It happened in Chalafornia

How the involution turned out to be evolution? No one knows:

all of a sudden the armadillo homicidal appears in the scene, an authentical heavy metal image projected under a blue sky, under which the bran grows.

While, in brutal deglutition the monster manducates the flesh of a martyred percheron, Ron Vega runs fatidically to the encounter of the armor-plated veast with a trident in his left hand

his shattered hand triturated by the abnormal tail of the shielded brute hovers in the air turning like a pulsatile hamburger:

as a plethora of grumous vermin burn and devour the cut hand fallen on the green grass of May, the throat of Ron Vega lets a dreadful scream emanate in crescendo
the yell of Vega echoes all over the candid prairie ricocheting on the lizardlike paunches of two fetid archaeopteryx that steal a respective couple of Holando-Argentine milkcows, lifting them as easily as if the bovines were mosquitoes.





Is now when the bony plates of the criminal abortion shine under the glory of the sun
is now when its white eyes look at the amputated Ron Vega's body, who is fallen on the ovoid Earth of springtime
is now when in bestial phagocytosis the monster reduces Ron Vega to a mere bol alimentaire in its jaws under the iridoprocne bicolor of a horizon in flames:


on the pavement, 500 metres away, the neighbor and his Ford F-100 pass by crushing the thirsty iguanas of the road.




In stormy nights of impermanent meteorological elements, their luminous broken bodies signal the direction toward Beverly Hills for the ángel
for the saint palmer
for you
and maybe for me.