Filthy Huns Breeding like rats in California and spreading east. Listen for the roar of the Harley’s. You will hear it in the distance like thunder. And then, wafting in on the breeze, will come the scent of dried blood and human grease … the noise will grow louder and they will appear, on the west horizon, eyes bugged and bloodshot, foam on the lips, chewing some rooty essence smuggled in from a foreign jungle … they will ravish your women, loot your liquor stores and humiliate your mayor on a bench on the village square
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