It was 10:30 at night. The sky had turned

It was 10:30 at night. The sky had turned a sullen orange, and Jake felt more alive than ever before. The blood that oozed from his ears and eyes didn't worry him. The green ooze

leaking from his nipples might be a sign of disease, or a mating call. Jake decided to keep a positive attitude, and go shirtless to the nightclub, chest smeared with blood and gre

En Kool-aid. "I'm ready, I can do this," he muttered to himself walking up the stairs to the club. Strobelights were flashing, the place was packed. He scanned the room looking

like he'd just stepped out of a disco hall. Polyester shirt, white leather bell-bottom pants, huge afro, dark sunglasses and gold chain. He had it all. But he was a man on

parole across state lines without a permit. "That's a violation," said the parole umpire. "I hereby eject you from the free world." "No! We saw him first!" said the fashion police.

The fashion police were distracted by the massive internal investigation going on. Apparently, someone on the inside was

accepting bribes from men wearing 70s flared, tight crotch and testicle separating trousers. The fashion police had been corrupted. The internal investigations team would review

their Mission Statement - Bardot's "You have to suffer to be beautiful". The fashion police were corrupt and depleted from platform sole and spaghetti strap injuries. Their unifor

ms said it all: bland khaki polyester and flat Buster Brown shoes. Trying to pass off these uniforms as haute couture, the fashion police strode confidently down the Champs Elysee

which soaked their denim turn-ups. No less than ten effeminate men were dispatched to defrock the fashion offender & probe him with some routine interrogation in his holding cell.