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J entered through the marble columns, stopping to admire the statues on either side. One was Wisdom - represented by a tall, graceful, naked nymph with spectacles on and a copy of a Jian Yi spoken word album on her walkman. The other was Folly, a representation of the last moments of a female hitchhiker on Highway Sixty-One. Like Venus de Milo, she was armless, decapitated and had several lead pipes embedded in her privy parts. The look of pain and horror on her head lying at her feet was superbly crafted.
J cried out: “Sublime artistry! Who is responsible for this beauty? This is the ultimate representation of the wickedness and sinfulness that resides in men’s hearts. I am that man.”
A man with very long mustachios and a rigid arse came up to J and said in a loud and obnoxious French accent: “Do you like my sculpture?”
“I adore your work.”
“I like your appreciation of my sculptures. You know, lately there has been a swing in art, so now fucking Cyborg art is the rage amongst the pretentious metallic boot wearing, Hernandez-Prize reading, arse pumping, bathtub amphetamine abusing, cocksucking cocksuckers from Pitcairn. You know the type. Walks around in their clanking fucking boots screaming ‘I’m an Artist! I’m an Artist!’ and then proceeds to shit in your garden and claims they’ve just produced the first environmentally sensitive art, all the while spewing out their crap theories of relativity, relative to their filthy rich father’s penis all those years ago in that glorious floating hotel on Minious. Please dad, don’t stop. You’re hurting me. Well fuck them I say!”
“Yeah... right,” said J, wondering what the fuck the man was on about.
The artist sensed he was losing J and decided on a much simpler tack: “Would you like a drink?”
“Fuckin’ oath mate!”
“First you need some new clothes.”
He wrinkled his nose in distaste at J’s threadbare, vomit-stained corduroys and his flannelette shirt. “Here is some money. Go buy yourself clothes.”
The man was obviously mad but he was a good artist. J pretended to go out the door but doubled back, knifed a poofy pretentious type with his stiletto and took his clothes. He even took his beret.
When J met up with his benefactor again, his appearance was now in accordance with his surroundings. Harmonious. Pretentious wankers abounded. The club smelled of fresh Cuban cigars, pâté, and beef jerky. Everyone was drinking martinis. Clichés abounded. His benefactor introduced himself as Pierre Groupe’ Press’ure. He explained his theorem upon art for hours and though J often felt like killing him, he was oddly captivated by the man’s conversation. Eventually J asked him if he could score some Mono13. Pierre replied that it was all too easy for him to score Mono and in fact he had access to Mono17, which was very rare. He told J to stay still while he went looking.
J sat at his table in the corner and skulled martini after martini and got very pissed. He defecated on his chair and urinated on the waiter while he wasn’t looking. It was all very cool.
Just then, as J sat contemplating the inner sanctum of his mouth, an announcer came on the small stage at the front of the club and screamed into the mic: “Feedback!”
Everyone laughed and sniggered.
J did not get it. The announcer then introduced the band about to play:
“ALL THE WAY FROM NORTH KALORAMA, LADIEZ AND GERMS, THESE GENTS HAVE BEEN WORKING UP A HOT SHOE SHUFFLE EVER SINCE THEIR FIRST GIG IN THE RENOWNED SELBY FOLK CLUB. HERE THEY ARE NOW, JUST FOR YOU. THE MELVIN REES JAZZ ENSEMBLE!”
The crowd went wild. The band came on and took their positions. The lights flew on and they launched into their reworking of the classic ‘Oh Carroll.’ They were good. J looked closely at the double bass player; he looked a lot like someone J knew once, but he couldn’t figure out who it was. The band went into a loose jazz improvisation ‘Oral Sex at Gunpoint.’ Other tracks included ‘Susie Baby,’ ‘Murder in Four Parts,’ ‘Benzedrine Doesn’t Do Much for Your Morals,’ ‘I Hate Denial,’ ‘What’s Wrong With Murder?’ and lastly, the old Negro spiritual ‘That Ol’ Chair Ain’t No Good for Your Health.’
J was very impressed. They were fantastic musos. They got the crowd a buggin’ and a jivin’. They returned to do an encore.
J leapt onto the stage, grabbed the mic and screamed: “Okay, motherfuckers! Are you fucking ready?!”
The crowd screamed in unison: “Yes!”
“For what?”
Total silence.
Morons.
J turned and hugged the double bass player. People looked on in wonder as tears filled the eyes of the bass player. It was Momma.
“I thought you were... dead!”
“I was dude and what a kicking it was. I’ve changed now since I found religion. I now follow The Church of the Pleasantly Tasting Good.”
“What brought that on?” asked J, overwhelmed by the fact he was seeing one person he never thought he would see again.
“I dunno. Got drunk one day and woke up four months later and found out that I was a priest in this church. I was like, faaaaarken hell! You know, it’s not such a bad thing, my church. You should join.”
“Nah Momma, I don’t think the clergy would take too well to my little necrophilia habit,” said J as he motioned Momma to join him for some heavy ale. Both walked to the bar.
“J, that’s allowed in my Church. It’s actually part of our burial ceremony.”
Momma quickly threw back a beer with vodka and bourbon.
J smashed the glass out of Momma’s hand, simultaneously chopping him in the back of the head. Momma fell forward, unconscious.
“Momma never threw back a beer with vodka and bourbon without whistling one bar of ‘Lassie Come Home.’ You are an impostor!” yelled J.
He failed to awake the eerie Momma by tickling his haemorrhoids with a steel spike and had to make do with kicking him in the head several times.
“I knew Momma for years and I’ve seen him smile, whistle and down his drink in that order all in four seconds. It’s ingrained on my brain. I fucking hated him for it. Also, Momma’s haemorrhoids protruded from his bottom and all you have is a badly gored rectum.”
The eerie and impostorish Momma groaned and rolled over. He rose and then in a remarkably feminine voice said: “I’ve always loved you J. I never want to lose you again.”
“Fuckin’ Hell! Are you a T.V.?”
“No J, I’m Deanna. Momma’s little sister.”
“Furk.”
J fainted.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
  
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