A banshee of industrial strength spoke to a stunned blogger who was ordered to post these words:
During the air strike, Selma lifted all garments, readying herself for his finger. As marked and filthy as it was, at least she’d distract the finger from pushing the blood button. Couldn’t she at last get his mind turned onto a strip more agreeable than the Gaza? “So I will die the spy of pleasure.” She remarked through lips that took an eternity to part with a tongue that took another eternity to roll over and speak a reptilian dialect. Removing her garments took ages, each layer more riddled with bullet holes than the last, until finally he’d returned to prehistoric times to discover her mound, militarized, pleading for the end-of-the-world. “Don’t be afraid.” She whispered in a language that he could nibble but would never be able to translate. Later, when the intelligence agents cornered him to surrender tortured answers, stardust and white-hot light flew off the retired Sniper’s tongue. He mumbled, “Market bargain: prayer bead for flying carpet thread.” The gospel engine roiled and tried and failed to remind everyone, “You need not negotiate. This is Paradise.”
After posting as directed, the blogger couldn't sleep for the next three nights.