For those about to Croak, a Taste of My Book

I've been following the news lately. There ain't much else to do in Hell: you've got nothing but time, and it ain't like you could use it being awful productive or something. So I follow the news. About Syria, mostly, in the past couple of years. Yeah. You could say I've become, I don't know, addicted to it. The carnage in Syria. It is a bug in me. Pray you won’t catch it. Then again, you could consider it as a hobby. A recreation, like collecting glass. That's right, glass, with an L and sss... No D, none.

Maybe I can talk to you about that, my glass collection of sorts. I don’t think Patti would mind... I need a cigarette, though, first. Anybody can lend me one? Don't worry, you won't catch AIDS from a corpse.

All right. Once upon a time there was a giraffe.

He grabs his cane from the wrong end, holds it erect.

                     

This giraffe was a freak.

He lets the cane slide through his hand, until the tip of it touches the floor.

                            

He was the 100-proof, highly processed product of Giacometti’s nightmares or something. The tiniest head bouncing at the end of the longest neck you’d ever seen, even at the giraffe scene. The other giraffes found this amusing. The giraffe himself, our giraffe, didn’t find it amusing at all. Not one bit – he found the situation tragic. And he crowned himself the King of giraffes, since he had the longest neck of them all, was more of a giraffe than the others would ever be. They laughed at him. Our Giraffe the Freak said the others should bow their necks to him. He was the King, after all. The other giraffes laughed some more. They didn’t bow their heads, or their necks. So our Giraffe the Freak decided to kill them all.

He swings his cane like a club a couple of times.

                     

Giraffe the Freak had a friend, a rhino whose face was like a baboon’s ass the color of an oyster. He couldn’t see anything save his own horn. That’s what he watched all day long, his horn, until his head started spinning, and he darted off to attack something, anything, chasing his own shadow most of the time. The rhino had no neck at all. This didn’t bother his pal Giraffe, since Baboo wasn’t a giraffe, but a rhino. And they were in love. They felt for each other, like they’d known each other for ever, and deep down knew what the other was going through. The rhino was terrified. He knew he was a freak of nature. He knew that someday the other rhinos might make a remark of him having a baboon’s ass for a face and no neck at all, and he didn’t have to wonder about what would happen next. All he had to do was look at the Giraffe. And all of a sudden Baboo wanted to kill the giraffes too. As a lesson to the rhinos, if nothing else. So Baboo and his rhino friends, who were still his friends for now, went on a rampage in the Giraffe Land.

He throws the cane away.

                     

Enough of the animals. Let’s talk about the opposition.

But before we go into that, I think we should throw a little party. In honor of my returning, if nothing else. A party for me.

O children! ‘Tis the Day of the Dead.

Let me get something to eat.

Exit Mapplethorpe.

Buy NOW.


Kindle Ed.

                             

50 cal.

Neiti on vaihtanut hiustensa väriä epäpuhtaasta platinasta kastanjanruskeaan. Seassa kullankeltaisia tupsuja – kerron että väri pukee häntä. Hän nyökkää, hymyilee hajamielisenä. Neiti istuu sohvalla tällä kertaa, kissa surraa hänen sylissään kun hän lukee artikkeliani sinikantisesta kierrevihosta.

Hän heiluttaa vihkoa ilmassa kuin viilentääkseen sitä. Claymore nostaa päätään. Neiti laskee artikkelin viereensä, katti päänsä neidin reidelle.

“Anteeks, mä en ymmärrä.”

Onko jutussa jotain epäselvää?

“Sun piti kirjottaa siitä leffasta. Ja tää juttu kertoo jostain tarkka-ampujasta.”

Eikä mistä tahansa tarkka-ampujasta, vaan Etelä-Armagh’n pahamaineisesta brittien kauhusta. Lyön vetoa, ettei yksikään Ajattelijan lukija ole kuullut hänestä tai heistä, mikäli oikein tarkkoja ollaan.

“No ei tasan tarkkaan ole! Mistään päästään mun alkuperäiseen kommenttiin.”

Joka oli?

“Mitä sä oikeen kuvittelet tekeväs?”

En tiedä. Elin hetken aika illuusiossa, että kirjoittaisin artikkelia heidän verkkosivuilleen. Mutta mikäli juttu ei sovi heidän linjaansa, voin vallan mainiosti tarjota sitä muualle.

“Kukaan ei halua juttua jostain murhaajasta.”

Ja kuitenkin oli toivottavaa kirjoittaa ylistävä analyysi elokuvasta, jossa murhaajat esitetään suurina sankareina ja marttyyreinä.

“Bobby Sands ei ollu murhaaja.”

Ehkä ei, mutta sen kaverit oli. Francis Hughes noin alkajaisiksi.

Neiti on noussut seisomaan. Häntä ei kiinnostaa jatkaa tätä keskustelua. Jos alan saada oireita yhteistyöhalukkuudesta, voin soittaa hänelle. Numero löytyy lehden nettisivuilta.

Ovi käy, ja hän on tiessään, taas. Huomaan pohtivani, ehtikö neiti juttuni kohokohtaan, jossa kerrotaan miten provot saivat konekivääriltä näyttävän tarkka-ampujan aseen (Barrett M90, todellinen tykki) mahtumaan Mazdaansa ja käyttivät sitä autosta. Mahallaan lattialla. Takapenkki poistettu. Kuulosuojaimet kommandopipon päällä. Farmarimallin takaluukkuun oli tehty akkuna, josta kiväärin piippu pisti ulos. Luotiliivit olivat paperia sen laukauksen edessä. Yhdysvaltain presidentti haukkui tarkka-ampujia pelkureiksi, mutta brittisotilaat olivat eri mieltä. Vaati huikeaa kylmäpäisyyttä ajaa niin lähelle kohdetta yhden ainoan laukauksen vuoksi. Akkuna rämähti kiinni, ja kuski painoi täyttä vauhtia karkuun, kun ampujan sormi yhä halasi liipasinta.

Siinä chombiiteille ajateltavaa, vaihtelua niiden iänikuisten intiaanien ja itätimorilaisten keskelle. Vaan kun ei kelpaa niin ei.

Alkaa hävettää. Lapsellista, innostua nyt noin. En olisi kirjoittanut sanaakaan Armagh'n tarkka-ampujasta, jollen olisi vastalääkkeenä Hungerille katsonut hölmöä leffaa nimeltä Elephant White. Jouduin jättämään senkin kesken, kun asekätköstä Bangkokin uumenista löytyi se kaikkein järein, Barrett M82. Ja taas mentiin.

Pitää pyytää ainoalta lukijaltani anteeksi.

Alkuun - Edellinen - Seuraava sivu

Last Post of Mine (in English): Hooray @PlaywritingFest

Flower sits in a chair, wrapped in translucent plastic. She looks like a broken takeaway baguette.

TANNER  There was a place called World’s Biggest Bookstore in Toronto in 1995. Man, it was paradise. There were books printed twenty years before, ones that you’d barely heard of, on display. I could easily waste an entire afternoon there, just wandering, checking out their catalog, feeling dizzy, ending up buying absolutely nothing. Overwhelmed by the possibilities.

We had a similar place here. The Only Bookstore in Finland, they might named it back in the day. Instead, they strove for the Olympic heights. Be careful what you wish for. There comes the reckoning—woo woo! Like a long black train, and its name is Memory.

FLOWER  Memory is its name.

TANNER  The day they call your bluff. The end of Finland as we know it, at long, long last. Hallelujah!

FLOWER  I object. A bookstore and country are two separate entities.

TANNER  That’s what you think. Let me finish.

FLOWER  By all means.

TANNER  You said it. The other day I stopped at The Olympic Bookstore to fetch a book, a paperback, one you can read backwards, which is essential for a fool like me. Of course the title in question wasn’t available presently. But, they said, as they always do. They can order it from abroad! Guess what? So can I. At this point, I was ready for my daily bowel movement, and thank God they hadn’t renovated their washroom into a trendy coffee bar yet. The only thing still standing from the good old days. And there I sat, reading my Kindle, having profound and foul visions of the future of this country.

And now I read the Toronto store is about to be closed. And Helsinki will be remembered as fondly as a tiny snowman in hell. That bookstore is a tombstone; the daily paper, a mouthful of soil.

http://www.thestar.com/business/2012/06/20/torontos_worlds_biggest_bookstore_could_close_in_2013.html#

The Options in Syria

TANNER  Something happened today. I was coming home from the library, across the tracks. It was dark already. I had taken the steps on my side, when something made me look up. Beneath the overpass, at the corner where the ground meets the bridge, with barely enough room to sit in, I saw a small fire burning. And a figure sitting there, watching me over the flames. Rubbing his hands together.

I made an experiment. An exercise in populism, you might call it. As I said, I went to the library, and visited a traditionalist website. For those of you whom the typhus of traditionalism has passed, few words of introduction are due. Take a trip to Paris, to the cathedral of Notre Dame. Imagine the altar there sprayed by brain matter. That sight, my friends, is traditionalism taken to its logical conclusion. Enough of those wankers. After the library, I visited the corner bar, listened to the regulars discussing various current affairs. I was drinking coffee, mind. Then I went home and wrote an article based on what I’d read and heard, changing a word here and there, replacing “hajjis” with sectarian rift, “let them finish each other off” with the unpredictable outcome of a hypothetical intervention, messing with the affairs of a sovereign state, and so on. I’ve never written so fast in my life—the piece on Syria took me ten minutes, tops. And what do you know, before I could take a leak, Flower was back.

FLOWER You lied to me.

TANNER So did you. Your name, if you're wondering, for starters. But hey, I like it. It suits you, somehow, better than, say, cow.

FLOWER A cow? Gee, thanks.

TANNER How now, an example. Like I said, Flower fits you. May I call you Flower? Regardless of who you really are? Thanks. Now, to the business at hand...


Tim Buckley – Wayfaring Stranger/You Got me Runnin'

Thus began my apprenticeship in Orthodox Anti-Imperialism—
the empire here being the United States. Flower and I started a fruitful collaboration. She gave me the topic, and I painted it in broad strokes of moral outrage, reviving the animal, no, the herd instincts in our dear readers. Jealousy, fear... it worked like magic. We worked like magic. And then she asked me to do something stupid.

FLOWER You need to write a review of the latest Batman.

TANNER Why? It's been done.

FLOWER Still, it's important.

TANNER The Dark Knight Rises? FLOWER The readers need to know where we stand.

TANNER With Batman? FLOWER It's important. Just do it.

TANNER And I did.

TILIKUM Chomsky Speaks Per Anum

[The Zombie Marxist Cookbook cont'd]

FLOWER  We're putting up a website. Could use a real writer like you.

TANNER  Is there money in it?

FLOWER  We are able to pay a little. Say, twenty for a published article.

TANNER  Twenty? Wow. I'm in.

FLOWER  Great. I brought you some material. Check them out, and I'll get back to you at the end of the week. If you're able to cook something up before that, even better. Hit me with an email then. My address should be in there somewhere. Anyway, it's easy: "flow" like the festival, "sho" like sure, written in Faulknerian...

TANNER  Um, ex...

FLOWER  ... or shore minus (re mi fa so la si do).

TANNER  ... scuse me, I don't...

FLOWER  But I'm babbling. At chomskyite dot fi.

TANNER  What?

FLOWER  Chomskyite. You know who Chomsky is? Don't you?

TANNER  Yes. Yes.

FLOWER  So?

TANNER  The most important intellectual of our time. Living. The most important living intellectual of...

FLOWER  I got it. Thank you.

TANNER  How... You allowed to use his name, or just...

FLOWER  We are.

TANNER  You know him? Chomsky?

FLOWER  Not personally, no.

TANNER  You write to him? He writes to you?

FLOWER  Well, let's just say we have his recognition.

TANNER  Oh wow. I'll get right into it. I'll start studying, like, yesterday.

FLOWER  Good. Well, I better not keep you occupied any longer...

TANNER  No. Haha. Occupied, hahaha. Very funny. One more thing, though, before you go.

FLOWER  Yes? What is it?

TANNER  I can't use the computer.

FLOWER  Can't...?

TANNER  Or the phone.

FLOWER  Won't.

TANNER  Whatever. I don't use ‘em.

FLOWER  May I ask why? No, let me guess...

TANNER  They have been "contaminated", I'm afraid.

FLOWER  Been watching too much porn lately?

TANNER  No! It's the, I don't know, uh...

FLOWER  Yes?

TANNER  CIA, I think.

FLOWER  You mean NSA.

TANNER  That's right. The Snowden crew. Greenwald et cetera. No, not them. The ones they're afterr.

FLOWER  I see.

TANNER  Do you?

FLOWER  I think I do. And here's what we'll to do. I'll stop by again on Friday. You give me what you got, and I give you some new stuff to look into. Does that sound okay?

TANNER  Okay.

FLOWER  And remember what you wrote yourself. About eating the whale.

TANNER  One bite at a time.

FLOWER  Exactly. Destroy your opponents, one by one.

TANNER  If you say so.

FLOWER  I do. See you on Friday!

TANNER  And so my deal with the Devil was sealed. I started leafing through the so-called stuff, the propaganda she left competing with the opiate effects of her lingering perfume. I had grave difficulties concentrating. The genocide of Native Americans... meaning Indians, I suppose. Being a cowboy myself, I'll have to pass. The imperialistic war waged by the West in East Timor... What is this East Femur they can't shut their gabs about? Almost wish I could go to Google and check it out. The short history of Russia... Heaven help me, no. The short history of the People's Republic of China... What the hell am I supposed to make of these? Chinese rhymes with cheese.

Tim Buckley – I've been Out Walking

FLOWER  What you got?

TANNER  It's a riot seeing you, too. Sit down.

FLOWER  Wow. Where'd you get this?

TANNER  I wrote it.

FLOWER  No, I mean...

TANNER  Maybe I broke into the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. In the old way.

FLOWER  It's, it's...

TANNER  Thick? I know there's a layer or two too many. I'm just a beginner when it comes to graffiti. Can you call it a graffiti if it's not on a wall?

FLOWER  It's quite funny.

TANNER  Thanks.

FLOWER  Seriously. I mean it.

TANNER  Now who would’ve thought that “Paint It Black” actually had a message?

FLOWER  Let's see now.

TANNER  How to win the hearts of beautiful young ladies. Even if it's only an envelope.

FLOWER  “The most important battle these days is taking place on two fronts simultaneously...”

TANNER Maybe that's what it is, an envelope.

FLOWER “From within the criminal enterprise we call corporate capitalism...”

TANNER The heart, that is. Joint.

FLOWER “And from without.”

TANNER Criminal enterprise. Of beautiful women.

FLOWER  “If we remember one thing...”

TANNER Young.

FLOWER  “... from the history of the Third Reich, or the fantasies of omnipotence followed to their bitter end...”

TANNER Young, beautiful women.

FLOWER “... by another little emperor, the one from the 19th century, it should be this.”

TANNER Never fuck with the elements. Or, having made up your mind about fucking with them, make sure they are not Russian elements. In that case, put a bullet in your brain. It’s faster, more effective, and nearly painless, compared to the abyss of despair you are about to plunge yourself into...

FLOWER We can’t use this.

TANNER Hell. That is hell as we know it. Why not?

FLOWER Too high-brow. Too obscure. What the hell happened? I understood you were writing about China?

TANNER I was.

FLOWER And that line about Russia, that was the last straw. Under no circumstances can we run a line like that. Are you out of your mind, or what?

TANNER It is not about Russia. It’s the elements.

FLOWER Do not tell me what it is! I am fully aware of what it is!

TANNER Touched a nerve there, did I? FLOWER This is it. We’re done.

TANNER Bye.

FLOWER Goodbye!

[Continued... HERE.]

The Zombie Marxist Cookbook

How now, grey cows! It is not an embodiment of beauty we ask you to pay attention to this time, like a dead terrorist, or a Swedish statesman, but I’m repeating myself. The reason we have gathered around this ancient and insane pastime is not a dead pornographer or a healthy rat. Why are we here, then, you might ask. Why indeed? All we’re about to see is a common man, most common, alone in his room, dreaming of future conquests. See for yourselves, and then, judge.

TANNER  There is no future in Finland's dreaming, but for me, the sky is the limit. There are so many options, I'm damn near paralyzed. Since I left those poison pills, I feel like a superman. Not a man, a stick of dynamite! Calm down, easy does it. What do you wanna do? Search your soul, sonny, for the answer to that once-so-dreaded question. What? Are you afraid? Imagine yourself in a supermarket.

A poet, a philosopher, a king? All three in one, please. Is that possible? Of course it is, all you need is an iron will.

Still, I couldn't call myself a Christian, if I didn't claim some responsibility for my fellow man.

Brothers and Sisters! This country's going to Hell on an express bus, and the Left Alliance alone is to blame for that. There's something rotten in the state all right, the state of Norway. Why Norway? I'll have to return to that. Meanwhile, the turncoats of Lost Alliance are assembling at Tampere as we speak, stuffing shrimp sandwiches and coffee down their throat, and no doubt, later on, as the informal sessions begin, who knows what else. Up their nose, up their sleeve. Degenerates, that's what they are. Never seen a day of honest work, they haven't.

You can't satirize them, they are a satire in their own right. How did the best minds of LA choose Tampere, of all places, as the location for their party conference? The last stronghold of Just Finland to fall in 1918? They are sending a message, that's how. It is happening again, the poor are sent to the camps, and we're okay with it, that's the price of joining the major league, the government. Nowadays the camps are called suburbs. It sounds more civilized, somehow.

Let me tell you, though. Watch out! There will be another war, soon, a Revolution, and this time we won't rest until we're done. Capitalism will be crushed, at long, long last!

He picks up a thick book, opens it. He is looking for a marker or a pen.

The suburbs of Paris are leading the way. Freedom or Death! We are going to win.

The only thing he finds is a bottle of ketchup. He starts writing on the wall with ketchup, glancing at the book every now and then.

Or was it the suburbs of Madrid? Anyway. Patria o muerte: Fatherland or Death. Venceremos: We Shall Overcome. One day, the day after tomorrow. You have my word on it.

He stops to look at his artwork. He has written, Patria o mujer, but doesn't seem to mind.

Patria sounds fine, Fatherland doesn't; honors are due to Elizabeth Nietzsche and the German death squads who terrorized this country in 1918. Helsinki went berserk, as the rumor spread that the storm troopers were closing in. That was their intention, I guess. Propaganda bred hysteria. They got what they wanted, and then some. Now we are taking orders from the Krauts once again. It has to stop. Stop!

He bangs on the wall he has written on.

Shut the fuck up! SHUT UP! They've been blasting that poisonous black metal for two days now. All I hear is the bass, but I'm listening to it all the time: even in my sleep. An activity I haven't practiced in a while, incidentally.

Stop it. Something rotten. Every time a politician opens his mouth, out comes excuses for inaction. And it's always us. The blame is collective, the merit theirs alone.

Their expressions will change for sure, the second my book comes out. Although not dealing with politics directly, my oeuvre will work like a bomb brought to the parliament, which I would deliver personally, right now, if it weren't the middle of the night between Saturday and Sunday, if I'm not mistaken. I might switch on the laptop. Might get drift of the time and the place. Then again, CIA would pour their propaganda all over me, falsified bits and pieces. There's that possibility—can't believe anything that comes through there. The duality of hearsay is strained indeed. “Do not leave the town.” Fuck you, Pig!

He bangs his head on the floor.

Die.

He does it again.

This is how the Russians pray. They pray for the herd of pigs inside of them, pray for them to run off a cliff. Since the safety net has been torn, there's no catcher in the rye.

He shakes his head.

Amazingly enough, it works.

 He collapses in a heap on the floor. Blackout.

Who the hell are you?

FLOWER  Flower Shore.

TANNER  What?

FLOWER  Flower Shore, that’s my name. Parents were a couple of hippies.

TANNER  And so are you. Not a couple, a single, I presume. How did you get in?

FLOWER  Through the door. It was open, in case you didn’t notice.

TANNER  It is closed now.

FLOWER  Yes.

TANNER  Thank Jesus.

FLOWER  Thank me instead. It was I who closed the door. Jesus had nothing to do with it.

TANNER  What do you want?

FLOWER  I came to the rescue.

TANNER  Pardon?

FLOWER  You've hurt yourself.

TANNER  I have? Have I?

FLOWER  There's blood everywhere.

TANNER  Oh, that. It's not blood, it's ketchup.

FLOWER  Really? You've been eating? Anyway, there's a terrible vibe in here. May I open up a window?

TANNER  You may not.

FLOWER  Suit yourself. Rot away in your fumes.

Tanner starts rolling a cigarette.

Read your stuff.

TANNER  And?

FLOWER  You're one angry man. We could use a guy you.

TANNER  Who is we?

FLOWER  The friends of East Timor. 

TANNER  The friends of what?


[TO BE CONTINUED... HERE.]

Me and the Devil Blues

Listen to the Arch Appeaser #2 

Good evening. My name is Elisabeth Rehn. I bear no family ties to Olli. How I wish people stopped asking me that. How I wish that some day we were remembered for what we were, not for our namesakes in the European Underworld. 

Breathe. Smile. Okay. 

My job, dare I say my calling, is to bring peace into your lives, into the lives of people everywhere, regardless of their race, their sexuality, the sexuality of race. The smoothness of their skin, or the the lack of thereof.

However, there are other forces at work in the world. More and more so, I'm afraid, with every passing day. There are those who think that a display of force is a solution to every problem. They worship strength, violence, brutality. They worship the Devil, whether they admit it or not. Say... ton. Get behind me! Stay! I didn't call for you. I'm just trying to educate these good people.

Tonight is a special night, a live episode of my TV talk show, The High Hat, generously sponsored by Rotenberg & Son. And we're going to dedicate tonight's episode entirely to the Old Nick and his followers. They come in many guises, you'll be surprised. So. It's time we welcomed our first guest: a long-haired boy with an unhealthy-looking gunshot wound to his head. Good evening. Who are you?

I'm Dead.

I can see that. What's your name?

Dead.

That's not very nice. What's your real name, the Christian name you were given by your parents? He won't answer. Wipe that smirk off of your face and speak! This is a talk show, you know. Why did you agree to appear, if you aren't going to say anything?

I wanted to take a peek.

A peek. At what, exactly?

This... whole... thing.

Well, now you've seen it. Be gone then, back to your Master!

Music, please. "Satan is Real" by The Louvin Brothers, if you you have it nearby. 

What a waste... that smoke, it gets to you... and mirrors, where are they? Tucked away, hidden, of course. Let's move on, shall we? Our next guest is a respectable, educated gentleman, another fellow with his head blown off. Who shot you, sir?

I did.

May I ask why?

I did it in a holy place, in Notre Dame de Paris, in front of hundreds of people... Why? To wake you up.

Me? I'm fully awake, thank you.

That's what you think.

 I do. And what is your connection to the Black Metal scene?

What? There is none.

No scene, you mean.

I wish. I want nothing to do with those people. I’m a traditionalist.

That’s nice. What does it mean?

Varg Vikernes is a traditionalist.

He is?

A tad over the top, perhaps, but basically, I respect his views. Then again, if you're going to discuss these other Norwegians, those pussies, I'm out of here. Them fuckers wouldn't recognize the Devil if he kicked them in the balls. Which they don't possess, apparently.

No foul language at my show! Go to Hell! Now, after a message from our sponsor, we'll be back with a clip from the upcoming blockbuster movie, which was produced by the video chain store, I believe. The movie is called Lords of Chaos, after the book. The names of the characters have been changed in order protect the guilty. Enjoy.

INT. RECORD STORE TAMBURLAINE - DAY.

ANEURYSM is on the phone, talking to ANVIL.

ANVIL

So. What’s up?

ANEURYSM

Same old shit. How’s your Mom?

ANVIL

The same. B and B. I was just leaving.

ANEURYSM

Where?

ANVIL

Whaddaya think?

ANEURYSM

No.

ANVIL

What?

ANEURYSM

You can’t go there.

ANVIL

I ask your permission now? Can I go home?

ANEURYSM

Cops all over the place.

ANVIL

How…?

ANEURYSM

Ghost has gone home.

ANVIL

He’s what? To Sweden?

ANEURYSM

No. He blew his brains out.

ANVIL

Oh.

ANEURYSM

With my shotgun.

ANVIL

Shit.

ANEURYSM

Man, you should have been there. There was blood everywhere, his brains all over the room.

ANVIL

You were there?

ANEURYSM

I went in, through his window. He couldn’t answer the door in that condition.

ANVIL

Yeah. Would have been hard, I imagine.

ANEURYSM

I took pictures.

ANVIL

You did? Cool. When can I see them?

ANEURYSM

Listen, we shouldn’t talk about this now. Like this, I mean. You understand?

ANVIL

Yeah. Little birds and shit.

ANEURYSM

See you at the store, when you get back.

ANVIL

All right.

ANEURYSM

V is coming to town. He was so excited, said he’d steal a car if he couldn’t borrow one, and drive down right away.

ANVIL

Awesome.

ANEURYSM

I've never heard the bastard so delighted over anything before.  Sick fuck!

They laugh for a second.

ANEURYSM [contin’d]

This is big, you know. We can use this. But first, let’s celebrate.

ANVIL

I hear you.

ANEURYSM

Toast the ghost who’s a ghost for real now.

ANVIL

Okay. See you in a bit.

ANEURYSM

See you.

ANVIL  Bye. 

ANEURYSM and ANVIL hang up. ANVIL disappears in a puff of smoke. Enter GHOST, carrying a shotgun. He’s wearing jogging pants, a denim jacket over a white T-shirt with the text NY on it. ANEURYSM starts painting his face white. 

GHOST  Did you hear that? He couldn’t say, “Bye,” because that would have been a symptom of weakness from him. He had his image to worry about, even now, Aneurysm did. Dude’s the guitar player in Hemorrhoid, the band where I sing, used to sing. His day job is posing as the self-appointed second-hand Führer of our little tribe. Cum metal, he calls it. Don’t ask why. He’ll tell you more than you’d care to know anyway. He’ll put on his corpse paint and tell everything. That I died for clothes, for a fad, for instance.

Done with the white paint, ANEURYSM puts the finishing touches on his mask with strokes of black around the eyes. This is his “corpse paint.” Exit GHOST, disgusted. Music: Paul Westerberg, “World Class Fad.”Enter V.D. and GUTTER, dressed as Moses and Darth Vader, respectively.

ANEURYSM  What the fuck? Who the hell?

GUTTER  How now...

V.D.  Brown cow, or Aneurysm, as I've heard you prefer to be addressed as. A real badass you are, or so everybody keeps telling me. And I let them, though I don't know why.

ANEURYSM  V.D., you sick duck! You were fast. What's with the outfit?

V.D.  Gutter here drove. May I present: Skywalker, Anakin—Aneurysm. He plays guitar. That goes for both of you. Handy.

ANEURYSM  And who are you, my friend? Moses?

V.D.  Fuck you.

GUTTER  I told him it wouldn't fly. He's trying to be Sauron from The Lord, but there weren't any evil wizards available.

ANEURYSM  Isn't Moses the most evil of them all?

V.D.  He most certainly is. Man, it's nice to see  you.

ANEURYSM  Nice to see you. Oh, now I get it! You're in for the Conference.

V.D.  We were on our way when you called. Should have seen your face, "You were fast!"

ANEURYSM  Oh, cut it out. Role playing, dead or alive, is for punks and little girls. You should have picked up a princess costume.

V.D. hits ANEURYSM in the face.

ANEURYSM falls on his behind.

V.D.  How’s that for a little girl? Got knocked out by a little girl!

ANEURYSM  Knocked…

GUTTER  Easy.

ANEURYSM  … out?

V.D.  Yes, knocked out! Goddamn queen, that's what you are. Look at you, painted like a whore. I should fuck you like a whore, that’s what I ought to do. Aneurysm? More like Brain Damage, if you ask me.  

Enter ANVIL.

ANVIL  What’s going on?

V.D.  And just for your information, I don’t larp any more. I’m bringing it into real life, into the streets!

ANVIL  What?

V.D.  I’m so outa here. [To Gutter]  You coming?

Exit V.D. and GUTTER.

ANVIL  What was that?

 ANEURYSM  [Getting up.]  Nothing. Artistic disagreements. Let me show you the photos.

ANVIL  Okay.

ANEURYSM  Mark my words. That Jew is so dead.

ANVIL  Jew? Who?

ANEURYSM  Moses.

↹

Well, I don't know about you, but that didn't look too diabolical to me. More like little boys playing with dolls. The boy with his forehead leaking. What do you want? Learned to speak yet? Brought me a piece of paper. Is this your way of communicating now? Is it a poem?

No movie studio except Sony could use Jeff's music; if another one did, it couldn't use more than two of his songs. More important - and equally standard both for Sony and the music business in general - Jeff had to pay for nearly everything: his producer, half of the independent radio promotion, and half of the cover art (another victory on Stein's part, since most acts had to pay for all promotion and art). All of these costs - as well as his $100,000 advance and any money Sony would spend on making videos and tour expenses, such as paying for a band, equipment and buses - would be added to a fund called recoupable. Only after his record sales matched the recoupable amount would Jeff begin making royalties of his own work.

It says that was from a book called Dream Brother: The Lives and Music of Jeff and Tim Buckley, written by a David Browne. Never heard of any of them. Did they play the Devil's Music? Jazz, I mean. I like jazz. When we were in New York for the General Assembly, we went to a club to see Woody Allen himself play the fiddle. I don't think that was from the Devil. That is just nonsense.

I'm getting rather desperate here. How hard is it to find someone who worships the Devil, let alone believes in him?

I do.

The refined gentlemen has reappeared! Have you washed your mouth with soap?

I'll behave.

Good. Your wound has healed nicely. A bush of professor-like silver hair has grown on top of it. I'm glad. Please have a seat.

I can't.

Why not?

The Devil Travels.

He does, doesn't he?

It's an agency.

Like NSA?

No. "Will travel, destroy the world." That kind of an agency.

You mean, you mean... a travel agency?

Yes, indeed.

Oh, goodness. I never thought about that.

You should have. Let's watch another clip. 

If you need a soundtrack for your Satanist hobbies, I suggest you forget those Norwegian pussies. Try this instead: http://open.spotify.com/album/1TjncssmpzxUYTZic79o7T