“How Long Will They Mourn Meh?”

Good old Wesley Sampson lay barely beneath the Earth, next to a strong, century and change-old oak; since the day Christopher Wallace passed. Inside, old Wesley lay awake, turning over his pillow, simultaneously attempting to keep his left ear bud from falling out. ‘Dagum pieces of shit!’ He mumbled to himself, huffing and puffing like the miserable sap he’d become; albeit, a hell of a lot happier since divorcing that succubus, D’Monica. She of the, ‘no, I don’t want to be JUST a Sampson; I may not always be one’ variety. D’Monica, she of the perpetual selfie for the boys, pose face. Old Wesley chuckled, choking a bit. Old Wesley still loved a good gas mask, and fashioned one out of an old oxygen breather, with a cutout just big enough for a baseball bat-fat Backwood to meet his lips.

Here, old Wesley lay in peace, even if not at rest in the way they mean when they say “rest in peace”. The century-old oak had a stairway to heaven…or to a lavish tree-house that old Wesley hammered home himself; where the FIOS cable was almost as much of a waste as D’Monica, provided decent Wi-Fi access under shallow ground, and a man’s fuck ton of Netflix and chill. Every day, to thirty-six hours, usually beneath the pale moonlight, unless D’Monica actually left the estate; President Obama — an all white American pocket Bully with a chocolate brown face — named by old Wesley, would sniff around the soft…