RevelationEPIPHANY, WHEN IT came to Miggy Montano, arrived with much of the force and many of the trappings of biblical revelation. It might have been the lighting of the club that contributed to this semblance of holy awakening: the hectic, stained-glass hues that strobed across Miggy’s upturned face and the torso of the young god whose p***s was most palpably yearning to spill its own sacramental libation down Miggy’s industriously-laboring throat.
There, in that place, at that moment, and on his knees, Miggy realized with a curiously relieved finality that he had, quite simply, had enough. “I’m tired,” Miggy said, as much to himself as to anyone, having released the straining p***s as tactfully as possible from the confines of his overstrained jaws.
“Hunh?” said the young god, whose n
