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J awoke to find himself in the country music capital of the world - Tamworth Australia. Standing over him was a good ol’ limb who looked strangely familiar. J realised with a start that it was Poore Leg, living legend of country music and star of many a hoedown. Leg offered J his callused, weatherworn foot and helped J to his feet from the red dust. Leg led J into the nearest bar, where the Slim Dusty All Stardusty band was backing up all the greatest country music sensations.
Dolly and Kenya were together again, Johnny was jamming out with the Ghostwriters in the Sky, Slim was comparing moustaches and yodelling techniques with the Carter sisters and Garth was re-enacting the rape scene from ‘The Accused’ with Jodie. And Silly Gay? Well, Silly Gay Virus was being held down over a table after having numerous bottles smashed over his head and was playing the passive to a large group of hog smellin’, pot bellied, wife beatin’, child hatin’, motherfuckin’ sons of bitches. The inbred banjo pluckin’ boy was there as well, playing the Campdown Races in time with Silly’s moans as he was sodomised.
J gave Silly a soft kiss on the forehead and wondered what the hell he was doing in Tamworth (particularly since Nashville is the country and western capital of the world). J shot the rapists all through the head (crimson spurts all round) to have Silly all to himself. Silly looked up at J with the scared eyes of a child and said to him: “Thank you, thank you for saving me... Dr Kildare?”
“Wrong,” said J as he ran his fingers through his now soft black hair.
He changed into a set of clothes taken from one of the dead rapists. He was now replete in a white tasselled shirt, leather chaps, snakeskin boots, spurs, a Fred Nile belt buckle and a red fireman’s hat. He was now an honorary boot scooter and fire warden. Around him spun several blue orbs in mid air. They revolved with infinite speed. Above him the ceiling had become a writhing orgy of green and brown snakes and at his feet the carpet had become a teeming chaos of black insects. Silly was moaning in deep pleasure. J felt his knob pushing with ferocity against his fly.
A girly pout brought on by mosh trauma and treble erotica softened his face. To him, suckling at his mother’s breast was like bonding with a genetic imprint. But by then, his skin was craving his mother’s caress.
Silly’s manhood involved some of the best fellatio ever performed. Outside, the retiring sun cast a beautiful red glow across the cooling outback and a razor blade that had been concealed on the roof of J’s mouth was pulled out. Lazy slide guitar and the hideous apparition of an army of midget ghosts riding dog skeletons filled his peripheral senses. Bursting veins from the formerly aroused meat propelled blood into the smoky atmosphere. The taste of red and white blood cells in J’s mouth turned the simple mathematic nature of his paroxysm into supple algebra. Behind the blinking facade of one of the pinball machines, the warm circuitry of its guts had been arranged and constructed in such a fashion that it spelt out, in a series of complex signals based on the body’s response to varying temperatures in the components, how to deconstruct reality. J burrowed into himself to touch the essence of his dark ecstasy, spitting Silly’s testicles across the room. He then held Silly’s eyes open and pushed the blade into his retina. It was all down to tin tacks. Lurk before you leap.
J stood over the limp body of Silly Gay Virus, covered in crimson. Numerous bodies lay near by. Blood was smattered across the floor in congealed patches.
After slipping into the nearest outdoor toilets for a shower, J went and booked himself into a Tamworth motel where he noticed an ad for a local sleaze-pit dive bar. Tabletop dancers danced with corpse-like cyborgs to the amusement of the punters. J noted the postscript: “ANY BANDS WANTED.” An idea entered his head. He would make a few phone calls and bring about the reformation of his band, The Jizzbuckets, to play a gig at this dive: the Flying Bushpig. J immediately grabbed Silly Gay’s guitar (which he had stolen) and began practicing furiously. Old favourites such as ‘I Gave Birth to a Demon Through My Anus,’ ‘Lick My Mother’s Sister’s Illegitimate Daughter’s Husband’s Crotch,’ and ‘Erstwhile Nelly’s Panties’ began wending their way from the guitar. Dissatisfied with his performance, J stripped off all his clothes and threw the television out the window, smashed all the furniture and defecated in the middle of the room, smearing it all over himself and the walls.
Now, in full rock god mode he skulled a bottle of Beam, smoked six joints in a row and snorted three lines of Ajax just for a buzz. He then sat down at the telephone and dialled his old bass player, Momma.
“Ershneed glarrgh beddum phoorayah mustophine heed,” said Momma when he answered the phone. He was obviously drunk.
J explained that he was going to reform the band and wanted to start jamming. Next, he called up his old guitarist Keef, who was a recovering junky and paedophile, Plato and Jimmy (who were fairly competent on keyboards/samples except that they tended to cause damage with their dribbling), and recruited the good old Taxation Accountant on drums. They decided to meet in New York for rehearsals and then head off to the nearest freak bar for a gig, substantial debauchery and vomit.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
  
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