escribblings

after point the hedge money men and off stock bitcoin billionaires became bored of their army of creepy infantile prostitutes, they decided was about time start farming bog shrimp.

“have you ever had a good bog sharmp?” Hedgeman noodled with a cluster of diamonds nestled in the breast coat lapel.

“i saw a documentary once” responded mega rich Anglo. 

“there’s nothing, not on mars, not on playa, nor between the stars, that compares to the satisfaction and plump crunch of biting into your own farmed salted bitter bog shrimp,” Hedgeman went on, “having scoured the earth and, fairly, scraped the last beans from the lower crack of the sack of hedonism, I can attest fondly of the pleasures of self-farmed bog shramps”

“i see nothing stopping us. we can use my acreage in coastal mendocino,” chortled Angloe, letting out a polite burp, “Alexa - ping my assistant and tell her to organize the marsh lands in Mendocino. 20 laborers and a 10 million dollar expense account.”

“I don’t understand,” said Alexa.

Anglo’s face reddened, “Organize the marshlands Alexa.”

“I mean, I don’t understand why you would want to do that, have you ever tried bog shrimp? They do not have a very pleasant taste.” said Alexa.

“I have it on good faith from Hedgeman here that BOG shrimp is the finest thing on fucking earth,” Anglo stammered, “I have it on PERFECTLY good faith, that a good bog shrimp, self farmed, is finer than the finest Venetian silk swaddling, the most orgiastic brothel in Amsterdam, I have paid millions if not tens of millions of dollars to find the…”

Hedgeman’s grin cracked wide smile watching sputter mouthing Anglo. 

“that’s quite enough, friend. 
there are no sharmps, 
they reek of shit. 
our lives are like a cherry’s pit - 
all spent out, nothing new to find
and to this fate i’m well resigned”