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beer. Instead of a beer, Stag finds a dead jogger.
"Whoa . . . Fuck yeah!" he exclaims to the dead person, but the dead person isn t listening.
Gin gets out of the autocar in response to the whoa . . . fuck yeah, asking, "What is it?"
"A dead guy."
"Did you kill him?"
"Maybe." Stag daze-smiles, kind of proud. "What should we do with it?"
Gin s gut kinks up. "There s gotta be all sorts of Mr. T stuff we can do with a dead guy."
They pause to think about all sorts of stuff.
"We can give it to my uncle," Gin says. "He s a taxidermist. We can get him stuffed and
mounted on the front of our stage at the warehouse."
Another pause.
"What I think is . . . we should strap it to the roof of my car and drive around town so we can pick
up goth chicks."
"Yeah," Gin says. "Dead bodies turn them on."
***
The warehouse is asleep now. It was very tired and told all of our guests to leave immediately.
Normally, a crowd of tough guy skinheads would not give in to the threats of a warehouse, but our
particular warehouse can be rather intimidating when it s cranky.
Now I am alone in my own room, watching a Grim Reaper poster jingle-dancing up the walls,
striking cello strings like a drum. Grim Reaper and other butt rock bands are very popular these
days. Back when they were touring you d get beaten for listening to them. But now they are
funny and everyone loves them.
In other words: BUTT ROCK = PUNK.
My room is nothing more than a janitor s closet that can only hold my body and a mattress. A
whole bed couldn t fit inside, so I just put the mattress on the ground. I can t sleep on an entire
bed anyway. If I sleep too far away from the ground, I get sucked out of my body and hover in
the air above it. And believe me, it s pretty hard to fall asleep when you re floating outside of
your body.
Richard Stein said that sleep is the best part of your life. Many people take sleep for granted and
don t think to appreciate its beauty, but Richard Stein said his sleep was quite beautiful. If you
do not find satisfaction in something as simple as sleep, you might never find satisfaction in
something as BIG as life. Being without satisfaction makes you bitter, so it is best to obtain it
wherever you can.
Also: a man who enjoys sleep never puts a gun to his head, he just sleeps his problems away.
This is because death and sleep are very similar states, due to their tranquil conflict-less
characteristics. So the suicidal man can trick his brain into thinking he is dead, when he is
actually just asleep. However, it can be a very dangerous thing to trick your brain into thinking
sleep and death are so related, because if a person is very tired and can t fall asleep at night, he
might pick up a gun and shoot his skull across the room. And I m sure he d feel pretty stupid the
next morning, when he finds out that he traded his brain to the wall for a good night of sleep.
At this time, Christian is entering my room. He doesn t emerge fully, because of his
claustrophobia, standing by the doorway instead. I can see Vodka far behind him, on the toilet in
a stare, caressing his bagpipes and the porcelain.
"Do you want to go to Satan Burger now?" he asks.
I look up at Grim Reaper joy-tumbling, Christian splashing. Pieces of fish meat falling from the
ceiling. "Yeah. How we gonna get there?"
"I didn t think that far." Then Christian yells to Mort, who is putting all of the equipment away and
getting no help from anybody, as usual, "Mortician, did you get your bus fixed yet?"
"No," Mort says within working, "I probably won t be able to until next week or next month."
Mort s bus hasn t been working all year. He gets it fixed every month, but it only works for a
couple of days before it needs fixing again. It is always polluting the back of the warehouse. If it
was a normal autocar I wouldn t care, but this is a bus. Not a VW Bus, I mean a full-sized school
bus, laced with graffiti and bullet holes.
I point to Vodka, whispering, "What about him?"
Christian turns to Vodka. "Vod, got a car?"
Vod is in a trance.
"Vodka!"
He snaps hard out and twitches at Christian.
"Do you have a car?"
Vod glimmers down to his bagpipes. "I do." Then up to Christian again. "It is only the most
luscious and vigorous piece of machinery UPON THIS INSIGNIFICANT PLANET."
"Well, can you drive us to Satan Burger?"
Silence.
Vodka continues a trance at Christian until his face turns dirty, the toilet seat sweats round pools
into his buttocks.
He coldly answers, "Certainly."
Christian claps his hands together. "Great. Let s go then," heading toward his next bottle of
liquor, and his polyester jacket.
"NOT YET," Vodka howls at him. "There are rules in my car that must not be taken lightly. If you
break any one of them you ll be THROWN OUT INTO THE STREET AND BANNED FROM MY
CAR FOREVER."
***
Vodka s autocar turns out to be an AMC Gremlin, not the usual style of car to be remarked as
luscious or vigorous, but some people seem to like them. It is sparkling black with silver lightning
bolts on the doors and large metal wings attached to the back end. Vodka approaches the front
and cuddles to it, warming the cold metal.
"It is more powerful than life itself, isn t it?" he says.
A smile cracks Christian s lips, not concerning Vodka though. He has remembered the most
essential thing to remember upon entering a vehicle.
He yells, "SHOTGUN," and we all grunt.
Mort argues, "Paper-rock-scissors, ye bastard."
Christian argues, "I already called it."
Vodka barges in, "NONE OF YOU SIT IN FRONT. I get both front seats in my car."
"We can t all fit in the back seat," Mort whines.
"How dreadful," Vod responds.
***
We pile into the Gremlin, with my corpse squished in the bitch seat. Vod starts up the car and
takes a few essence-breaths into his lungs, humming with the engine purrs.
Vodka is one of those people who loves everything that is bizarre and disturbing and dreary and
dead. Richard Stein called these people Black People, because they always wear black clothes
and sometimes listen to black metal. He said that these people become black from hating
everything.
They only like things that nobody else likes, and that is because they hate everyone else. Once
their favorite underground band becomes popular, they won t like it anymore. Not because it isn [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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