Mothhacre The Atlas Moth Atlast (EXPLICIT)

I’m hot to trot vs. a fool-moth-not. I stay frosty while this lofty, bovine THOT crosses my mind’s line of sight from the sidelines on a slow climb up to my Hive as an Atlas Moth: scared scatless, at that, (hahaha!) ‘cuz I’m master class and this little shit, smaller than it’s talk, is flunkin’.

 “Sucks to suck you stupid fucking two-bit cunt.” I huff as I pick up the stunted runt by the scruff. I think it thunk it would be fun to confront the Queen. “I’ll shut that scummy tongue-hut for you, flighty motherfucker.”

 The solution to its delusive illusions is dissolution by defining ‘contusion’ without words. This Hive is MY residence and it resonates with me to punish the impish impudence of presenting me with the crime of being alive in my presence. Expect no exceptions for the innately inept and senseless. 

 SOOOooo, Hocus Pocus! Explode its punk-bitch throat from below with a kick akin to raw chode: Up the anus and OUT it pokes! Gore-soaked-crocus-toes crop up through the glorious display of snow smuts (from a reprobate, ignoramic, mettlesome bore, who’d a sore snore of an origin story and an unimportant score to settle); a storm of ichor spray that paints these porous floors of my Hive with a picture of pain.

 I force a mass evacuation of its remaining plumbing to add to the stain. It’s not much trouble to expunge those spongy lines and rungs and spelunk through those guts to glug and chug the drug that is its blood: that ivory bleed, to wash down such a yummy wasp lunch.

 In conclusion, as some may say: you’ll win stupid prizes when you play stupid games; like a lame Atlas moth who’d lost the shoot to its shot to walk the walk, ‘cuz it can barely talk the talk and lost the plot when it saw the too-hot-photons of my flame and flew straight into my acid rain.