Only in Miami Stories from The Miami Creation Myth

Santos stumbled. She grabbed the podium to keep from falling. The oligarchs stood from the chairs, panic in their eyes.

Six Florida Air National Guard F-35 fighter jets zoomed overhead.

Noah’s lab was a small, nondescript, one-story building surrounded by big box strip clubs.

Santos removed her Prada sunglasses and turned to Thing 0, who stood beside her on a stage at the Bulge’s summit. “Why does this thing look like a penis?”

At some point in their fugue states, Carlos and Cynthia had joined their mats together so they awoke with her spooning him.

“I do indeed,” said Daniel. “Y’all had plenty of your own tribal traditions in Europe, but Christianity carpet bombed that straight to hell 2,000 years ago."

Cynthia’s eyes narrowed. She opened a box of Plan B, removed the pill, and swallowed it, all without breaking eye contact with the cashier.

Rhonda Santos sat cross-legged (Indian style, if it weren’t for the goddamned PC police) on a king-sized mattress in the Palm Beach Four Seasons’ presidential suite.

“Your fetish isn’t dumbification…” Cynthia's voice grew louder, more firm. She looked him dead in the eye. “Your real kink is mansplaining.”

The back of her head hit the concrete hard, obscuring her vision with a flurry of dark spots, but she didn’t mind. She deserved far worse.