe Mexican restaurant? But if you want, say, some vegan spaghetti and meatballs or something then we have to make a reservation at the quote-unquote Italian restaurant? But they’re both in the same fucking building. You don’t have the same kitchen making all of this shit? You’re preventing me from ordering a burrito because of a purely make-believe kitchen? Fuck you. Larry said, No. I totally get it. We could probably order from somewhere else. To be honest I’m not even married to the whole vegetarian angle. I could go for like a steak and cheese even. 

I said, Yeah. No just give me like 20 minutes and we’ll order from somewhere. I’m open to pretty much anywhere but Bell Pepper Plus. But anyway. Back to these buttplugs I guess? Larry said, We could also do Raska? In 20 minutes I mean. I said, The Indian place over in Garden City, right? He said, Yeah exactly. I love it there! I said, Eh. He said, Have you been there? I said, You know I actually went over there the other night? To fucking Raska. He said, Oh yeah? How was it? They have this deal on Mondays. I think it’s like sixty bucks for two people. With a bottle of wine included! 

I said, Yeah we were in the area and we were, you know. We wanted to eat. We needed to grab a quick bite. And I’m with you. Generally speaking I’ve enjoyed Raska’s overall cuisine. So it was kind of late. And their website said they closed at ten. It was I don’t know. Like fuckin 9:15? And we were five minutes away, so I drove over there. We walk up to the host. He makes this, in my opinion, extremely homoerotic bodily gesture. And he’s like Oh the kitchen closes in five minutes, if that’s ok with you? I told him, Yeah that’s fine. If you’re still open. Because it’s their own website that’s telling me this. 

For the record. I’m not pulling 10pm out of my own asshole here. That’s what I was informed via their official website. Closing: 10pm. It was maybe 9:20. 9:25 at the latest. Plus I knew I was getting the Lamb Biryani. So no big deal. Sit me. Bring me that Biryani. Let’s do this. But once we sit down it was just like every 90 seconds to two minutes. We’re getting approached. No. The first thing the waitress does is reiterate to us that the kitchen closes in five minutes. Just so you know the kitchen closes in five minutes, she said. That was literally her version of hello. She may have even said, So if you want to put your order in now . . . Which we did. Sure, I ordered an entire bottle of wine. But I was obviously going to chug it! It wasn’t like I was going to sip it deep into the evening. And it was terrible house white. Just barely drinkable! And then after that it’s every 90 seconds. Like clockwork. We can’t complete three sentences without a member of the waitstaff asking us if we’re ok. If we need anything. Moving one of our forks from a forty five degree angle to a ninety degree angle. They did everything but physically come over and fondle my balls while counting down the seconds aloud until their kitchen closed. I’m trying to have a polite dinner conversation with my better half over here and some cunthole is disingenuously fluffing my napkin for me between every other declarative statement. So, finally. Because now I’m actually pissed off. I’m fuming. I’ve chugged almost an entire bottle of this piss-adjacent house white wine. 

So on our way out I go to the host. I just tell him. Just bluntly but politely I say, You know what? Next time? Just don’t let us in. If it’s that much of an inconvenience. If this is such a Holocaust for your waitstaff, that two people would arrive at your precious restaurant forty minutes before your listed closing? Just fucking turn us away. And he has the audacity to say, Well I did say we were closing soon. I lost it, Larry. I absolutely lost it. Oh you told me you were closing soon? That’s now an excuse for grotesque dinner service? You can treat people like orangutans because you told them you’re closing soon? Then he said, But next time. I said, Pal. Let me be crystal fucking clear for you. There will be no fucking next time. I’ll fuckin jack off a series of goats before I step foot in here again and remunerate you for a bowl of Lamb Biryani. I came in here and paid full-price to eat and you treated me like you were doing me a favor. One of the waitresses actually yelped out. Right as we were in the doorway, she said, Wait, your leftovers! And I said, No keep them! That’s how pissed I was, Larry. I fucking love leftovers. For me to leave leftovers I have to feel almost suicidal. I’m not even kidding. More than anything I adore leftovers. And I voluntarily left our leftovers there. Purely out of spite! I would have loved to eat that Biryani the next morning. But anyway. Yeah I don’t know about them for lunch.

 

It was Larry Johnson’s first week at Brunson Industries, my software engineering company on Branch Ave in Providence. I’m Rick by the way. Rick Brunson: founder and CEO! At BI, we specialize, I guess primarily our focus is in the electro-sex toys and vape paraphernalia markets? Yet on this particular Tuesday morning in February Larry Johnson honestly had no fuckin clue he’d become a crucial cog in the machine of designing illegal sex toys for small dogs and cats. That we were in the midst of creating one of the truly revolutionary illegal underground sex markets in American history! 

Still sitting in our reclining chairs I continued to Larry, I said, Yeah. Let’s face it. Puppy buttplugs? Sure it’s a little unorthodox as a concept. But all innovative business is. The iPhone was essentially a Persian cat vibrator when it first hit the market. The reality, Larry, is this: the margins on porn and its adjacent businesses are all compressing. In a major way. The cost of porn is near-zero now. The competition in the dildo space is fuckin beyond ridiculous. If you can’t make a third generation flesh light for 12 cents or less then you’re fucked. Basically beyond the strip joints almost all channels of revenue are being seriously challenged. Innovation is going to be key in the coming decades. It’s going to literally be the difference between the companies that stay in the business and the ones that don’t. The idea. Well. Like I said. It really came about when just a couple years ago, at the height of COVID, I stumbled upon this letter from this so-called David Wingate. This extended note so to speak. It’s my muse in a way. It’s a letter with a kind of weird origin? Fuckinnnnnnnnnnnnn, ummmm, let me see if I can find this thing. I said. I rummaged behind my chair into my desk drawers. Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Ok! Here it is. Here. Let me read it to you. I want to paint the landscape for you in full. So you’ll be fully engaged with the mission here at Brunson Industries. We’re gonna get fucking rich off this shit Larry! I can’t wait! I unfolded the pages, said, Fuckinnnnnnnnnnnn, as I extended them into readable form then read aloud: