Our aesthete stood erectus, sipping a swirly straw, siphoning a sweet viridian liquor alone. Dressed in a sting-ray skin three piece suit that shimmered electric blue, and a stark orange shirt with a bon bon pink cravat, his face powdered, his platinum hair cow licked in a dodgem arch, swanning away to make...
Breakfast: unwrapping from wax paper a giant black capillary slug, he slapped it down on a pink granite chop-block peppering it with salt grains the size of diamonds; the gastropod rapidly deflated in a fizzing haze of orange guff, a preparation prepared with the precision of a laser beam.
He sliced a sliver and tossed it to his pet Gecko, Versace; it sauntered away with the meat in its mouth, dumb but delighted, deliciously deliciously deranged, cute but cautious...it disappeared for the day.
Rapidly running a razor through the slug, a bloom of bright yellow innards issued out, then he extracted the internal gloop, placing it in a punch bowl filled with ice water and shards of diced lime for later, the Kryptonite coloured blood ran through the gulley into the sink.
Sliver after sliver liberally smeared with stinking bishop and blue-vein before being placed under the grill till doomsday, but not before another drink: he poured in 3 measures of Stoli Elit vodka, and two glugs of the blackest rum, filled a long ornate crystal glass with the aforementioned liquor; drink made, he unsheathed an obscenely long French baguette and buttered it with smoked goose fat, then roughly dashed it with toasted poppy seeds and dehydrated petals; he then delicately dressed the baguette with the slug slivers and grated cheddar before laying it out on large plate of finest white china for shortly.
Our swine sank into his albino alligator nano chair and began his deluxe dinner. He ate with relish as he slumped back while nibbling his baguette and shoveled forkfuls of sliced slug into his mouth, licking his thin lips with his reptilian tongue, as his brain ran against the impenetrable beauty of taste, his nano enhanced digestive tract sucked soundlessly as he discarded his cutlery and scooped his fingers under the mush, now grey with time, but as he spat out the sodden pith into his spit bowl, he suddenly saw his world as if for the first time, and as he looked he remembered his digital friends and feelings and then he also wondered about his cybernated soul, too.
Finally he polished off the porcelain and placed a chocolate lime lozenge on his tongue, as sucking turned to crushing and the sweet turned to sludge he quipped, "we're all cyber now." Our Decadent, now sated and dreamy, returned to his lounge for virtual S&M, viral sex and sour absinthe too. He turned the time back to 3:am.
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