Snow Falling on Bebop

Alright, this is the Hilarious Man himself, Bebop Loco, baby. I am, the cold one, the icy one, the man without noone and nobody because I’m too far north, little ones. I have strayed north to the Far North, beyond even Fresno which is the farthest up a person of the desert can even imagine. I am Bebop, Sweeties, Radionow from the Radionorteno and something white, beyond the whiteness of the USA and the sameness of the whitened people of Funfuntown who still outnumber those of us who avoid the gaze of the Basilisk, who cruise the darkened peoples in a luminous green egg that glows with the power of the Virgin of Clothing, found in a cloak, in a thread, in a stitch. In a word, the snow is falling down on me and its beauty knocks me right over and I am liying down in the drifts and waving my arms like the angels of the southern cities and I look up at the flakes falling on Bebop and I am Bebop Lobo, Darlings, the midnight lonewolf, and I will track you down and drag you north with me and we will ski the hills of the white people in the frozen air. We will toboggan down the whiteness, we will schuss the slush and we will wrap up in down and warm in front of the fire which will remind us of the desert down away, hot and wonderful and glowing like the luminous green egg in the land of the Mexican Wolf, with his eyes bugged out, a chain swinging from his drapes, his bebop hat atop his head, keeping off the snow.

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