KKD An Audio R4NT

Some people suffer, you know, suffer from an affliction of their own invention.

I go into people's rooms.

I go into their lives. In musty hotels that beg me to come and give them information access. These people are there. Like Omega Man in the dark. Waiting.

Nobody sees. But I do.

Nobody sees the Krispy Kreme disease.

Some people don't even need their maid. They keep the room so clean you'd think no one lived in it. They fold their own sheets and make up their beds. They clean the dishes in the bathroom. These people respect the place that they live in regardless of who owns the room.

Or who's responsible for it. And some recognize that they don't have the time.

So they leave money for the maids. Tickets for a free ride. But some of them, oh God, some of them. They are the source of evil in this world. Sweaty and naked.

Fucking with the door open. Their children in the next room watching a cartoon and I go into their room. The hook giving head to the army sergeant who doesn't lock or answer the door. The knock and the yell I give and put in my key and I get to see the whore giving head. And I go into their rooms.

And some of them let you in and you can't bear it. The stink of garbage and sour milk, old food and far trash. The fucked up refuse of a hundred nights of non-shit given people throwing their crap on the ground. Garbage producing robots programmed with the sole intention to never quit or stop or halt or cease or desist or refrain or think twice or once or at all. The careless disregard the who gives a fuck leave for the next man attitude that permeates the premises.

The aggro matrices. The Krispy Kreme disease. And I go into their rooms. The filthy cages of animals that are incarcerated by their own feeble neuroses and psychoses. The bellalogoses who haven't seen the sun in infinities captured and held by their own proclivities.

They are the Krispy Kreme disease.