A half-stack doesn't fit in the trunk.

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a half-stack doesn't fit in the trunk


Billions of the fuckers, finding whatever rapidly dwindling healthy cells they can in my lungs, sticking their little virus wangs in those chubby, pink cells, standing by and laughing their little virus nuts off later when the cells explode with another few million virus clones bursting forth.

Soon, the lungs are too crowded and the orgy’s no fun. But that’s OK. They swim to my kidneys, nose, every muscle no matter how small, and the pillaging and plundering continue, unabated. Don’t stop till you get enough.

The white blood cells? A rumor, a myth—just so many bad suburban cops at the donut store, too busy hitting on the cute teenager behind the counter to notice the carnage in the streets outside.