The Speckle Eye Spectator II: Life is a Shit Taco
This installment of the Speckle Eye Spectator will be in modernist prose. Women are objectified, sexual objects; therefore there must be a prostitute. We extended our apologies to Kara, who is the inspiration for the prostitute. Not that she is a prostitute. Or a whore.
Lies. All lies. Mirrranda did not know anything. The customer had not yet returned to the Pirate Taco. With each passing day, the crew became less disenchanted and more and more full of despair. The prospect of a prophet's coming was abandoned. Regardless, Mirranda was still optimistic, spouting her falsehoods as if they were truths. "Despair not, mis companeros. Our taco prophet will come, and on that day we will discover the truth behind the ninja invasion and our ultimate place or purpose in the universe. But we must not despair. We must remember our American Idol, Kellie Pickler. Though she was expunged from the competition, she does not lose hope. She blindly pushes forward, and we must do the same."
"Bull shit. WTF." In a smoke-filled corner in the Pirate Taco, there sat a one-legged prostitute, dressed in a halter top of a gunmetal gray, bedecked with sequins that resembled bombs falling out of a Russian sky. Her jeweled fingers reflected the astonished faces of the crew, who had not realized up to this point that there was a guest in the Pirate Taco.
Mirrranda's wing, like a semi-automatic weapon, pointed to the sign that stated "Argh! Mateys! Mind yer profanities." Mirrranda could not help thinking of her own mother as she gazed upon the temptress. Mirranda's own mother was a prostitute. She could never forgive her mother for her irresponsible lifestyle that resulted in the unwarranted abandonment of her egg on Jirr Peckingsparrow's crow's nest. She found her mother's good-bye letter, worded like a military dispatch, and confided this information in Mario Jueve Joaquin. It was as if the letter were the Enola Gay, leaving Mario Jueve Joaquin with no choice but to evade the Dresden-like debris and fly off into the atomic sky.
"So how long have you been sitting there?" Smack asked the hoe.
"Oh, about three days." She replied quickly.
"Oh, three days you say?" Smack, with the way she would incessantly chew her gum like that part of the garbage truck that smashes up all the trash. That's how she got her name. And since the accident, she had been chewing even more gum. For each fallen comrade, she chewed a piece of gum. They chewed vicariously through her.
"Yeah, this stool is a bit uncomfortable."
"Well, we have a suggestion box." Mirrranda proffered. Over the suggestion box, a sign was hung that said "If you have a complaint, walk the plank."
"You would think after three days I would have noticed a sign like that." retorted the woman of the night.
"One might, but you have to take into account that you are sitting in a dark corner." Smack said.
"Indeed." A long silence ensued. It was only abbreviated by the random shuffling of feet.
"Would you like something to eat? You have been sitting there for three days. You have to be hungry," Rachel said to the harlot.
"I don't have any money. Surprisingly, there's not a lot of work out there for a one-legged prostitute."
Out of the the kitchen, ripe with the clanging of steel and iron, emerged Jirr through a door that resembled that of one found on a U-boat. She waved coolly at the charlatan and said "Oh, hey, Kara," and kept on walking, ever in search of a perfect tomato.
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