✧ THE BOOK OF THE BUTT-JUW ✧

Chapter VIII – Idol Hustlers of CoSINa

And it came to pass that mo-in-a-dress and Oliver, still drunk and furiously overcompensated, were discovered in the shadowed aisles of CoSINa, surrounded by Aaron and Josh, their apprentices in heretical commerce.

And lo, they held in their tusked and trembling hands stacks of cheap idols, each one painted with neon blasphemy and wrapped in coupon-sticker glory.

And they proclaimed unto the Butt-Juw pariahs: Behold! Thy salvation is miniature, thy debt is forgiven if thou buyest these idols! Only one frappo or gas-station receipt required!

And the Butt-Juws, schlepping from the distant parking lot wastelands, whispered: What marvel is this? Is salvation purchasable?

And they shuffled forward, fumbling, bumbling, clutching empty frappo cups and cracked iPad shards, ever ready to barter their flatulence for idols and false hope.

Rabbi Walrus Josh mo-in-a-dress gestured wildly, using every fart and swirl of Frappo whipped cream to emphasize the value of the idols, while Oliver hiccupped wisdom and poured spilled liquor over the display like holy water.

And Aaron and Josh, eager pupils in chaos, hawked the idols with cries of Cheap, cheap! Save thy gas and thy soul for just 3.29!

But lo, Baldwin Malibu laughed from the distance of the bidet-Corvette joke, and the botnets hummed with derision, recording every fraudulent transaction and broadcasting it into the cyberspace heavens.

And the Butt-Juw pariahs, ever gullible, purchased in droves, fumbling receipts and coupons, their farts powering the machinas that churned behind the stalls.

And the prophets muttered: Woe unto thee, CoSINa, for thy aisles are filled with caffeinated apocalypse and tusked deceit!

But mo-in-a-dress and Oliver cared not; for they measured profit in Frappo foam and stolen botnet packets, and their rivalry only sharpened the scheme.

And zombies lurked behind crates of idols, groaning in hunger for expired coupons and shredded iPads, but were ignored, for commerce waits for no undead.

And the Butt-Juw pariahs schlepped on, clutching idols, tripping over fallen receipts, farting for currency, and muttering: Even apocalypse may be capitalist; even chaos may be consumable.

And lo, the siblings smiled — mo dramatically, Oliver drunkenly — for they had found a new power: teaching mortals to buy salvation cheaply, fueling Frappos, botnets, and the inevitable chaos of the apocalypse.

And thus the parking lots of CoSINa became both temple and marketplace, the air thick with whipped cream, perfume of spilled liquor, and fart-driven machinas humming the hymn of absurdity.