all the way live #6
halfway over on the Saturday ride to the doktor's hideout, i ate a hit and a half of vitamin L. i figured that should put me in the right mood at the right time for the evening's festivities. the sidewalk to the place was littered with crushed beer cans and broken glass...there were a host of cancellation notices stapled to his screen door...love notes and death threats lay exposed on the grass in the spring sun, suggesting months of burial under yet another brutal fat city winter.
with any luck, Hope indeed springs eternal.
i entered unannounced but not unexpected. the doktor nearly waylaid me with a rusted foot-long machete. even after he recognized me, he muttered something about cutting a foot off so i wouldn't run when the shit really went down, and was only able to be diverted by the broken whiskey bottle his rabid dog was chewing on in the living room.
"i'll be taking that," he said to the dog, and sent the cur scrambling with a swift blow to its ear. the dog retired to a corner, whimpering and flashing its canines. "no need for this now," he said, and sent the machete nine inches deep into the kitchen wall.
"let's go. you're driving."
sparta was playing a show and it seemed as good an excuse as none at all to blend in with the natives. we were terminally late for the show...i managed to sneak my switchblade and an assortment of explosives into the venue. and while i don't condone violence for anyone, i was unprepared to deal with a secret arrest or a trip in a Black Van without a fight. aside from that, i was doing my best thinking only happy thoughts: birds and waves, trees and flowers, sunshine, you know...all that hippie bullshit.
the theatre was already crowded with a great unwashed mass of underage kids and boy scout leaders, ex-altar boys and priests stripped of their vestiments. the crowd parted like the red sea for us...or perhaps i Willed it that way...and we made our way to the stage with two armfuls of refreshments. spreading them out by the mics, we prepared to lay judgment on the band with our backs to them. some may take this as an act of unprofessionalism...they may dare to ask how we can evaluate a performance without observing the band. but those people are foolish at best and most likely candidates for early "retirement." one of those mouthbreathers decided to take issue with the amount of space that the doktor and i were taking up. the band was making its way to the stage and the whole place started whoopin' it up. but this guy just wouldn't let up...he continued to rant and rave, moving closer to the doktor as power chords and smoke machines burped and belched from the stage behind. the doktor lit a cigarette and stretched both arms out on the stage, back still to the band, who were working themselves up into some kind of pre-fabricated rebellious rock fury. it seemed about high time for me to climb the public address speakers on the right side of the stage...there was a thirty-foot spider climbing out of the lights in the rafters and making its way towards my end of the place.
that moron was still trying to reason with the doktor...or perhaps it was something else, something more sinister. my memory, however, cannot be considered totally reliable concerning the events of the evening. what was certain was that the doktor leaned in to the guy and whispered something in his ear...perhaps only a word. instantly, the guy threw up all over the front end of the stage. sparta was about to set it off, and i guess the singer figured the most rock-out-with-your-cock-out move would be to land some kind of backflip. what the fuck was this? where has the rebellion gone? are we left with fucking gymnnasts and acrobats? what next...a fucking mat routine complete with the pretty colored balls and those ribbons and streamers and shit? it's of no matter...the pigfucker got what he deserved. he landed dead in the middle of the pile of blood and bile that other motherfucker vomitted all over the stage. he fell hard on his back and writhed around in that unholy muck, crying and whimpering like a three-legged dog. the rest of the boys in the band looked like deer in headlights...the roadies had to haul the singer off the stage.
the crowd milled about for a few mintues and began to chant for the band. by that time, i had weasled my way into the dj booth, convincing the staple-face that manned it that i was in deep with the cia and a card-carrying member of the illuminati security force. he handed over the mic and fell down the steps on his way out. i announced that the show was cancelled, and that no refund would be made available..."these fuckers ain't never comin' back," i told the crowd, "and the brown acid that's going around is not necessarily too good."
the fuckers went mad with rage. from the booth, i could see the doktor skating around on the vomit, swinging a guitar at the heads of whatever zombie was dumb enough to try to move him. i lit a flare and held it up to the fire sprinklers to get the water going, then i tucked the business end of it into the couch cushions up in the dj booth. burn this motherfucker from the top down.
by the time i made it to the stage to reconnoiter with the dok, the place had gone wild. groups of ten or more were fornicating wildly in the open, the atm machine was in the throes of a violent upheaval, and the joint's bartender was wandering around blabbering about "the humanity." the dok got on the mic and implored the crowd to take to the streets and he and i ran out the back emergency exit, fully expecting the crowd to follow and continue the riot. but they simply remained inside...choking on the smoke from the fire and drinking the water spraying from the sprinklers.
"awww fuck it...let's get drunk."
"ok...but what did you say to that guy back there to make him throw-up?"
"that is for another time...come now...we've business to attend."
with any luck, Hope indeed springs eternal.
i entered unannounced but not unexpected. the doktor nearly waylaid me with a rusted foot-long machete. even after he recognized me, he muttered something about cutting a foot off so i wouldn't run when the shit really went down, and was only able to be diverted by the broken whiskey bottle his rabid dog was chewing on in the living room.
"i'll be taking that," he said to the dog, and sent the cur scrambling with a swift blow to its ear. the dog retired to a corner, whimpering and flashing its canines. "no need for this now," he said, and sent the machete nine inches deep into the kitchen wall.
"let's go. you're driving."
sparta was playing a show and it seemed as good an excuse as none at all to blend in with the natives. we were terminally late for the show...i managed to sneak my switchblade and an assortment of explosives into the venue. and while i don't condone violence for anyone, i was unprepared to deal with a secret arrest or a trip in a Black Van without a fight. aside from that, i was doing my best thinking only happy thoughts: birds and waves, trees and flowers, sunshine, you know...all that hippie bullshit.
the theatre was already crowded with a great unwashed mass of underage kids and boy scout leaders, ex-altar boys and priests stripped of their vestiments. the crowd parted like the red sea for us...or perhaps i Willed it that way...and we made our way to the stage with two armfuls of refreshments. spreading them out by the mics, we prepared to lay judgment on the band with our backs to them. some may take this as an act of unprofessionalism...they may dare to ask how we can evaluate a performance without observing the band. but those people are foolish at best and most likely candidates for early "retirement." one of those mouthbreathers decided to take issue with the amount of space that the doktor and i were taking up. the band was making its way to the stage and the whole place started whoopin' it up. but this guy just wouldn't let up...he continued to rant and rave, moving closer to the doktor as power chords and smoke machines burped and belched from the stage behind. the doktor lit a cigarette and stretched both arms out on the stage, back still to the band, who were working themselves up into some kind of pre-fabricated rebellious rock fury. it seemed about high time for me to climb the public address speakers on the right side of the stage...there was a thirty-foot spider climbing out of the lights in the rafters and making its way towards my end of the place.
that moron was still trying to reason with the doktor...or perhaps it was something else, something more sinister. my memory, however, cannot be considered totally reliable concerning the events of the evening. what was certain was that the doktor leaned in to the guy and whispered something in his ear...perhaps only a word. instantly, the guy threw up all over the front end of the stage. sparta was about to set it off, and i guess the singer figured the most rock-out-with-your-cock-out move would be to land some kind of backflip. what the fuck was this? where has the rebellion gone? are we left with fucking gymnnasts and acrobats? what next...a fucking mat routine complete with the pretty colored balls and those ribbons and streamers and shit? it's of no matter...the pigfucker got what he deserved. he landed dead in the middle of the pile of blood and bile that other motherfucker vomitted all over the stage. he fell hard on his back and writhed around in that unholy muck, crying and whimpering like a three-legged dog. the rest of the boys in the band looked like deer in headlights...the roadies had to haul the singer off the stage.
the crowd milled about for a few mintues and began to chant for the band. by that time, i had weasled my way into the dj booth, convincing the staple-face that manned it that i was in deep with the cia and a card-carrying member of the illuminati security force. he handed over the mic and fell down the steps on his way out. i announced that the show was cancelled, and that no refund would be made available..."these fuckers ain't never comin' back," i told the crowd, "and the brown acid that's going around is not necessarily too good."
the fuckers went mad with rage. from the booth, i could see the doktor skating around on the vomit, swinging a guitar at the heads of whatever zombie was dumb enough to try to move him. i lit a flare and held it up to the fire sprinklers to get the water going, then i tucked the business end of it into the couch cushions up in the dj booth. burn this motherfucker from the top down.
by the time i made it to the stage to reconnoiter with the dok, the place had gone wild. groups of ten or more were fornicating wildly in the open, the atm machine was in the throes of a violent upheaval, and the joint's bartender was wandering around blabbering about "the humanity." the dok got on the mic and implored the crowd to take to the streets and he and i ran out the back emergency exit, fully expecting the crowd to follow and continue the riot. but they simply remained inside...choking on the smoke from the fire and drinking the water spraying from the sprinklers.
"awww fuck it...let's get drunk."
"ok...but what did you say to that guy back there to make him throw-up?"
"that is for another time...come now...we've business to attend."
Johnny St. Clair wuz here at 11:58 PM
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