Sunday, August 27, 2017

Tom Brazaitis shits story out hairiest ass in afterlife

"County's back in crisis, Dottie," Tom whispers across my sweaty pillow after a BDSM session. Eight hours of swingin' from a ceiling harness, he brings this up now. Great. Here in the Cleveland Media Afterlife, ol' Dot needs her beauty sleep. so I roll over, yawn.

"WAKE UP YOU OLD HAG!" Tom yells. Why me. I need another story about filthy stool pigeons for oligarchs like I need more glorious curly red hair between my legs.

Tom mixes us a couple Old Fashioneds, I get irritated. "Unless you're tellin' me Sam Miller finally came upstairs for a roll in the hay for ol' times' sake, stuff it, Tom." Tom gets jealous.

"You hurt me so." A tear rolls down Tom's gargantuan schnoz. I lick it off. Next thing you know, Tom's got me back in the stirrups for another couple hours, which calms me.

Ready to put the shoe leather back on, I take a swig from the bottle of Four Roses, hand the bottle to Tom. "O.K. Tommy, spill it." Brazaitis tells me the former county prosecutor who sold the two fat daygos down the river is back in business with some sexy...ahem...colorful window dressing.

Whatever. "Same old story, Tom. White racist cop-type finds another black dish to cover for him suckin' on the ol' teet. Dog bites man." Covered in my bodily fluids, Tom gets mad, tries appealing to my pride.

"Dottie, if you don't cover this, none of Cleveland media will give two shits." Tom brushes a whisp of my red mane across my forehead lovingly. "You can even go visit Sam Miller again know...whatever." Our eyes meet. I bend over, let him possess me, again. I need a fucking labor union.

"Fine." While Tom runs to tell Ghoulardi the big news, I call up Elliott Ness. "Dottie, this cess pit never stops churning," Ness tells me. "Brazaitis is onto something." Looks like Ol' Dot is back on the beat.

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