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Suddenly realising what his initial mission had been, J potted his old man with his Luger that was concealed in his GPs. A huge explosion of flame arose from the black depths of the moor the taxi had careered into. J finally felt free, did a U-turn and drove back to Sodomighties. On the sidewalk, passed out and bleeding was some skinny guy flat on his face.
“Who’s that git?” he thought to himself as he concentrated on the road.
He returned to the bar (to the consternation of several patrons) and openly apologised for his rash behaviour. The bouncer, who had miraculously survived, approached J, ready to kill him. J simply cracked a couple of charming jokes and gave him a slap and soon they were laughing and hugging. J asked politely if it would be okay if the police were not involved in the incident. After a couple more jokes and a friendly smile, management finally agreed and they all joined in for a karaoke funk version of ‘I Just Called to Say I Love You.’
Afterwards J sat at the bar as various patrons shouted him drinks. He surveyed the surroundings. The walls were covered in leather, as well as the long, sleek bar. The tables had leather tablecloths and patrons were generally garbed in black with studs, belts, masks, zippers, leashes, boots and harnesses. J questioned one of the bar staff as to where he might score some Mono, who motioned J towards the black cubicles at the back of the venue.
J went round to one of the black cubicles to meet up for a deal. Two weeks later, J came out of the cubicle with a really sore arse and a small plastic bag which held three tabs of Mono13. Small as a thumbnail but it can bend the world, he thought to himself. J slipped one the trips and decided that it was time for a shave. Two weeks in a blur in the cubicle had turned the once dapper J into a dishevelled man. He stopped off at an all night convenience store and bought what he thought to be razors. However, living in complete darkness for two months had rather badly affected his eyes.
He returned to the hotel where The Jizzbuckets were staying on Mercury and went to his room to find it in exactly the same fashion (art nouveau) and then tried to shave with his toothbrush. After unsuccessfully trying for several minutes to shave, he headed to the hotel lobby as his body began to hallucinate from the tab of Mono13.
J’s abdomen became a dough-like substance and dripped to the floor of its own volition. His eyes started moving in unnatural directions and were pushed out of his head, on the ends of two stalks like a crab. His buttocks vibrated in such a fashion that he could hardly speak to himself without stuttering.
“This Mono shit is real wild,” he thought to himself.
“Argagagagaggagh erererererrernopppp.”
His tongue had become like an animal of its own and searched the room for a drink, stretching metres and metres at a time. The tongue squealed a little. He had to get out of the hotel before anyone discovered his hideous silliness. He was seeing visions of pink, green and yellow swirls, like out of some bad sixties artwork. Naked cartoon women swayed against the green reality of the trees in the distance. He ran into a liquor store and started downing litres of beer in the hope that it would bring him down somewhat.
The shopkeeper, seeing this deformed, pulsating creature sticking two bottles of beer down his throat said: “Did you know that Julius Caesar was an epileptic?”
“HA HAH HAHA HA AH AHA,” yelped J with extreme lunacy.
“Nasal baker tray in faker tramp! Ha ha ha!”
He could feel his armpits throbbing and the dank bush of hairs dancing around singing ‘Shuddup You Face.’
He ran out of the shop leaving a slimy trail of sweat behind him. He ran straight into a boy who was casually walking down the street and bowled him over. The pimpled face of the boy looked up at J, who continued to trip out.
“You’re the singer from The Jizzbuckets right? Aren’t you? Yeah! You’re that guy who farts in the microphone. You’re my hero! Wow... this is just... man... too cool. Can I have your autograph?”
“No!” J replied strongly, “but you can tie my shoelaces. They’re actually fallopian tubes. I found them in a bin.”
“Wow. I’ve never tied the shoe laces of a punk disco legend before,” said the boy as he nervously bent down, his face opposite J’s oversized lunchbox. He was quite excited by what he was about to do. As he went down, J without warning kneed him square in the face. Blood pissed out of the wound. The boy lay on the ground screaming. J laughed hysterically and booted him in the head, forcing the head to detach from the neck. J picked it up. Several inches of the spinal cord protruded, dangling down, dancing almost provocatively. He turned the head to face him. A lurid smile gleamed over J’s face. He spat in the face and, with a flamboyant drop kick, sent the head hurtling down the road. J continued to smile and laugh.
With the blood and the force of the kick, the boy’s ear stuck to J’s left boot. After spending a few seconds trying to pull it off, J decided that this could be quite a unique fashion statement. A few minutes later, the ear (affected by the Mono13) crawled up the boot and onto J’s leg, attaching itself like a mutant leech. J could now hear through his left shin.
He staggered back to the hotel where he found the rest of The Jizzbuckets drinking in the hotel bar. They had wondered where the hell he had been and were mildly surprised at his appearance.
“Oh he’s on Mono,” said Keef casually, several children suckling at his neck.
“I think everything is really foot,” said Plato.
Taxy let out a gigantic scream because he was silly and Jimmy and Plato were having competitions dribbling into pint glasses.
“We got a gig tonight J. Nice look by the way.” said Keef.
J foamed.
“Nah fark off!” he barked, “how could we get a gig, ya stupid idiot? We’re banned from just about every joint in town. And we don’t fucking have an agent, do we ya brainless niggershnitzel?” he snarled as he read the Posit street press.
“No, look you fuckheads. It’s a cover band of us, The Jizzfuckers! Fuck man! A Jizzbuckets cover band! We’re going to have to see this!”
Keef just sat there laughing to himself, shocked by the fact that a tribute band could be dedicated to them. Soon they headed of to the smallest, dirtiest, pissiest freak bar in town to see The Jizzfuckers.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
  
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