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“Hey, man,” I said as I sort of jogged after a
rapidly walking J, who was on his way to the gig. Shaky video footage
at this point. Crackling microphone. The wind caught under his dirty
black trench coat, flapping it about. I needed something for the extra
features on the live DVD. I called out after him and he ignored me. A
few cars were gathered outside the dark Victorian features of the
Flying Horse. They were mainly battered Volkswagens parked
higgledy-piggledy in the otherwise deserted street. Rusty barbed wire
ran down the footpaths and around the turrets of the venue. I think
there was a sniper on the roof. A red laser dot ran down J’s back,
along the footpath and up to my forehead. Luckily it flicked away
apathetically. There were a couple of fans loitering around the doors
of the venue. Mainly gutter punk types in filthy camos and drooping
sugar-watered Mohawks clutching bottles of liquor in brown paper bags.
I think I saw Spac Disgusting, on the nod, in a cardboard box. I
wondered later if any of these people would survive the post-gig riot.
Or the gig. I couldn’t sense the presence of the pigs, who were
gathering in numbers in a nearby derelict building, de-briefing and
slapping their palms with billy clubs.
Finally, after almost tripping over the mic lead, I caught up with J
and tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned around to look at me, I
realised why the fans had not yet recognised him. Instead of a face he
had what looked like layers of snowflake patterns in pink, orange and
green psychedelics rotating slowly in white ectoplasm. The ectoplasm
appeared to bond with the top of his neck. Yellow veins weaved their
way through the intricate patterns and throbbed in parts. A dark ribbed
rictus sat in the middle of these patterns. A wet black eye squeezed
through the rictus. “What?” he asked. “Uh, nice look,” I said and
added, “any words for the media?” Four sections of flesh crept around
the patterns with bleeding seams, engulfing them. His face
re-integrated. “Everything is an absolute,” he said and smiled
enigmatically. He walked towards the Flying Horse and was gracious
enough to tattoo his autograph on the faces of the gutterpunks. I felt
it appropriate to turn to the camera and shrug.
- Cath Eter, Posit Magazine
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