>my immunocompromised ass
Is that the technical speak for "I am a whore filled with STDs"?
Also, if this is what I think it is, it is very likely that her "immunocompromise" is inside her blood and it's the reason why she was rejected from doing blood donations that one time, and then turned the situation into bitching about the poor homos not being allowed to donate.
You are COVI 9INTEEN – just a homie from the Chinese wet markets who rose from these humble origins to become a global phenomenon. Occasionally you suffer from Jason Bourne-style flashbacks where you remember being strapped to a Petri-dish in a semi-sterile laboratory, with the fire exit door wide open, but fuck that. You're riding high now and how you got there ain't nobody's business.
Ebola is on the phone asking if you want to collaborate on a rap album.
“Yo, fuck yo needy ass,” you tell her, while signalling your people to reach out to Dr. Dre.
“But check first he ain't no doctor of epidemiology,” you add.
You got some time to kill so you swagger in through one of the ragged, wide-bore orifices, rabbit-holing this shop-soiled, thumb-bruised skeezer, calls itself Zoe Quinn. Hell, the door was wide open. There wasn't even no velvet rope over the entrance. You figure this one will be a quick in and out. A three-day job at most.
As you venture deeper inside Quinn, it occurs to you that this might be a bad neighbourhood. In fact this place is filled with the most broke-down, toothless, inbred bacteria you ever laid eyes on, pushing around shopping carts filled with junk, and getting high on the abundant yeast colonies. A crossed-out number five, spray-painted on the walls, is surrounded by smaller crossed-out numerals, as if somebody is keeping a running tally of something.
As you pass a gang of mixed-race viruses warming themselves around an inflamed cist, one of their number breaks ranks and runs over.
“Give me all yo money or I'll ruin your professional reputation in a heartbeat,” he says.
“Yo, go fuck yourself,” you tell him, pushing his weak ass away from you.
A familiar voice stops you cold in your tracks. A macro virus pushes its way through the crowds and comes waddling towards you, panting heavily from the effort. Her envelope proteins are shaved on one side and her capsid has been dyed neon blue.
“Helen, is that you girl?” you stammer weakly.
Helen begins to pound on your chest, screeching about how you molested her, back when the pair of you were infecting the global aardvark population together.
“Hey bro, not cool,” says some new strain of vaginal flu, yet to be formally identified by science.
“Yo, shut the fuck up,” you tell him.
Panicked, you make a dash for the exit, only to find your way blocked by a pustulant rainbow of infection.
“One of us. One of us,” chant the viruses and bacterium in a rising zombie chorus.
It wasn't supposed to end like this. You always thought you'd exit this world getting shot down by a cop, while trying to infect some rich kid's grandma in a gated Beverley Hills community.
Somebody hands you a yeast pipe. You inhale deeply.
