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Germy was still in the clutches of the Mad Arab Abdul Ab Hazarad, who kept him as his sex toy boy. Germy had tried to escape numerous times, but his Mr Squiggle physique kept him from snapping the cotton he was bound with during the day. One day the Abster (as Germy liked to call him) came in holding a note.
“Dogboy! Look at this! We have been invited as special guests to a Dionysian celebration of the Festival of Frotteurers. Guess who are headlining... The Jizzbuckets!”
Germy had never heard of The Jizzbuckets but made out as if he had by inclining his head to the side and bobbing it up and down furiously in Morse code. He couldn’t speak. The Abster had tied down his tongue some months ago as Germy’s conversation had nearly driven him to the point of wearing a fur stole and shaking a pair of maracas at passing gerbil colonies. He had also altered Germy’s anatomy somewhat with some strategically placed rubber bands... not that it was noticeable to the human eye.
They boarded an astropod bound for Mercury, where The Jizzbuckets were playing that night. Abdul was very excited and pumped Germy mercilessly throughout the flight. As they exited the pod - Abdul clad in a leather Sheikya booty jumpsuit, Germy, naked bar rubber bands and dog collar - they were met by Taxy, who explained to them that they were special guests of The Jizzbuckets. Germy thought he was cool. J’s plan had worked. Tomorrow he could assassinate the most hated and despised prat in the world.
**********
Scrap of paper found on The Jizzbuckets tour pod:
Lookin’ for a geek
Think I’ve found my freak
What a nose
Looks like a beak
I always hated Sam Toucan
Even as a child
I dreamed of deconstruction and death
Anti-thesis
That’s just one of many ways
To chaos, chaos, chaos
But I always played Max in Control
Sometimes found Hymie attractive
And 99 was sure spun grooved out dancin’ chick
But I get off... track here now
Back to what to do with dick
Think I’ll cut it off
If I can coax it out of hidey-hole
Shove it down the throat
Of the one I love to hate
The rest of the almost illegible scrawl was unreadable for the thick palette of vomit that coated it. One word was left unstained though: “spermatogenesis.”
Back in the dressing room, J was feeling restless. He was going on stage shortly and he could sense that Germy was somewhere in the vicinity and it was making him edgy. He could feel the malevolent vibes all around him and he knew that at some point in the very near future there would be a showdown of some major proportions going on. The excitement tingled through him as he dwelled on the prospect of destroying Germy beyond recognition. If only...
Abdul had arrived at the gig with Germy in tow.
“I really broke this motherfucker,” informed Abdul to a vaguely interested female punter. “I even put Kiss make-up on him a couple of times. I tried Gene first, but I soon found he looked better as Ace.”
Remembering this, Germy started crying.
“I have named him Dogboy! He is my fuck dick toy! Say, do you want to find a booth and do him with me before the show starts?”
No one on that fateful night would ever forget the performance of The Jizzbuckets. Taxy was never in finer form, mobbed by five-year-old groupies with worried mothers in tow. Momma smashed his fist against his bass in outraged fury against the ever-growing urban sprawl that threatened his hometown of Pitcairn with a steady influx of syphilitic catamites all named Nancy. Keef, in classic drugged out rock god mode, naked and grinning, desperately tried to chat up an invisible harpie called Hemalica, who sang to him in shrill tones of depression and insanity. Plato cried incessantly as he tried to masturbate in time to the music - a thrill to the audience. And J? He was dancing around like a freakin’ spastic on LSD, violently throwing his body around. Halfway through the song J walked up, pissed on Keef’s leg and walked off-stage to his dressing room.
“Where are my fucking drugs? I want drugs now!” shouted J at a pimple-clad roadie who swiftly scuttled off. Unnecessarily feeling the need to live up to the stereotype of a wild out of control punk disco legend, J grabbed a fire extinguisher and spayed retardant on the retard Plato. After emptying the extinguisher of its contents, he then tossed it at a mirror, smashing it to pieces. The roadie returned carrying some unidentifiable drug.
“What the fuck is that?” asked the perplexed J.
“Um, I’m not sure, I think it might be raw sugar,” shrugged the Roadie.
Unconcerned, J cooked it up, mixing it with Gatorade. Without a needle with which to inject, J took piece of the shattered mirror and pierced a hole in a vein on his right forearm, proceeded to pour the mixture in to the gaping wound and immediately passed out.
J woke several minutes later to find that the eager roadie had bandaged up his arm and Keef was pissing on him.
“Fuck Keef! Why are you fucking doing that?”
“You pissed on me. I piss on you. Balance in the universe is restored,” mused Keef enigmatically.
“Ahh fuck. I have to see my fans stinking of Keef piss. Fuck!”
But what of Germy? Fate had briefly blessed him with a modicum of ingenuity at this point in time to his fortune. Abdul Ab Hazarad and the female punter were lying on the floor in leather g-strings, both tied up with those bondage masks on. Germy had escaped.
Later, J sat on a rickety old cedar chair behind a table, with his “fans” coming up to meet him. In actual few or any of these people were “fans” of J or The Jizzbuckets. They were just taking advantage of the Punch a Deadbeat event, which was always considered a highlight of the festival amongst the punters. The first few people walked up and punched J in the face, which for J was better than the usual reception he encountered.
J’s mind wandered as he watched the ceiling panels drift over him as he pushed himself back in the wheeled chair he was sitting on. He looked into his top pocket and observed his pack of Marlboros. He reached into his pocket and pulled one out, snapping the filter off deliberately. He placed it in his mouth and lit it. Then, taking it out and putting the lit end into his mouth, he put a flame to the other end. He then snapped the cigarette in half, handing one half to a stoned groupie who lay beside his chair.
“Thank you dear Germy,” she murmured softly in what J took to be an amorous tone, “sorry... J.”
J saw Red, and Red said, “Kill.”
So J asked Red, “Who?”
Red said: “The bitch.”
J reached down and quickly stubbed his cigarette out into her open starry eye. She was slow to react, being strung out on heroin. J took advantage of this to give her a bit of the old in-out, while she lay on the ground fully naked and pleading.
“Don’t baby, no I didn’t mean it baby. They made me do it.”
“Who?” grunted J caught in full thrust.
“Them,” was the only reply J caught as he was overcome by ultra violence and ran a switchblade over her throat. Her life’s blood drained into a bowl that J brought over and he skulled it down to the tune of her death rattles as she gasped her last breath.
“Damn, she didn’t tell me who they were. But I can’t stand any woman who finds Germy attractive... I think I’ll just fuck her corpse.”
This felt good for J, but somewhat upset the line of people waiting to punch him. He found out later on (in another decade) that her name was Michelle and she had only submitted to the sexual demands of Germy under the influence of many, many litres of Blue Moscow. This made J feel a bit better about the whole thing.
Realising that this was not the wisest place to fuck, then kill and then re-fuck a groupie, J quickly zipped up, exited and took a walk around the hotel. Sunset was appearing and whipping up a lovely merge of tangerine and mauve on the oxygen shields in the ether. The place was surrounded by greenery and classic marble statues that accommodated generations of stylish mould. A nearby pond gave home to disabled ducks. He fed artificial bread to the ducks with their hissing artificial legs. A news satellite dropped from a thread in the sky like a deliberating spider. It was in the form of a ball of deep red sap.
It projected into his mind: “From Christine Chubbuck: Germy Urine escapes from insane Arab and simultaneously promoted to high level position in galactic public service.”
Cunt!
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
  
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