Three sisters lick your caramel-tipped Drumstick® by: Ryder Collins

Even if unseen, three sisters know they rule. Three sisters like to remain unseen because they are all titties. Three sisters have the biggest titties ever. We are talking ginormous nuclear warhead titties here.

Three sisters’ tittiess make everyone stop and stare. Everyone. Even Inanna before Gilgamesh. Even Cleopatra before the asp. Even Nero before the fiddle. Even Buddha before the lotus. Even Christ before the cross. Even Napoleon before Russia. Even Haile Selassie before the Battle of Anchem.

Even Van Gogh before the razor and Duchamp before the toilet. Even Sylvia Plath before the oven. Even JFK and Lee Harvey Oswald. Even the bullet that killed JFK and ricocheted. It ricocheted all sporadic because of the titties. The bullet stopped and stared for a full three seconds then zigzagged all over the fucking place to make up for the stoppingshort, for reals.

& after that is when the sisters decided to move to a small town. They didn’t want to be a part of or responsible or even somewhere near to the unnecessary deaths they saw coming. Malcolm X. Robert Kennedy. Martin Luther King. MOVE in Philadelphia. Those are just a small part of the list they keep hidden in their big big bras…

Three sisters moved Deep South because Deep South would incognito they thought. But they moved in to their three bedroom ranch house to find it was the same in the small town Deep South. The movers dropped boxes, broke lamps and cauldrons and bedframes because of the big big titties. Three sisters took their dogs for a walk and three sisters’ titties made everyone stop and stare. Even the mayor. Even sports players, even church wives, even bullychildren beating up the gays, even rabid squirrels, even wounded deer, even pursuing dogs, even scurrying palmettos.

Three sisters then disturbed College Bowls and baptisms, graduations and weddings and infidelities and births and deaths and homophobia. So, therefore, three sisters, even though three sisters liked fucking with the homophobias (because, really, they thought, who cares? and if they could find anyone who would love them beyond their hugeass titties they def wouldn’t care man or woman), three sisters tried even harder to remain unseen.

Even if unseen, they know they are a force. You do not fuck with three sisters.

YOU DO NOT FUCK WITH THREE SISTERS
YO.

Three sisters do not pull no Macbeth shit. Three sisters do not hurly-burly and three sisters do not pilotthumb and three sisters do not chestnut and three sisters do not hail and vanish and three sisters do not.

Three sisters have one computer and three sisters fight over Facebook. Three sisters have one computer and forecast the weather.

Three sisters set that weather shit up.

Three sisters go to the Kroger’s and the aisles clear for them. The foodstuffs they want fly into their grocery cart and the checkers always small talk them, Did you find everything you needed? How are you today? Going to the game?

Three sisters nod and bob like bobble heads.
The checker always scans their items and always does not know the veggies they buy, Is this a rutabaga?
Three sisters bobblehead.
Is this collard greens?
No, kale.
Is this cabbage?
No, blind-worm’s sting.

Is this cantaloupe?
No, it’s eye of newt.
What is this?
It’s your wang, if you don’t shut the fuck up.
That is the feisty sister, but they are all feisty so how can you tell the difference between them, especially when all you can see is their big big titties.

Centuries ago, three sisters gave up on saying my face is up here.
& it is white asparagus that is in the plastic bag that the checker now thinks is his wang.
& that is even funnier cos later after the three sisters leave he will not remember that he was all worried his wang was in a bag. So worried he starts thrusting his pelvis against the conveyor belt side.
One sister tskstks, one mews, & one is oblivious.
It is the mewing that makes the checker drop the plastic bag of asparagus and then three sisters titter big. Titter titter their titties are big big big yet they now move unseen through the small town because they have been practicing for centuries how to move unseen and they now use that moving unseen skill sometimes when they feel like it and they have been practicing for centuries spells to make them unseen and they have been alive for centuries so they should be able to do whatever they set their fucking minds to since they have set their minds against mortality and won so far it seems, and they move unseen down the cereal aisle and down the frozen foods and past the ladies in blue and orange who can only talk about past glories about sororities and now those ladies are in their forties and are unbelievably sad inside and only acknowledge their sadness when they hit that hidden caramel in a frozen ice cream drumstick

& then they do not know why they want to cry and so they try not to cry and they try not to cry too because that’ll mess up their Estee Lauder mascara even though everyone, even the big big titties sisters, even the three sisters, especially the sagacious three sisters, knows the only mascara you needs is the cheapass Maybelline pink tube, yo.

Three sisters never say yo.

Three sisters are not always unseen cos it is tiring this unseen thing so they allow themselves to be seen by the checkers & the people in the aisles who are crying inside and need to get out their way.

Those are the bitches that don’t get out the way cos all they can think of is that deepdeep thing inside that they cannot think about. Most other people get out three sisters’ way & do not see them at all. It is the sad stuck in the

caramelsororityheydaywhathaveIdonewithmylifebesidesprocreatedselfishcreatureswhohavenounderstandingofmysacrificeatallbutImustwearasmilebecausethatiswhatImustdo,

who see them and sometimes see beyond the big titties but they cannot acknowledge any of it cos if they acknowledged what the titties represented to them it would be all over, yo.

Peoples in the aisles get out their way because three sisters roll down the aisles singing, Move, get out the way, get out the way, BITCH, get out the way.

Three sisters like the hip hop.

Three sisters like musicals.

Three sisters like 80s New Wave.

One of three sisters even likes Morrissey.

Ludacris’ “Move, Bitch” is their spell because they have the magic and the big big titties and they are the force.

They are a force, yo.

Homegirl vs. the Shadow

Homegirl woke up early; Punkboy was snoring snoring next to her and she just didn’t have the patience to keep laying next to him pretending to be sleeping until his tatted fingers started moving all over her, looking for her clit, looking to see if she was wet. Punkboy almost always woke up hard; Homegirl usually liked that about him. She usually went along with the pretend that he was the initiator, the hunter, the predator, that he was the one looking for sex, looking to see if she was ready or, better yet, if he could make her ready.

This morning, tho, she was feeling out of sorts and rolled quietly off her side of the bed. Punkboy snored still and she padded barefoot to her pile of clothing on the floor. Of course, they’d fucked again after coming home from the dive bar. When together she and Punkboy were like two virgin teenagers set loose in a Texas cathouse. Or some other weird simile about sex and virgins and teenagers and Texan whores, but that’s the best I can come up with right now.

Homegirl had to work that night, but Punkboy had off. Maybe that was contributing to her offness. She didn’t know. She put on her miniskirt and her kneehigh boots and her bra and her shirt and couldn’t find her panties, but didn’t care. Punkboy’d take care of them; he’d probably clean and hand them back to her all folded nicely the next time they worked together. Surreptitiously, of course, so no one would know.

She didn’t know if he just pretended to her that none of the boys knew or if he hadn’t told them. She hadn’t told the girls yet cos the last time she’d told one of the café bitches about having something with one of their co-workers, some kind of feeling for him, the bitch’d waited until she took her vacation to Montreal and when she’d come back, the two were a couple and in love and making out in the small back room that served as both supply/mop room and employee changing/time card room. She had to push past them to punch in; what she’d really wanted to do was punch the bitch out cold and suck face with dude over, maybe even on, the passed out body.

Those café bitches were always all around stealing your love.
That may be my insight, tho. It’s already hard to tell.

She did care that she and Punkboy almost always had different nights off; she was always worried he was meeting up with other girls on those night; she was always worried he’d fall in love on one of those nights off and come into work the next night with hickeys and rope burns and even a new tattoo.

She’d never inspired that kind of love; she’d never caused a guy to get a new tatt ever.

That she knew. & it probably didn’t count if you didn’t. In fact, I’d like to say it’s hella creepy if you don’t. That’s like pure stalking territory. Not like I’d know.

She grabbed her purse from the doorknob; she didn’t remember leaving it there, but that didn’t bother her.

There were a lot of worse things not to remember.

Homegirl left Punkboy’s bedroom quietly. Punkboy was almost thirty, but he had a roommate, some big shadowy guy who smoked a lot of pot and didn’t hang with any scenes. Punkboy’s roommate gave Homegirl the creeps. She called him Shadow, except to his face. To his face all she said was, Hi, if she had to. She was always always hoping not to run into him on her naked way to the bathroom after she and Punkboy’d fucked for hours.

She knew he listened to them doing it and jerked off. She knew he thought about her cunt and she knew, somehow, he thought of it as glistening.

That really creeped her out. Anyone who daydreamed about a glistening cunt creeped her out. Cunts don’t glisten. They get moist; they get wet; they make inappropriate sucking sounds, they quiver and fasten around cock shafts, they’ve got fucking minds of their own, but they don’t glisten and they don’t sparkle unless you’re a stripper and douched with glitter. Yeah, there were pretty cunts just like there were pretty cocks. Punkboy liked to look at her cunt a lot, so hers must have been a-ight. His cock was nicey-nice to look at, too. He’d sent her a jpeg of it via his cell phone. She’d look at it when she was having a bad day, when Richboy didn’t call, when her two roommates, both guys cos there was no way in hell Homegirl was gonna put up with bitch roommates macking on her mens, were pissing her off, or when she had to work counter at the café.

She hated working counter; she hated being fake nice and usually couldn’t be bothered. Usually she said, Can I help you? & then rang up the order & then said, (whatever the total was), please. All without smiling or inflection.

There’d been a really cute boy that’d starting coming in every night at the café; she and her friends called him Prettyboy. The second week she’d waited on Prettyboy she’d knocked over his pint of coffee on the counter, which was conveniently crotch level on a lot of guys.

She said, I’m so sorry.

She said, Here’s my rag. And tossed him a damp towel to wipe himself down with. At least she knew better than to wipe his crotch down herself. That would have been pure Hollywood bullshit and would’ve freaked Prettyboy out even more.

He was already freaked out; she could tell.

The next night he didn’t even say hi when he ordered his pint and he wouldn’t look her in the eye. She’d decided there went her chances with Prettyboy, which was probably okay, in hindsight, cos who wants to date a guy who’s prettier than them?
That crotch fiasco was only one of the reasons she liked to work kitchen instead. She never had to worry about what people thought about her when she cooked. She could talk the dirty talks or not talk at all. She could be hungover and run to the bathroom and vomit and then come right back and continue making sandwiches like the professional she wanted to be.

Secretly she wasn’t a professional cos her Catholic mother’d instilled in her one mother of a superego. That bitch was always and forever trying to repress her impulses. It’s why she wanted to be a professional but couldn’t; it was one fuck of a never-ending cycle.

Homegirl even felt a little guilty about being creeped out by Shadow. She’d made it to the stairs this morning without seeing him. Shadow and Punkboy rented an entire house instead of a flat like most of the people she knew, herself included; it was a small house, but still, Homegirl kinda wondered how they could afford it.

But she only kinda wondered. She didn’t want to know that much about Shadow.
She was at the bottom of the stairs and then there was Shadow. He was going to walk past her going up it looked like. He was gonna squeeze past her and “accidentally” brush her side, her hip, her breast, some of the places she knew he wanted to molest. He was a big bald guy with neck rolls and as he approached her he seemed to make himself bigger.

Hey, he said as he brushed past her. She smelled onion stank breath; she tried to make herself smaller but she was a tall hippy Midwest thing.

She wanted to say, Hey, you fuck. I know what you’re doing.
She wanted to say, You’re such a fucking Chester.
She wanted to say, Touch me again and I’ll cut your nuts off in your sleep.
What she said was, Hey, and then she shot the fuck out of there like that loose canon she wanted to be.


Ryder Collins went looking for love, and it started raining bullets.