Hotmama kicks open the saloon doors of the multiverse, heels clicking like two caffeinated metronomes on a bender.
“Before we get to da canole,” she says, “we gotta talk lineage. Receipts. Pedigree. Da who‑da‑hell‑you‑think‑you‑are file.”
She snaps her gum. The gum files a counterclaim.
BIO INSERTION: ALEX S. JOHNSON
Hotmama waves a cosmic clipboard.
“Dis one? Alex S. Johnson — transfemme polymath, author, editor, metal journalist, books sittin’ in Harvard, MIT, SUNY like they payin’ rent. Former English professor, horror surrealist, creator of Axes of Evil, Bad Sunset, Wicked Candy, editor of Just One Fix: A Literary Salute to William S. Burroughs, and boss‑witch of Nocturnicorn Books / Darkest Wine Media. Host of The Kandy Fontaine Show. A whole literary hydra widda thousand heads, and every one of ‘em talkin’ smack.”
She winks.
BIO INSERTION: TRICIA WARDEN
“Then we got Tricia Warden — femme‑feral Jersey City oracle, author of Brainlift, Attack God Inside, Death Is Hereditary. Her words ended up in a Golden Calf–winning film, and she’s performed widda legends: Hubert Selby Jr., John Cale, Ntozake Shange, Exene Cervenka, Mark E. Smith, Henry Rollins — the whole pantheon of beautiful weirdos. She writes like a fever dream and performs like a prophecy.”
Hotmama leans in, conspiratorial.
“These two? They ain’t collaborators. They’re a double‑helix of chaos. A matched set. A cosmic tag‑team. A literary buddy‑cop movie where both cops are unhinged and the precinct is a surrealist nightclub.”
RETURN TO THE ORIGINAL HOTMAMA PART III ENERGY
“Badda BOOM, badda BING, badda metaphysical BLING,” Hotmama says, heels clicking like two switchblades flirting in an alleyway behind a quantum bodega.
“You think Part Two was the blackout? Honey, that was the brownout. This here’s the grid collapse.”
She snaps her gum. The gum snaps back.
“Lissen. I went down the canole hole again. Not the K‑hole. Not the Acker hole. Not the Pirandello‑rhinoceros‑barber‑sno‑cone hole. The canole hole. The one widda sprinkles of doom.”
She leans in.
“You ever meet a pastry that knows your government name? That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
A voice from the mezzanine of the multiverse yells:
“HOTMAMA, YOU A WALKIN’ DISASTER OF SEMIOTICS.”
She blows a kiss.
“Baby, I’m the FEMA trailer of your subconscious. I show up after the storm widda glitter tarp and a bottle of olive oil.”
Suddenly the sky cracks open like a cannoli shell under too much pressure.
Out steps:
- Cosey Fanni Tutti in a rhinestone hazmat suit
- Nina Hartley holding a clipboard labeled “Continuity Errors”
- Simone Signoret smoking a cigarette that smokes her
- Harpo Marx honking a horn tuned to the frequency of feminist rage
- Kathy Acker’s motorcycle, idling like a prophecy
Hotmama throws her hands up.
“OKAY, OKAY, I GET IT. THE LINEAGE IS HERE. THE GIRLS ARE GIRLING. THE META IS METTING. THE CANOLE IS CANOLING.”
She sighs.
“Fine. Let’s finish the scene.”
The reflection steps out of the puddle, puts on Hotmama’s shoes, and says:
“Tag. You’re it.”