Los Pico De Mosquito (EXPLICIT)

I am the shrouded sky-prowler. I hunt rowdy rabble-rouser clowns who fuck around for clout. I am the pound to her ounce, a tower of power – alert. I am versus this brown-turd, halteres-burdened sow - inert.

“Look a gift victim in the mouth to rip her two tube-pistons out!”, Is what I’ll be sure to shout before I pounce to silence the sour sound of the coward that flounders, cowered, on the ground where I’d found her first. Her skeeter wings beat out a loud purr – a curt dirge exerted in the dirt that surrounds her.

In a blue blur, I coerce the red-cell-dowser away from the face of this foul jouster; and in a slow and brutal canoodle where I knead, choke, and roll the meat-dough abdomen of Miss Mosquito like a sweet burrito, I reverse and reroute; yes, I suck it out! A purge of her offal – quick and by the bucketful, from this fanciful equivalent of an abandoned blood-pig.

The first round squirts down my curved snout and it burns like a stout draught of hound’s fur. My innards growl up a massive, acidic burp followed by a louder, raspy laugh; after the last.

I slyly hide my newly prized dirk somewhere deep within my insides for when I’ll need to make more quick work. I trash her jive, color-of-mouse-fur-exo-bone-now-powder-ass into the grass and flowers; for the cowbirds and the douse of rain-showers that might pass.

"There are still useless drones left alive," I sigh as I stretch and caress my indigo breast and thigh hide six ways to Sunday, now double their prior size. I take to the sky to head home to My Hive. All while, I hope to collide with the rest of my kind so I might also nibble their - surely, by now - ripened rinds after shivving them right from behind.