“You look familiar. Are you in a rock band at all?” enquired a vivacious nineteen-year-old girl who had accosted J at the Mercury T-Bar.
“Well, um, er,” stuttered J, “I was in The Jizzbuckets, the greatest punk disco band that ever existed.”
“Oh wow! My slightly disturbed boyfriend Andre is into them. He’ll be thrilled to meet you. Just wait here. I’ll get him.”
She ran off, very excited, to get her boyfriend. J sat there drinking a Wet Wilder, a bland form of alcohol, available only on Mercury.
The girl returned with her muscle bound drug-fucked boyfriend in tow.
“This is Andre!” yelled the girl with joy.
J turned around.
“Oh my god,” said Andre as if he had seen a ghost. “Man you’re my goddamn hero. But I heard you committed suicide after Momma died.”
“Momma... is dead?” asked J.
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“Well the story I heard had something to do with him being suffocated under a roomful of Texan cheerleaders during an orgy.”
“Well I heard,” said the girl, “that he was playing around with liquid nitrogen, froze his buttocks off and constipated to death.”
“Well I heard,” said the bartender, “that he was snogging a dead granny in her coffin and was buried alive.”
“By the way,” said Andre to the bartender, “I think that last notify of yours was a bit rough.”
“Sorry mate,” said the bartender.
“I heard,” said a nearby derro eating caviar, “that he caught syphilis off a rabid goat, went mad and died trying to eat his own face.”
“I heard,” said a man with a pink curly wig and a grey suit lying prostrate on the floor, “that he stuck a broken pencil in each nostril during a driving test and head-butted a table.”
“I heard,” said a naked woman painted half green and hanging from a light fixture by one hand, “that he dismembered himself with a pocket knife and packed himself neatly into a suitcase.”
“I heard,” said a member of the Swedish Table Choir as he poured melted cheese over his head, “that he ate a horse and found God.”
“I heard,” said a foetus smoking a pipe and sitting in a bucket full of pubic hair, “that he dealt the big scene with a drippy toe tendency towards rancid ache and got morbidly smashed.”
If there was anything more spinning, it was the deep mating tribe on several perfect navels. Take it all for waste on a dry tangy wattage for all to seep into the gutter press making single gun theoretical ner. Gimme some Rod Stewart tapes and some baby laxative. Shuffle. They like whore. Basic training manuals make the parter on Mickey Mouse (in Kingdom Hearts mode) furniture sales forever.
J was there to see a little light and before the jaded description of days of pointing brain cells full of dirty perverts and making baaaaa hello.
“I am... I am... I am... void,” said he, purple, bleeding and seethe with nothingness of holding hands and think. On top of terrible complexities with which a Pitcairn ride for taste the sense, drawing with chalk on the ground used to be such an interesting hobby.
“I am going insane,” thought J to himself and added, “again!”
J retreated into himself and found some Ketamine in his cow.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
  
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