Flabby Falk-Witt and the Ketamine Kid

A tale of lust and fear of deportation in a town with no self-tanning mousse

It was a chilly afternoon in Hell the morning Flabby Falk-Witt and his sidekick the Ketamine Kid hitched their private jet to a railing outside the Cirrhosis Saloon here in town. They’d come to find that varmint Sleepy Joe to give him a knuckle sandwich. “I could eat a passel of fibre-free junk food,” Flabby said, speaking of sandwiches, doing that strange accordion playing thing with his little hands. “How about you, Ketamine?”

“Ain’t hungry.” replied the by-no-mean-svelte but certainly narrower than Flabby Ketamine. “What I am is horny. Ain’t impregnated a pretty gal for nigh onto two weeks.”

Whereupon the two narcissistic saddle tramps went in search of a fast food place with prostitute waitresses. They went up and down Main Street twice in Flabby’s golf cart, but couldn’t for the life of them spot the kind of place they sought, so they went into the local smartphone repair shop and asked the old timer who seemed to be its proprietor if he could offer a recommendation.

“Well,” the old timer mused, stroking his scraggly whisker-bedecked chinny chin chin, “there’s an adorable little bistro about half an hour away in that place whose name I always forget because I’ve got the dementia bad and can I fill ‘er up and check the oil for you ladies?

“You going to let this old entitlements-dependent buzzard refer to us as ladies?” Flabby axed Ketamine, and Ketamine cut the old timer down where he stood with a baleful glare.

“Anybody else want to impugn our masculinity?” Flabby demanded in ALL-CAPS on the hilariously named Truth Social. The only sound heard was a tumbleweed tumbling in the general direction of the little bistro the old-timer had recommended before his untimely assassination.

“They ain’t even got a golf course,” Flabby grumbled at what a Google search on his iPhone 16E. with 6.1‑inch (diagonal) all‑screen Super Retina XDR display had revealed. “I guess we’re going to have to be content with a couple of adult film stars with surgically enlarged breasts.

“Suits me, amigo,” Ketamine said, “though come to think of it I might prefer having a hot bubble bath and tweeting, though it ain’t called that no more, and making weird whooping noises of a sort little understood outside the neurodivergent community.”

“Suit yourself, sweetheart,” Flabby said, passive-aggressively asserting that he was the manlier of the two amigos, though he’d never have used the word amigos because if Sheriff inHuman or one of his deputies overheard, you could find yourself in a Central American concentration camp with a lot of tattooed former mental patients.

After seeing his reflection in the front window of the Walgreen’s on the corner of 3rd and Main, Flabby worried that he wasn’t as vivid as he liked to be. He went into to buy some rub-on tan, but there wasn’t a single tube of it left. Flabby demanded to see the place’s manager, but he was already seeing him. The fellow was the store’s sole employee. “A bunch of fellows came in here a few minutes ago and bought up my whole damn stock of St. Tropez Self Tan Express Bronzing Mousse®.

Old Flabby got spooked some by that and called his pilot to say he wanted to fly back to Florida pronto before some son-of-a-bitch tried to dye him brown and deport him.