Johnny Meat Socket

Diary entry March 5th, 2047:
     I am laying on the floor of some Chuck Norris Motel a few miles out of Wasco, California. The carpet smells like hot poon grease and chlorene. I reach under the bed and pull out a 20 round street sweeper automatic shotgun. There is going to be a war erupting in less than an hour. My trigger finger starts shaking everytime it senses danger. And this time I'm gonna have to blast myself out of this shithole with an army of pangrizzlers chasing me down the hall. My tarsmographic goggles were ruined in last night's weasel run and the backups are still in the van.
     A half hour has passed and still no signs. Was it a false alarm? I don't think so. Wait. What was that? I put a cup up to the wall. I don't hear anything. Then the sound of an electric motor. And the smell of burning wood? I'm still waiting in silence.
     Another half an hour. Or was it 15 minutes? I don't have a watch. Its probably time to spark up another bowl. Oh shit. That was a mistake. Nothing to do now but crawl under the bed and call an escort. Is there enough moonshine for the two of us?
     It's 10 minutes later and I think she has arrived. Please let her be good looking. And if not, I've got my Luciano Pavarotti mask just in case.

       Gratz meef,
            Reverend Speefnarkle