Thursday, October 15, 2009

armed to the teeth with LIPSTICK:15.

by Blag Dahlia


Rolling through the starless night, tape deck pumping brutal noise, the Martians mused on the strange hand fate had dealt them. That is, if 'muse' is the proper term for shooting up cocaine, hanging moons out the window and screaming at the top of your lungs.

All-American phrases like 'bitchin' and 'damn the torpedoes' were tossed around as often as 'where the fukk are we?' and 'Suzy isn't breathing anymore.' It didn't hurt that by now they'd had time to sample the creature comforts of their dead hosts' mobile playpen. The black velvet bar and billiard nook served as a makeshift conference room for the band, their manager, and the girls as Gizmo rolled the semi down a lonely stretch of what used to be Route 66. For once the conversation turned to music, sort of, when Atom said --

"Did you see these guys' itinerary yet? They've got a show in New York the day after tomorrow."

"We don't know any songs yet, how we gonna play a show?"

Off in the corner, Trash watched Eddie penetrate Angel with a pool cue and waited for an answer. The life of a drummer is a sick and sordid affair. Constant pounding of the skins sets the tempo for nightly dominance rituals that all too often end in a puddle of Black Label beer and the squeals of some dim oinkette ringing through the tissue paper walls of a local squathouse. And that was just how Trash liked it.

Now that the initial euphoria of the Time/Space Warp had worn off, he tried wrapping his pea-sized cranium around the sticky whys and wherefores of space travel, car-jacking and manslaughter. That took all of 45 seconds. In the background, Angel more bellowed than moaned as Eddie opened a beer through the miracle of vagina dentata.

"We can always have those two do their thing while I read poetry. We'll call it Erotic Performance Art," said Buckley.

Never one to doubt he and his buddies non-existent talents, Atom had another idea.

"Fukk the dumb shit, I'll write us a song. This van is fully wired for sound and we can rehearse it on the way to New York. We're gonna do that fukkin' show on Saturday!"

Suzy had been passed out for most of the ride, but she woke up and raised her eyelids with effort. Downers and wine were a bad combination for day dreaming.

"You guys can't play anything, you can barely play with yourselves."

Atom went to slap her, but she'd passed out again.

"We can do it, it'll be easy. Look at Jesus, he couldn't carry a tune."

"How about this," broke in Buckley, always the clueless optimist, "you guys get out on stage... the houselights go up, the crowd screams, anticipation thick in the air...then BAM! A half hour of total silence. It's stark, simple, effective...and it's Art!"

A shower of beer, a kick to the groin and the matter was settled. Angel and Eddie slumped to the floor in a bovine heap.

Atom and Trash were still dreaming of naked women, day-glo body paint and a bigger piece of tomorrow.

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