I order the apple-vodka cobbler — not sure how Sid got his hands on the vodka — and some fritters. I pay with some change I found in my second pair of pants, eighty cents away from becoming broke. Then we go to the table that Gin and Christian picked out. It’s a stripped pool table with no legs and chairs from the old high school, but there aren’t enough chairs for the blue woman who sits on my feet. Sid and Aggie come too, with Aggie’s two girlfriends who don’t speak at all and seem to have no soul left, or maybe they’re just goths who find it trendy to act that way.
Nan and Sid continue talking. Then Sid begins talking about what’s happened to the world around us. He still has lots of soul, it seems; he’s not hunched over or anything. It’s funny how he wants to talk about the human situation here. Most people try to ignore it or don’t have enough lifeforce to mind to it.
“It’s crazy,” he says. “I love it. It’s chaos.”
“Anarchy,” Aggie says.
Boot Lips doesn’t understand that he is at risk of losing his soul, nor does he know about heaven getting shut off for good. He never believed in heaven anyway. Boot Lips is another person who wants to go to Punk Land when he dies, but I don’t think Punk Land really exists. Maybe my faith isn’t strong enough. He doesn’t realize that the world is bread festering with mold, nor does he realize that Gin is dead and still walking around, and hisself could soon be like Gin too.
Gin is still stiff with flaky meat emotions. Scared maybe. And Breakfast is hidden away in his patched pack, scraping to get out, hungry.
“The world is just as I always wanted it,” says Boot Lips.
“Apocalyptic?” Nan utters.
“I like living in craziness and being unstable.” Boot Lips begins picking at a wart. “Nothing makes sense anymore and I want us to hold on to that. The world has always been a boring place of order, at least in America, with chaos only in some ghetto areas. But even the ghetto chaos was boring. They were all about who’s who; ghetto gangsters were childish and superficial. They weren’t much different from rich white preppies from the suburb areas who hated anyone different, hated anything that wasn’t part of the trends. Even punks were superficial back then, confused about what the definition of trendy was. Now there’s no trends to follow. Nobody to look up to or down to, besides yourself. And nothing gets boring here. Nothing.”
Right now, I want to tell Boot Lips about how our situation is more serious than he realizes, and how the walm will take his soul, and how he’s damned to this world forever. But I don’t tell him. He looks too happy and too excited about the world. I don’t want to bring him down.
Boot Lips tells us about his band Slaughter Shoes. Nan invites him to play at our Listen Day Concert tonight, even though Nan has no business booking bands at our shows. She has a new swimmy personality around Sid and starts to realize that she would rather be with him than Gin. Normally Gin would’ve cared about Nan’s change of heart. But now he’s consumed by writhe-suffering today.
A few seconds later, Nan takes Gin aside, around the back of a water store, to tell him how she feels. I want to follow them, but my God’s Eyes decide to go inside of Boot Lips’ brain instead. I discover that he doesn’t have any more interest in Nan. He wants to stay with Aggie.
The only thing I hear Nan tell Gin is: “I don’t want a man with an wormy penis.”
I’m sure Nan and Gin will stay friends. They’ve been close for quite a long time and Boot Lips doesn’t want Nan. But, surprisingly, Gin’s emotions don’t seem to get any lower after Nan’s breakup statement; he’s already hit the craggy undersurface. The sight of his hand dancing in his food was the breaking point. It doesn’t really matter what happens to him now, with or without soul.
I eat my food slowly because Nan wants to hang around here until the show starts. Aggie and Sid take off to get ready, pull Sid’s band together and maybe practice a little. Nan and Gin act like nothing’s happened between them, like they’re still together, but that’s because Gin is in agony and Nan pities him enough to try and make him feel better. As a friend.
“It’s over,” Gin says to us.
I suddenly get an odd feeling. Like the world is about to end, even though it can’t. Like something cataclysmic is about to happen, in Rippington, or maybe just in my life. Terrible.
Richard Stein once said that there will be a day when the world will crossover from its tiresome yet basically happy state to a place of PANDEMONIUM.
I think that day is here.
Scene 16
The Rabid Storm
The storm comes first.
It goops in as the sun blobs out. Orange fuzz dissolves into the skeletal-patterned skip-clouds, frigid with gray and hints of blue. Spider limbs talon-reach for the soap mountains on their avenue. Uneven faces secrete slowly out of it — the cloud is going to leak more people-creatures instead of rainwater, spat-splashing onto the great mob of overpopulation below.
It rents through light, oozes sideways, chokes it into darkness.
And dusk becomes night.
The mob:
Crowds of people sleeping in the streets, the carpet walkways, smushed into buildings like snail shells. All different races, sizes, shapes, colors, clothing, trying to ignore claustrophobia. Every empty piece of ground taken up by a living being. Rippington is Earth’s toy box, overflowing with piles and piles of action figures. They are motionless and hushed. Some coughs and shaking. Waiting for starvation to kill them and make them like Gin.
The roadway people become aroused when they see sheets of lightning dazzle-striping from the clouds. Flashes reflect against their BIG glazed eyes, haunting their children. Coils of wind corrupt their naked parts with invisible fingers. Some people enjoy the storm, for now — the water clouds aren’t collapsing yet — because there’s no amusement in Suffocation Land besides what’s up in the air.
The warehouse is ready for another concert. It’s burning warm with gum-crammed groups of people and thick sweaty air. Mostly filled with walm people trying to get off the stormy streets, and some of the usual crowd of punks and skinheads, trying to get rid of their boredom. The rest of the usual punk crowd — the larger portion — must have lost too much soul to make it here.
There won’t be another show after this one.
Only two bands are playing tonight: The Oi!s and Sid’s band, Slaughter Shoes. My band was supposed to play too, but Christian refused. He said he wasn’t in the mood, and neither was Vodka. And Vodka has BIG round pads on his breasts. I don’t care for playing either; playing with my blue woman is more fun. I’m in my room with her right now, caressing her perfect ocean skin. Her sensations not as quick as a human’s but that’s because she is like a machine.
Slaughter Shoes starts playing — a melodic hardcore sound with a saxophone player. Boot Lips, the singer, hop-bangs to his songs, more soul-filled than anyone else here; it’s like the walm hasn’t touched him at all. He’s even more up-up than he was back at his apple barn. I’m sure his soul will outlive everyone’s in town. Good luck to him.
He really adored the steel sculptures that live inside the warehouse and ordered them to be placed in the center of the crowd, surrounding the toilet where Vodka is sitting. The sinister/gruesome aspect of the sculptures is what he liked. They are black and rusty and crude, also very sharp. One looks to be a palm tree of knives and another is like a tangle of meat hooks and a headless woman with spiked skin and sword nipples. She smiled at Boot Lips with her prickly vagina and he immediately fell in love.
The name of this unrefined sculpture is Fria.
Vodka sits alone on the toilet, staring at Fria’s butt and the butts of every other sculptures around him, boxed in like he’s in the bathroom stall of a sweat-dizzy night club, but the stall doors are sharp and spiny and stabbing inwards. He complains to the sculptures for crowding him, but they won’t give him anymore room. His stare is blank and evil, but his response is silence. And nobody outside of his little boxed space realizes that he’s in there
.
The blue woman begins to touch me now, to excite me, trying to get my penis erect so that she can eat. She’s always touchy-feely when she is hungry, and very alert instead of inside her dream world.
Mooshing her plump breasts into my stomach, digging into the skin with flinty nipples. BIG eyes looking into me — she knows I like that, it jingles our souls together. I’m not certain that blue women have souls. They’re more like machines or like animals, and I’ve been told that neither of the two possess souls.
I slink into her neck, washing the azure plastic, feeling her smooth-fleshy. She doesn’t have human neck bones. The neck is more like the human calf — lots of meat with one hard bone… but her bone is soft and thin, flexible. I can also feel a slight tube, probably for mouth reproduction. It creak-chirps when she slavers on my chest.
It begins raining.
I hear it tinkle-clanking against a metal shelter from my sex bed as the blue woman rubs me. I eye to the outside, leaving my corpse with the four-year-old creature engorged.
The rain clouds weeping needle-goobers, thick and colored like pig snot. But I know the rain drops are not made of water. They’re particles of madness instead.
“The storm will bring insanity,” said the scorpion flies.
“The Earth wants to have some fun with us,” said the little cockroach man, still dead and now crunchy in the corner of my room, listening.
The insanity leaks onto the unsheltered street people, sloshing onto their naked faces, seeping into their minds. Their mental states become schizophrenic at first. Slow and scared… paranoia. They begin shivering. They are unable to move.
The insanity rains onto the warehouse as well, dripping only the madness-scent through a few cracks, but the smell alone is enough to drive lunacy through your skull.
The aroma fills everyone’s breath, even mine… and peculiarly, it also affects the blue woman, who doesn’t breathe.
This is where the fun begins…
ACT THREE
The Supreme Ordeal
Scene 17
Maggots in the Brain
The madness comes second.
It starts when Christian goes outside for a cigar. He lights up under the dry clanking metal, looking up at the grotesque patterns in the clouds. They remind him of my descriptions of my acid ocean eyes, wondering if my vision looks similar to this. But my vision doesn’t make me see evil-sickly patterns like these, only swirl-whirls.
The warehouse doesn’t mind the maddening rain too much. Neither does it give a fuss over the crowd inside its belly. We asked if it would be okay to have another concert, but the warehouse just stared at his carpet walkway and shrugged.
Christian is very calm. He’s been very calm for a long time now. Very unlike him. He doesn’t seem totally emotionless, but surprisingly laid-back, strutting around in his zoot suit like a real classy gangster. The loss of his emotion has actually helped make him more appealing to people, especially women.
He looks into the BIG crowd of street people and their malformed-minds, all of them beady-watching him back. He knows something is wrong with them, the way they are staring. But he tries to ignore. Cool smoking.
Richard Stein would have said they all have maggots in the brain, which he used to say about his wife. His wife was quite the insane one back when she was alive. She was afraid of almost anything, especially moving things. She didn’t feel comfortable in cars or walking near cars, or taking the subway or trains, or airplanes, or even riding bikes. She couldn’t leave the house on some occasions, paralyzed on her sitting chair.
Richard Stein was attracted to her because of this insanity, which is why he married her. There is something passionate about crazy women that can’t be described, he said, you know you are absurd for getting into these relationships but there’s nothing you can do. And he was happy with her for several years, even though he never got to know her completely, never figured out what made her tick so awkwardly and without rhythm.
Once age turned her ugly, Richard Stein initiated hate towards her. The crazy personality no longer cute. And the older she became, the more maggots crawled inside of her skull. Eventually, she drove her crazy emotions into Richard Stein’s skull as well. And he spent a lot of his time hiding under blankets in the attic like a piece of furniture.
Christian glances away from the crowd of sniveling insane ones. Looks up into the sky, with droplets hitting his cigar.
The rain’s influence starts to alter the warehouse crowd. Finally there are enough droplets indoors, enough punks to breathe in the lunacy. And the crowd of emotionally weak people begin a dance. Crooked-slowly at first, then fast and slamming, smashing into each other, moshing. The ultimate of all round-a-go crowds. Boot Lips, a screaming machine, starts punching the skinheads that get too close to him, kicking over tables and stands. The band plays chop-chop. Consumed by the insane energy, they sing song after song without a break.
Then the entire crowd is throw-slamming themselves against themselves; even the walm people that live in the corner of the warehouse join in. Battering into the walls and each other, pounding and skull-blasting…
Wild maniacs around the crude sculptures.
The insanity hits the blue woman. She sucks and rubs faster on my stomach, trying to swallow me. She puts her vagina into my face and a small tongue emerges. It laps at my nose and an eye. The itch-meat slides into my mouth and squirts a sweet flavor into me, a strong aphrodisiac — produced under the blue woman’s vaginal tongue like a salivary gland.
She slides the little tongue down my neck and body, leaving a trail of sauce. Then it takes a couple licks off my shank skin and slides me into her feeding hole. Immediately pounding, bouncing on me, rubbing my chest hair with her blue claws. Eyes in deep contact with mine. Whirlpool.
God’s Eyes to the outside:
Christian puts out his cigar as he notices the street people dancing as madly as the ones inside the warehouse, like the thrashing hardcore is powerful enough to hit anyone that hears it.
Then a small group of them charge the warehouse screaming carnal violence. Christian falls back, stumbles inside, kicks the door shut… He locks the door in two places and throws his weight on it.
The insane ones attack the door, booting, ramming…
Christian yells out for help, but the words drown under the singing.
The mosh pit gets out of control. People use chairs and guitars to beat each other. Beer bottles smash over heads, glass covers the floor, a skinhead uses a broken beer bottle to stab everyone as he dances, the wounded keep dancing, showering blood onto the stage…
Mort tries to stop them from ruining his equipment, but a large walrus-shaped man hits him with a speaker box, knocking him into painful sleep. Some blood tangles down his neck.
The blue woman uses her mouth-tongue on my face now. She leans forward so that her breasts can massage my skin.
She bites into the fat of my shoulder, moving it in circles with her screwing, drooling out the cold liquid of the yellow-violent pleasure.
People brush against the scornful artwork. They cut themselves on acute edges and knives. Fria’s blade-like nipples slice into the dancers, two or three at a time, and their tips become red.
Nan and even Gin join the slamming. They’re near the sculptures and hold onto each other, Nan laughing insanely at the pain of broken glass digging into her feet. Gin’s dreads do a snake-dance. They attack skinhead faces, whipping with excitement. Breakfast holds onto Gin’s pocket, regretting that he was separated from his wrist/womb for the first time.
Christian braces the door with the little of his strength, as the insane ones shriek-slam the outsides, ripping apart the windows and yard decorations. Some make it on the roof, stomping on the shelter, trying to tear it down. Others send rocks through the windows toward the dancing crowd, bludgeons on their meat.
The blue woman leans back, still glaring into me, and my rolling vision at her. She uses her leg powers to fuck faster. She spas
ms her back like caterpillars, smack-bouncing her breasts… ocean waves ripple through the soft fleshies. She drives my body with mean thrusts, fucking my skull into the concrete, hard, nonstop, a spark of pain flashing in every drum…
She makes her hands into claws and strikes my chest, digging them with purple nails, enticing my blood to come play.
When I scream, the pain becomes bliss-intense. Furious animals tearing into me for food — I notice myself enjoying the idea. I’m weak and whining under her dominion.
And she’s only four.
A skinhead is thrown into Fria’s nipples. The nipples pierce through both of his lungs and kill him instantly. After this first death, the mosh pit becomes a giant murder-dance game.
People are toss-hammered, mangled into the knife sculptures, thrashing to the music. And stomachs are opened on the palm tree and the windmill and the cactus and the monster and Fria.
Vodka’s pale skin is drenched with blood and chunks of hamburger fat. He begins masturbating, greasing up his shank with shredding men’s red fluid.
The slicing massacre continues until most of the crowd is covered with slash marks. But nobody dies, because death doesn’t exist anymore. So the crowd continues to slam each other, cut each other, with no blood left, with missing limbs and facial features, and everybody slips in the blood pool beneath them and sometimes gets back up again.
Satan Burger Page 16