Bloody furballs dot the highway
So put away your porno mags
'Cause the best things in life are free
That road pizza looks like it's over 18
Dead armadillos make me weak
Let's get head from the dead

Roadkill Necrophelia
Roadkill Necrophelia
Roadkill Necrophelia
Fuck you!

I lust for stiff little puppy pancakes
Give me some sloppy seconds, bitch
I hate to eat and run
Drive your cars and make my fun
The look in their eyes puts lust in my heart
Dancing on their graves just isn't enough

Roadkill Necrophelia
Roadkill Necrophelia
Roadkill Necrophelia
Fuck you!

The audience squirmed as their butts puckered. Then they were silent except for those who were retching. One man, a stranger to The Dirty Dwarf, tossed a beachball into the air, held his lighter aloft, stood up on his stool and screamed, "Again! Play it again!." For some reason, V.D. found this very sexy. She stood next to the stranger for a moment, looking directly at his crotch. Then she stood on a chair and lit a passion-pink cigarette with his lighter while she whispered to him. "Do me, baby... Do me now." Finding herself ignored, she shrugged, smiled sweetly, and walked away.

His name was Phlegm Smear. He was an anarchist. He hated The Wheel of Fortune, mariachi bands, and the missionary position. The song had stirred his loins, letting him now that he wasn't alone in the world. They were stirred, that is, until Clifford asked him to put his loins away because several of the ladies were complaining.

"Fascist," Phlegm replied, hocking an impressive mucus glob onto Professors Klaus and Jerend to reaffirm his distaste for convention and common decency.

Luci nodded appreciatively. The night was shaping up to be magical... almost diabolically so. And just when she thought it couldn't get any better, a crazed woman ran screaming into the bar and assaulted Luci with a picket sign, neatly crayoned with the proclamation "Christ Shall Overcome!" She smashed the sign over Luci's head, eliciting a faint splatter of applause amid the continued retching. Clifford sighed, rolled his eyes, and for the eternal life of him couldn't imagine why it was so hard to get good help these days.

Luci managed to look surprised, angry, and amused all at once, which is very difficult to do in a G-string and still maintain one's composure.

Phlegm had no such notion as he vaulted onto the stage, loins to the wind. Pretty nice loins, Luci noted as he sailed overhead. The crazed zealot's eyes grew wider as the shadow which was Phlegm's body grew larger. He landed on her with the battle cry "Religious Fascists Suck!" creating impure thoughts in the hearts of several patrons. Daphne Bloodwash, as she was known in the third notch of the Bible Belt, had her scream stifled when Phlegm's genitals inadvertently probed her inner ear as the unfortunate by-product of a spectacularly painful three-point landing.

"If you don't get your loins out of that lady's ear, I'll have to ask you to leave," Clifford said firmly.

Luci took this opportunity to grab Daphne by the hair and began banging her face into the stage with a snappy Conga beat.

"Everybody limbo!" yelled Marilyn Janice Snow in a cheerful moment of lucidity just before she knocked herself unconscious trying to slide under a bar straw which had fallen on the counter top.

Caught up in the pathos of the moment, Butch Stilletto pulled out his good old American-made AK-47 assault rifle and began looking for some school children to strafe. Finding none, he followed protocol and shot himself in the foot. Then, suddenly seized with the impression that the "Cong" might be hiding in the lady's bathroom again, he burst through the doors, asserting his masculinity by firing two clips into a suspicious-looking, but unsuspecting tampon dispenser.

Back in the bar, Javelin MacLain got involved in the fray by launching a perfectly aimed dart at Phlegm, which flew truly, with only a slight counter-clockwise rotation, piercing Phlegm's left nipple for the 4th time. "Titty twisters are for fags!" Phlegm yelped, urinating on the jukebox.

By this time, Luci had Daphne by the ankles and was swinging her in graceful arcs over her head screaming, "Die, you dried up bitch!" in perfect syncopation to Daphne's desperately intoned version of "The Lord's Prayer." The audience listened, fascinated by the Doppler Effect created as Daphne was swung in ever-widening circles.

The finishing touch to this pastoral scene was provided by the Professors Klaus and Jerend who, in their senility, had mistaken Luci and Daphne for competitors in their Wednesday Night Nude Jello Wrestling excursions and were taking turns slapping dollar bills onto Luci's sweaty buttocks. Clifford decided that, objective referee or no, enough was enough and told everyone to stop.

Thus order was restored and sanity reigned again at the Dirty Dwarf.

As Daphne left to attempt to regain her composure within the sanctuary of the ladies' room, Buffy Nobel strode intrepidly through the carnage into the bar.

"Double scotch again tonight?" Clifford asked.

"Southern Comfort in a Collin's glass. Shove the lime," Buffy replied tersely.

Clifford poured the drink professionally as Buffy sat down, straddling a bar stool. Morton sauntered up to the bar, ordered a Whoremonger Beer and, with amazing aforethought, discarded the napkins he had carefully folded only seconds before.

"How about a rematch, ovary trucker?" Morton said with his best Humphrey Bogart impression.

"Set 'em up, dink," Buffy replied with a grimace.

Little Stymie Tattoo, inspired by the heretoforementioned chaos, had snuggled up next to Luci at the bar and was attempting to talk her into a hand job in one of the darker booths. Luci, although amused, was a bit winded from twirling the bovine Daphne Bloodwash and was a tad cranky. At first she ignored the little twerp and attempted to carry on her conversation with Clifford and Angela. Tiny Stymie was not to be overlooked, however regularly it happened, and tugged at Luci's nipple clip.

"Yo, Bitch!" he tweeted. "What makes you shit Chanel?"

Luci looked at the defiant pup, then at Clifford, then back at the annoying midget, then at Angela. "I have to do something," she growled.

Oddly enough, she received no objection from either Clifford or Angela, which took all the fun out of it for Luci and consequently was a damned lucky thing for Stymie who suddenly found himself reduced to the size of a kernel of semi-popped popcorn and banging defiantly on the wall of his newfound prison constructed from a cleverly overturned shotglass on the bar.

While Stymie squeaked obscenities and various epithets that only insects could hear, Clifford asked the two contestants, "So, how's the lobbying going?"

"Shitty fucking batch this time, Cliffy," was Luci's only remark.

"It's going to be more of a challenge for me," Angela chimed beautifully.

Clifford shrugged with veiled indifference. "This bar mirrors humanity, I'm afraid. It's serious business trying to enforce Ten Commandments that no one even knows, let alone puts into practice." He refilled Angela's glass with Holy Water and a fresh rose petal. "But in the long run, I think our pearly gates and streets of gold are a better draw than her pits of flaming brimstone."

"That's pretty profound, coming from a bartender," Luci chuckled sinisterly. "When you find a disciple who gives a fuck, call me and we'll have a party."

"Apathy doesn't exactly help your cause, Luci," Angela observed exquisitely.

Luci laughed and quaffed some Hellish Rotgut. "I just wait until they're on their deathbed, they see this bright light at the end of a tunnel and they just start to resign themselves to a peaceful passage, then I scream into their consciousness, 'Who the fuck wants eternal life in Heaven when you have to spend it with a bunch of Jehovah's Witnesses?' It's amazing how quick they turn my way."

Angela turned to Clifford, concerned. "They're letting in Jehovah's Witnesses?"

"Only 700 or so... A number they drew out of a hat, by the way... And they have their own little paradise of an infinite number of doors with people behind them that are trying to work off minor bad karma by actually answering them and buying their cheesy publications. But in no way is this to be interpreted as any kind of trend."

Luci just released a noxious belch into a straw which she had poked under Stymie's shotglass, causing him to pass out faster than the tallest Jew at Auschwitz. "I have a feeling I'm going to win this one... Easy..." she said.

"I don't know," Clifford responded. "Angela certainly has picked yet another enchanting incarnation."

"But would she give some poor fuck a two-hour orgasm just to get their attention?" Luci queried, strolling off to cause more trouble.

Clifford frowned. "She might just have a point."

Angela smiled. "I don't know... Sex isn't necessarily the end all and be all of a mortal's life."

And with that, she lifted the shotglass off of Stymie's green-hued body, padded him dry with a little bar napkin, made him his usual unusual height, and kissed him gently on the cheek. Within seconds, Stymie's body glowed with the sheen of a freshly baptized baby, and moments later Stymie was bouncing in ultra-slow-motion, making four foot high hops around the bar, grinning from ear to ear, and babbling like an infant child. Eventually, he found himself a friendly little corner booth, curled up into the fetal position and rocked back and forth, sucking his thumb and giggling for the rest of the evening.

Meanwhile, Javelin MacLain and Moonvibes Laurence Windowpane were playing darts. To make things more sporting, Javelin was blindfolded and wore a Walkman that was playing horrible disco classics while he carefully balanced the darts on his left foot and kicked them at the dartboard, hitting with only 90% accuracy. Moonvibes, who was allowed to stand four feet from the dartboard and use six darts was holding his own.

Jerome-just-Jerome, deciding that the time was right, dropped down supine upon Moonvibes from the rafters where he had been cleverly concealed since late the night before. Moonvibes, who had been shooting for a triple 19 and a win was a bit displeased and expressed his displeasure by attempting to hop up and down on Jerome-just-Jerome's face. Javelin, peering from under the blindfold with his left eye, quickly assessed the situation, picked up Jerome-just-Jerome by the scruff of his neck and seat of his pants, assumed the classic dwarf-tossing stance and said to Moonvibes ominously, "Pick a window."

Moonvibes picked up a piece of dart-scoring chalk from underneath the scoreboard and drew a circle on the door of The Dirty Dwarf, an evil smile slowly crossing his face. "This one."

A split second before Jerome-just-Jerome passed out, recalling concert going attempts that had resulted in worse, he placidly accepted his punishment as the will of his God. Of course, his God and Javelin were high-fiving as only excited, drunk, smelly, white guys can high-five and briefly discussed how cool it would be to have a pissing contest on Jerome-just-Jerome's still-twitching body.

In the ladies' room, Daphne was applying God's Mercy Pancake Makeup to her bruises with a designer-imposter Jesus-on-the-handle putty knife when she heard a strange dripping sound behind her. In the mirror she noticed Butch Stilletto, looking puzzled but fascinated as he created what appeared to be his 17th albino palm tree. This trick was accomplished by shoving tampons into empty shell casings and dripping water onto the applicator end.

Startled, Daphne turned around. "Godless pervert," she commented.

Butch paused long enough to look her in the eye, lift his right leg, and unleash a two-octave, get the Lysol, run for cover, beer fart before peeling another tampon and replying, "No wonder you bitches are in here so long."

Daphne fainted.

Back in the bar, Morton was sweating profusely. With trembling hands, he gingerly moved a pawn to relative safety. He knew that in three moves he was doomed to checkmate if Buffy moved her knight into position. Buffy mercilessly picked up the knight with a pernicious gleam in her eye. Morton's heart palpitated like the drum solo from a Speed-Metal tribute album. Then, suddenly, an uncharacteristic giggle wafted across the chess board. Morton looked at his opponent, positive that he was being ridiculed yet again by some pompous bitch who was too good for a slimly little nadknocker like himself. Only he was wrong. She was just staring vapidly back at him.

"What's the horsy do?" she asked, blinking coyly.

"Buffy, just move the goddamned knight. I can take it. I lost once before, remember?" he said, absently touching the sore spot on his cranium.

"Buffy?" she said quizzically. "I'm Jacqueline." Then a Beta particle of realization barely penetrated her psyche. "You must be mixing me up with my twin sister, Buffy. That's stupid. We have different names," she said, putting her glasses stylishly in her hair and squinting.

Morton knew only three possibilities existed to explain the situation: 1) She was playing head games and taunting him piteously, as so many had done in the past; or 2) He had so completely psychologically intimidated her that she had spontaneously regressed to her 9th grade days as a cheerleader (this option, however pleasing, left him no plausible explanation as to her change of names); or 3) She was a split personality with Buffy being a world-class chess player/physicist and Jacqueline being an insufferable beach-bunny-esque bimbo. As it turned out, the latter was true. And it was fortunate that Morton had deduced it for himself because Jacqueline would have been unable to adequately explain her situation without using big, icky words and lots of pictures.

"Cool," Morton said. "I guess you lose... Now strip."

Clifford brought a fifth bottle of tequila over to Phlegm and Luci, who were passionately discussing post-modern nipple paraphernalia.

"You know, Phlegm," Luci reeled, taking out her crucifix and impaling his right shoulder. "You reek like crotch-rot on an eighty-year-old whore."

Phlegm could only beam at the complement and vomit down her blouse.

"You like Captain Crunch, too," she observed, sampling a tiny tidbit.

Phlegm, noticing the crucifix in his shoulder, nodded and tried to eat her zipper.

Luci responded by kneeing him in the loins, just to see that special look on his face.

"I bet you're hell in bed, bitch," Phlegm said, ripping open his pants and drooling tequila onto his wounded member.

"I'm pretty much Hell anywhere I go," Luci replied.

Phlegm nodded because he wanted to. "Don't tease me," he said, pulling the crucifix from his shoulder and stirring his loins with it.

Luci's pending tasteless rejoinder was interrupted by the sticky sweet, saccharin strains of some teenage hormone-driven, my-boyfriend-is-so-totally-awesome, shop-at-the-mall, spoiled-rich-bitch, pop tune by Farrah Denouement which bounced haphazardly across the floor.

Luci glared at the jukebox and blew it up. Clifford rolled his eyes, threw down his dishrag in a pious huff and contemplated moving to Montana and growing cabbages that would pierce the tundra. But instead, with an air of holy humility, he calmly walked over to the jukebox with a broom and dustpan and began sweeping up the mess.

Luci, sensing that the potential conflict of the situation would be strategically augmented by a temper tantrum on her part, stormed out of the bar, stopping only to casually touch Clifford's potted rose bush which promptly withered and died.

Daphne, convinced that the jukebox had been smote by Jesus for the sinful music which sandwiched her good and true selections, soon forgave the loss of her fifty cents and spotted Phlegm pouring tequila into the puncture wound in his left shoulder. Sensing the opportunity for a 2-point conversion (three points if she could complete the conversion without him demonstrating any of his excretory functions), Daphne strolled over with her best Holier-Than-Thou, I-Love-Jesus-More-Than-You-Do strut.

Phlegm saw her coming and slammed the remaining half of the bottle of tequila, fully prepared to blow chunks all over her butt-ugly face.

"If you drink of the water of life, you'll never thirst again," Daphne declared sanctimoniously.

"Get out of my face before I tear off your skull and suck out your eyes, you fucking bitch!" Phlegm said, affirming the seriousness of his intentions by blowing his heavily congested sinuses into his hands and smoothing back her hair.

Realizing that there was nothing about mucus in the Bible, and that, even if there were, nothing short of a burning-bush-type miracle would ever convert this human enema, Daphne, proud of her sacrifice, spun with the agility of a well-toned martyr and walked back to the bathroom to discreetly vomit and wash her hair.

Butch Stilletto first encountered snot-covered women in "The Nam" at Wacky Wendy's Massage Parlor and Metaphysical Bookstore. Unfortunately, a two-dollar whore on the day shift looked better than Daphne did at this particular moment. Despite this fact, as Butch stood in the doorway of the women's bathroom blocking her entrance, he sensed that she was his kind of woman. "Baby, you move me," he said with as much sincerity as a man with his delusions could muster.

Daphne simply tried to get past him without actually touching him. "Godless pervert," she muttered.

"Who's Godless?" Butch queried, stepping out of Daphne's way. Daphne's eyes gleamed.

She needed to hear no more. "Let's go to my place... for... uh... Bible study and tea. And maybe a little... Reverend Jeremiah's Bible Hour?" she said, hoping the implications wouldn't be lost on him.

Little did Butch know that her favorite fantasy was to dress up like the Virgin Mary with her bare feet in unthawed chickens and become sexually aroused during religious programming. This massive knowledge gap didn't stop Butch from answering militantly, "Yeah. Why not?"

Clifford, having forgotten that Butch had spent most of the evening in the ladies' room until he saw the unlikely couple standing there grossing his paying customers out the door (literally) posted a mental sticky note to purchase some more "No-Cong Strips" to assuage Butch Stilletto's paranoia and keep Clifford in compliance with the OSHA regulations requiring separate bathroom facilities for both men and women.

Never being one to miss an opportunity, Daphne turned to Clifford on the way out and said, "Goodbye. Jesus saves."

"Not if I have to keep buying anymore jukeboxes this month," retorted Clifford, barely suppressing a smile as he noticed Butch comparing his hand size to that of Daphne's butt as they exited the Dirty Dwarf.

Clifford shrugged the shrug of the immortals and announced to no one in particular, "No souls saved today." He then reached up and rang the shiny brass bell. "Last call, everyone."

At the sound of the bell, Marilyn--who had gained consciousness only moments before-- noticed a neon-green dragon swimming merrily in her drink, juggling ice cubes and spouting humorous dragon patter. On his back were Regis and Kathy Lee, dirty dancing to the Salsa version of "I've Got Friends in Low Places." Then the dragon inadvertantly dropped an ice cube, causing a minor vodka tidal wave that washed the makeup off of Kathy Lee's face, revealing that she was in actuality, an alien from the fontanel of the galaxy who was miraculously beamed aboard the mother ship which only moments before had been the pimento portion of her olive and now shot it's evil death rays through the gonads of the usually chipper Regis Philbin who was none too pleased about losing his co-host without so much as a by-your-leave, let alone a final anecdote about adorable little Cody...

And she ran screaming from the bar