Suze Randall

Rating: FIVE "Angry Haitian Carpet Cleaning" BUSTED NUTS

I awoke as the sun trickled in through the tattered Venetian blinds to a scenario that inspired confusion. Drenched in sweat and saliva not yet dried, I leaned off of the side of the futon to shut off the alarm clock that had seemed, by the hands of a cruel god who rules only the morning, to have synched up arhythmically with the pounds in my skull. It took a while to focus, to shift from the white lights of the inside of my eye sockets to the white lights illuminating a setting that is perhaps all too familiar. A half empty plastic pouch of lubricant. Rubbers that had not even bothered themselves to unravel. Clothes scattered to all four corners of the room--almost ritualistically--as if they had served as witness to some act of incantation. 2 legs falling out of from the comfort of the bedsheets. A brush of brunette. A semi-veiled breast. A pile of pornography, with Suze Randall's Slut School laying open on top, almost invitingly. The smear of crimson across the carpet, far too copious to be a monthly spill, but yet much too concentrated to be indicative of any mortal sin, any great crime.

"SATIVA ROSE, BEGGING SOMEBODY TO PAY ATTENTION TO HER. OR PAY FOR HER COLLEGE. WE DON'T KNOW, AND WE'RE ONLY WILLING TO DO HALF OF ONE."

When I had made finally made my way to Casa SkullGame I was forced to prod the expertise of one Vinnie Rose, an admitted expert on disposal of evidence. "How do you," I asked, "get blood out of your carpet without spending a whole bunch of money and shit?"

"First you get a change of clothes and head down to your local hardware store, donning a fake moustache if you are so inclined, and get some mineral treatment and something that has a good percentage of lye..."

"Wait, no, I think you are mistaking the situation..."

"Then, you go to different store to pick up a handsaw, so as not to draw too much attention, or suspicion, upon yourself. Afterward, make sure you get a couple gallons of bleach and few packages of those 30 gallon black trashbags. It's important that you get the black kind because..."

"No man, it's not like that. I would have been calling you at 3 in the a.m. if that was the case..."

"Cut the bags up, and tape them to the walls and floors, and keep a couple to double wrap your disposings. It's not really as messy as you would believe, the lack of beating heart keeps the blood from shooting all over the..."

"No, no, no. I think I just fucked her too hard, man...

"I believe you. In the heat of the moment anything can happen. Do you have any weights and rope lying around? If not, you're going to have to go down to the pier and pick those up..."

"Nevermind."

My recollection of the events preceding this fiasco are hazy at best. Dinner. A few drinks. A dirty verbal exchange as we strolled down the street. The licking of my ear in the lobby as we waited for the apartment elevator to greet us in the common area. Fumbling through the vast collection of porn currently occupying a solid 30% of some pretty pricy San Francisco real estate, only to settle on the only DVD unwrapped so as to attend to the imminent 4 hour, hair-pulling, teeth-gnashing, choke-fucking, so-primal-that-all-philosophical-ponderings-of-the-world-were-temporarily-suspended-in-homage-to, sexual endeavor at hand.

But this I can attest to, Suze Randall's Slut School, of which I maybe focused on for a whole 2 min., got me laid, and laid proper at that. So much so that here I sit, days after the fact, with half a sprayer of Resolve and scarce roll of Brawny trying to make my apartment look like something besides a fuck-induced slaughterhouse.

And if all porn only ended so well... -- JUDGE ROY BEAN

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