64 - Cesspit Of The Depraved: Friday Night At The Flying Horse
The punters were restless. The Jizzbuckets were late. Three and a half hours late. The small club was crowded beyond capacity. Ace Freemok surveyed the scene calmly from his control booth, casually sipping a Sambuca. With him stood the manager of the Flying Horse. He occasionally cracked jokes with Ace, but was visibly worried about the imminent concert. “Why oh why did I book The Jizzbuckets?” he thought. So far, only four people had been crushed to death. He thought it was a good tally. The Jizzbuckets had gained and maintained a cult following since their demise years earlier. The worst type of scum followed The Jizzbuckets, as well as the seriously Lycra crowd. Ace mused over the fact that the group’s following had become so large, mistakenly attributing it solely to his limited involvement with the band. Suddenly someone screamed they had seen the missing president. Three people were crushed to death in the ensuing melee. The sighting proved to be false. “Oh well, he was probably wiped out by some renegade public servants,” mused the manager. Little did he know that he would witness Germy’s very fate in a short amount of time. The Jizzbuckets’ supporting act, Finding Laura, droned on with their semi-acoustic navel-gazing to the chagrin of the audience. Ten minutes into the set, a twenty tonne weight dropped on them. Cue laugh track. A group of rodeo clowns came on stage and quickly cleared the area. “Here we go. You’re going to love this!” Ace informed the manager with a newly found optimism.
Suddenly... Darkness... Silence...
The Jizzbuckets walked onto stage and assumed their positions. The crowd were hushed. Amongst them were Rosemary and Ectoplasmic Billy, kissing passionately. Mr Pompy Pompy grinned and clapped. Nathaniel Lohmez yawned and wondered why he was there. Reginald Halliday dabbed the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief. Stanley adjusted his pants and downed a pint. Chris beat his head against the floor. Zonar, in his tattered costume, was holding a lighter aloft and crying for a reason that he could not fathom. A member of the Swedish Table Choir poured melted cheese over his head. The only sound from the stage was the crunching of a foetus in Keef’s mouth. The club seethed with anticipation. Mary, recently returned from her own strange adventure, was near the front of the stage with a misguided admiration for J. Never was also at the front. He was wearing a big grin framed with saliva. A spotlight fell on J. He stood tall and erect in black. A black Les Paul hung insolently from his side. His eyes were heavy with makeup. He stared out into the crowd. The punters surged forward, dying for sound. J leaned into the microphone and said very quietly: “Nang.”
He stood back, expectantly gazing around the room. The crowd stood unsure of how to respond. “HILAIRE BELLOC SCARRED MY CHILDHOOD!” screamed J. The aural assault that was The Jizzbuckets kicked into gear. Screaming feedback over dance beats interlaid with sampled Hammond organ and thundering multi textural bass grooves. The strobe lights cast the stage in an eerie nativity setting. The Bassturds, a group consisting of Filthy Sanchez, Jah Peril and Jimmy, were dressed in kaftans and synchronised their dance steps to look like the Three Wise Men had stumbled into a Motown review. The stage was an impressive array of surreal imagery; aborted foetuses lined the speaker stack with nails through each small hand and foot. The crowd was yet to realise the significance of the images. The band, now in full flight, played a song written by Keef called ‘War and Penis.’ It was the first song he had written for The Jizzbuckets. The song appeared on an early Multisick demo tape, although strangely enough it never made it to an album. It was this song that many a Jizzbucket fan was quoted as being true Jizzbuckets, and that anyone who had did not know of it was more or less a complete and utter cocksucking fuckface suffering from cancer of the cunt. The song was written during an abnormally severe period of Jock addition, where Keef felt complete malevolence towards all things around him. It was at this point that he had begun to relate to J.
I felt awfully blank today So I stole a blonde and hid her in my cellar Nothing on the box ‘cept Ray My god, I’m a funny little fella Because I’m fighting War and Penis Feel my Testes War and Penis Violent acts of my own lovemaking War and Penis I hate this fucking chorus War and... Well that’s cocked that up right up eh? Think ol’ Plato’ll need to get it up on ya If he don’t do it, Jimmy’ll spoil the day Just like he did with that stupid fucking grandma I gotta rectum the size of route six, six, six Got the devil on my side, sucking donkey dicks Got a Stanley knife for Stanley’s... Don’t ever call me a biscuit babe Because I’m crying War and Penis! Ad lib to fade Ad lib to fade Ad lib to fade Ad lib to fade
When the song ended, J turned around and pulled out a small satchel from his knapsack. The satchel contained his dream, his goal, his ticket to immortality: Mono100. After giving it a loving kiss, he inserted the tab into his rectum (to give it full effect) and then turned around to his audience. “I am and was and will be God!” he screamed into the mic. “Time for the crucifixation!” he screamed again. The big black curtain which had been behind the band fell, revealing Germy nailed to a cross, tears streaming down his sinewy hook-nose. “What have I ever done to you?” cried Germy in a Jello Biafra sort of fashion. “You existed! Blasphemer!” screamed J, “give him his first shot of adrenalin!” Plato moved over towards Germy, with a large rusted hypodermic needle in his Parkinson’s diseased shaking hand. “Get me a fucking magic marker!” J yelled and then, “nah, forget it.” Then J plunged the needle into his... nose. Germy screamed and shot streams of snot out like a machine gun and went into spasms. Two naked girls (except for the leather dildos half-hanging out of their bottoms) walked out from behind the stage and started whipping him with dead cats. “Okay guys, this isn’t funny anymore!” he said between screams.
J felt himself becoming one with the universe, being everywhere and yet nowhere. His head expanded to the size of a beach ball during ‘The Word “Table”’ and drew glasses and a moustache on Germy’s face... with a razor blade. The crowd went wild. People were decapitating themselves and throwing their own heads at the band. J kicked Germy in the shin. The crowd went wild. J poked Germy in the eyes. The crowd went wild. J spat in Germy’s face. The crowd went wild. J exposed Germy’s penis. The crowd felt a little sick. Germy screamed from the crucifix: “Hey guys, I can’t breathe properly!” J felt benevolmalevolent toward him and casually snapped a strategically placed rubber band (scream), and then turned back to the audience. The band slow-grooved into ‘Heavy Thought Requires Bowel Movement.’ Dank, dark, semibreve chords in descending sequence. A bizarre violin woman swung from the balcony to the stage, red hair flowing flames behind her. J faces the crowd; head on the stage and close to touching the ceiling. The bizarre violin woman roll her hips seductive, scent of peaches overpowering, waxing lyrical with her body. High banshee wails emit from her instrument, piercing air above the discordant rumblings of The Bassturds. Taxy on bodhran, rhythm spilling with intense gaze. Plato stood mute, dribble rolling from his lip, eyes firmly fixed on J. J’s head now occupied an orchestra pit. His eyes were beach balloons. His penis whipped out, supple, seeking, elastic. J watched as his penis grew and grabbed hold of the neck of Keef’s guitar. Keef let his left hand go as J’s penis slid up and down the fret board. The crowd sat in awe. J looked over the crowd. He saw the heads of every crowd member slowly transform into obscene ornaments. Over to his left he spotted his brief love, Mary Sinthasomphone, morphing into a naked Mona Lisa smoking an erect black penis. “Man. This is one nappy trip!” thought J to himself. Germy screamed in pain as Filthy Sanchez (who was really digging this whole persecution of Germy thang) branded him with a Jizzbuckets iron and textered on the inscription: The trippiest, horniest, dirtiest, ugliest sons of horses you ever saw. Plato walked up, giving Germy his second shot of adrenalin directly into the bladder. His face rapidly regained some of the colour that had been taken from him throughout the torturous show. Unfortunately due to Plato’s inability to keep the needle steady, it broke before he could remove it. “Oh Jimmy I done it again,” said Plato with a stupid low IQ grin that sent shivers down the spineless spine of Germy. Urine (the liquid, not the proper noun) began to seep out from his bladder through the needle hole. Taxy let out a big scream (because he was insane) and ran to drink the dribbles of urine. J’s hallucinations became worse. On the left he spotted an aging Never Turets, whose face looked like Mr Potato Head with a vagina for lips and anal beads for eyes. The second set of curtains behind the band were pulled back to reveal the full enormity of the blood red backdrop. It was a gigantic stage. Several cylindrical panels in the stage floor rose up, revealing the growing cast. A fourteen-piece orchestra joined in for a stirring version of ‘Pretentious.’ Naked pinhead infants in bondage masks were lowered from the rafters in harnesses and leather ropes. A nicely choreographed pack of mutants ran onstage and began assaulting the infants. Clowns ran around, chasing a terrified sheep, getting their dicks in now and then before the bleeding wool-shedder would escape again. Now there were two go-go dancers with five foot blond beehives and thigh-high PVC boots doing The Monkey in huge Day-Glo cages. Cherubs and angels flew overhead, the angels urinating rainbow colours over the spectacle, the cherubs secreting perfectly formed little droplets of diarrhoea. High in the rafters, with its blackened two-way mirrors, the control room sat like a benign mistake of architecture. Ace watched over events with a keen eye. His small crew sat at a mixing desk/hydraulics manipulator, working like slaves to keep up the pace of the show. One of Ace’s glands would jump from button to button, helping the guys out. “Cue vocal distortion,” said Ace. “Man, this is brilliant,” said one of the crew to Ace. “How do you come up with this shit?” “Oh, it’s pretty simple. I just sit down with a couple of Sambucas and write down my thoughts as they come to me: “This band needs a giant dildo, that band needs shitting angels,” you know. Do you want to learn this aspect of promotion and presentation, son?” “Fuck oath,” said the techie. “I’m going to give you my card. I want to see you bright and early in my office on monday morning. Your efforts here have shown me much potential.” “Thanks, man.” “Okay,” said Ace, “I think we’d better start getting KISS out of their wrapping.”
“I’M THINKING OF STARTING A TOTALITARIAN REGIME,” sang J with the aid of a megaphone as his penis found its way up the bizarre violin woman’s dress. The stench of peaches became overpowering as thick, tacky liquid gushed down her legs and onto the floor. As she squirmed deliciously on J’s organ, several punters experienced orgasm just watching her writhe. J stood twenty feet from her, his head a rolling pin. She was so smooth, so wet inside, the penis couldn’t get enough. It acted of its own volition, slipping in and out instinctively. J decided it was time to persecute Germy some more, as the only person paying him any attention was Filthy Sanchez, who was licking Germy’s perennial divide furiously, unable to get enough of the triumbolescent testes taste. Light poured from Germy’s organ in a strobe like effect. J grabbed his own penis and tried to yank it out of the bizarre violin woman, who bowed furiously as she rode the big penis. The penis fought back, desperately hanging onto the peachy labia by a build up of furious fiction. J got really pissed off, saw Red and Red said: “Cut it off!” “Cut it off?” “The whole thing!” “The whole thing?” “Cut it off. The whole thing!” “Cut it off? The whole thing?” J grabbed a chainsaw off a headless punter, pulled the cord, and chain sawed through the overactive piece of flesh. The penis yowled in silent agony, then realised it now had a life of its own. With the bizarre violin woman on top, they slithered and fiddled their way through the crowd, leading a huge snake dance. Poore Leg joined in the snake dance adding his own individual style of heel and toe. Soon many more of the punters joined in. The Bassturds, who were all caught up in the spectacle, walked off stage and joined in the bootscootin’ line of almost one hundred people. The music had stopped, but the parade of people and the out-pouring of emotions continued. J stood on the stage with a maniacal look on his ever contorting face. On the inside though, J was revelling in what to him was the crowning achievement of his disturbed life so far. He turned around with a Kafe Gavani in hand and began to beat Germy with the unique weapon. Germy’s screams filled the Flying Horse, screams that echoed out onto the street. Many of the people on the street took an interest in the screams and began making their way to the already filled bar. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m on about!” screamed J. This was quickly followed by the cheers of the crowd. J screamed again, “My mother’s got an Oedipus Complex!” The band quickly jumped into the Jizzbucket classic, The Bassturds still in the crowd, headed to the front to regain their position on the stage. On the way towards the stage, Filthy Sanchez gave Germy a fish.
My dad beat me to sleep My mum gave me the creeps My brother was a whore My sister was the law
“The cheese is very nice thank you very much,” sang J as he writhed around in buckets of sweat and a pool of his own blood, black hair matted to his face, which was contorted with the residue of teen angst. It was survival of the fittest in the mosh-pit, with many small children being crushed underfoot, limbs flailing and Keef occasionally shooting crowd surfers. He was bent as. The crowd decided to have the biggest stacks-on ever. The poor victim was an eighty year-old nun. Her remains were never found. A huge woman (perhaps reminiscent of J’s own mother) was naked in leg stirrups, rising above and behind the band on a black rising platform, which met with a blue plastic kids’ slide. She was giving birth, the placenta sliding down the blue slide and into a giant novelty-size blender. The baby shot out with a load of afterbirth and into the blender, the umbilical cord thrashing around like a live tentacle. Crowd goes wild. Moment of silence. The room is filled with white light. The soft chorus of ethereal beings is all around. J is the only person in the white light. A tear runs down his face. A torrent of foetal juice flies from the blender, defying gravity. J opens his cavernous mouth and lets it fill the cavity. It trickles down his chin and chest. He closes his mouth and gulps the rock’n’roll communion. Deafening farts rip from his contorting body. Body stretches fifty foot in length. A fart cannon. Intestines with no curl. Pure Killing Machine. Fireballs shoot to the ceiling. Gaseous flame bathes audience. Afros suffer. Balls of flame light up The Bassturds. So fucked that they don’t know or realise they are on fire; a Hendrix catastrophe. They stand burning shells of men and witness the deification of J. Apocalyptic scenery with suitable scream, “die all unbelievers in rock’n’roll!” Half the crowd erupts in plasmic outrage of the true spirit. The fans are covered in Lycra and doused in Rock’s red glory. Balcony appearance by KISS singing ‘God Gave Rock’n’Roll To You II.’ The Jizzbuckets join in. Melodious noise. J recedes into self, turns to neked, bony, squigglish body of Germy now strapped to studded leather A-frame. Germy squirm, wave arse seductively in mute terror. J grin. Ten centimetre teeth gleam in phosphorescent light. Brilliance. Pure benevolmalevolence emanates from him. He unsheathes his freshly formed re-penis, stroking it gently. Shimmering, sleek design. Translucent, purple veined rockflesh. Clear crystalline power. He stand behind Germy. Gently stroking. Rousing himself. Forgetful of the old penis, who stands watching with the bizarre violin woman still moaning on top, scent of peaches gorgeous. “Out with the old and in with the new!” screamed J as he thrusts his penis into the back of Germy. An ultrasonic piercing scream of pain came from Germy as he looked down to see the head of a small, furry, blood drenched, penis protruding from the place where his lung used to be. Germy could feel his life’s blood draining from his body. He knew now his death was imminent. J realising this fact ran to the barrel full of adrenalin, filling a four-ounce needle with the pure fluid. Then in a single motion, spun one hundred and eighty degrees and let fly the needle, which hit Germy in the eye, piercing the retina. Liquid oozed from the left eye of Germy, who was now thrashing wildly in desperate pain. Only the adrenalin kept him from lapsing into unconsciousness and ultimately death. Meanwhile The Jizzbuckets kept on playing, J only occasionally adding random vocals to the cacophony that surrounded them all. J was now concentrating on enjoying the Mono100 and torturing Germy. He walked around Germy twice with the motion of predator. Keef handed J a large sword of shiny silver metal. J, giving a demonstration of the blade, sliced a bass speaker in half with ease. Filthy Sanchez was not pleased and promptly left the stage shouting obscenities. Then J aimed and with three quick hacks chopped off Germy’s lower left leg, which flew through the air, landing ironically with Poore Leg. Meanwhile Jimmy and Plato were busy cooking soufflés in the corner and trying on designer lingerie. Never Turets took the opportunity to speak softly into J’s ear. “I told you he was the perfect sacrificial subject,” he said and dribbled with glee. J smiled, produced a Luger from his boot and shot Never in the head. Never fell to the floor laughing and searched his pockets for a band-aid. Tony (who had remarkably survived his shooting) had made it to the front of the mosh pit, handing J an album. It was from the eighties. It was an Alvin and the Chipmonks record, ‘Chipmonk Punk.’ While the live music was still blaring, J ran to the turntable at the back of the stage, and possessed, started back masking it at bizarre speeds, managing to make it fit perfectly with the music. His eyes glowed a bright orange as parts of his form started falling away to reveal translucent organs throbbing with the drug. “Eat the real people,” was the message that came from the backwards record. “This was sealed in the Psychoville vaults. Terra Firma.” And then, “consume all evil,” came off the record. J’s mouth opened an incredible size and his body became that of a fat snake. He began swallowing Germy whole, like an anaconda eating a rat. A brilliant aura shone from J as Germy’s face contorted with terror at the thought of such a terrible digestion. A greenish pale light began to flood the room. The source was J. As Germy slowly slid inside J’s cavernous mouth, he began to weep softly and almost unto himself started to blubber inanities about road works in long obsolete capital cities and the lack of traffic lights in easing congestion. He slowly oozed into J. Very slow penetration. The crowd (what was left of them) watched in awe as J began to ejaculate. His sperm flew in all directions as he continued to swallow Germy. “Hey, hang on a moment,” yelled Plato, “gotta give him another shot of adrenalin.” “What for?” asked Germy in sharp, convulsive breaths as his ribs snapped. “Dunno. Tradition.” “I don’t... like you very much,” breathed Germy in his last gulping (fishy) efforts at drawing air. J heaved. Germy drew inside. All that you could see of him now was a blackhead ridden hook-nose peering over the leather lips of J’s mouth. “Get me fuck-loads of laxatives!” screamed the now obtuse J as the starry skies inside the building distorted into thousands of toothless toddlers all wearing the facial features of the now eaten Germy. J quickly slid half a bottle of laxatives into his decayed innards. His bloated stomach now covered half of the stage at the Flying Horse. It was a large, round, almost demonic, looking beach ball-style belly. The band quickly entered the next song, J’s hallucinations were becoming exponentially more vivid and bizarre. All of it came flooding through as the walls changed into blood red Nazi-styled banners; the swastika replaced by the animated face of Germy. The face faded away and was replaced by flickering black and white images of Psychoville in ruins. A colossal catastrophe of terrifying proportions. It was an image from an alternate reality. Then, all of a sudden, J had the shits. He stripped down naked. His bowels began to expel the body of Germy. “Shithouse,” said Taxy. Plato screamed. “What the...?” said Never. Jimmy screamed. “Fuck me,” said Mary. Plato screamed. “Okay,” said a small Cheshire cat. Jimmy screamed. The cat and Mary went off together. Jimmy and Plato screamed.
“I’m about to give birth to Germy Urine stripped of all his ill-gained authority,” J screamed in pain, as it was his first baby.
The place had settled down now somewhat, the remains of people everywhere. Christine Chubbuck with a bored looking TV crew into were filming the thing. Onlookers were sweaty and stumbling. Only faint feedback filled the air. J squatted and shat out masses of chunky blood, whilst he asked a roadie for some Semtex. Semtex was as valuable to a Jizzroadie as gaffer tape. A placenta-covered baby with a regular size body, but oversized head and nose fell onto the stage and squirmed. “You fucking, fucking cunt,” squeaked Germy with a tiny voice in a rare moment of obscenity. “It appears that we are now witnessing the assassination, birth and death of President Urine by the hand of God,” said Christine Chubbuck. “Pretty cool huh?” Sweaty and glowing, J scooped up the child, dripping with pained existential miasma and the naked forces of altered nature. J’s face became red with the girth of the dirtily murky afterbirthy. Infant and infantile were face to faeces. “Your bland band sucks, brother,” squeaked Germy. “Brother?” questioned J, “I am not your brother. You have killed me off in smaller parts not to be brethren. I am God. You are baby.” “Deity through narcotics don’t count, brother. Leader of totalitarian regime through forged legal documents count. Dishonest bureaucratic slog count, brother.” “Disowned from dysfunctional family are you, stranger. Jizzbuckets cool.” “Conformist am I,” said Germy, “therefore cool am I. Daddy suck my dicky too, but I turn out fine.” J has the gorgeous flashes of angels and the brilliant skies around him. Germy feels this briefly. “Wish I was a bit like you,” said Germy. “Wish I was a bit like you,” said J without irony. “Our lives are only parted by the stark contrast of hyper-luxury limos full of black leather and the running of cheap video games under ugly fluorescent lights,” said Germy. “And so I cast you into a neon paradise,” said J. “What makes J despise Germy so?” asked Germy. “Too much caffeine and the phallus of a statue lost. Plaketh sensablee pointer dae McTrakle,” said J. The remaining people gathered round like disciples, receiving rock’n’roll communion. The exhausted (and decapitated) roadie placed the small amount of bitter explosive in J’s mouth. J cradled the Germy-boobybaby-hybrid in his plain Jane, etveen arms and bloodily transferted the banger stuff to the mouth organ of germy wermy Germy. J gently bently toss-saladed the Germ into the breaking air and tosseth his Arab-stinky hockey tool at the gush blood bloated bubba. “See you at the top... you ba(!),” were the last little semanticised syllables to fart verily from the deformed unloved lips of the Squigglesque... Germy. A brilliant explosion of flesh and blood littered the airspace above the crowd. Flames licked the ceiling in pyroerotic frenzy from their birthplace mid-air in Germy’s squirmy wittle body. Blood rained down on the loose straggle of surviving moshers and fans with the force of cannonball-sized hailstones, such was the force of the explosion. People were felled by bones travelling at high speed. Hair skewered four fans to the bar, their innards spilling from minuscule holes. The air stank of Vitamin E cream, roasted flesh, blood and singed hair... and melted rubber bands. J stood alone on the stage, transparent organs throbbing in his body, wild features soaked in the blood of his fallen enemy. His eyes were wild, darting over the faithful few. He could sense the presence of another semi-omnipotent entity in the vicinity. Suddenly, through the balcony windows where KISS had previously stunned the audience, came crashing Troy the demon. Splinters of glass flew through the air, spraying all over the blood-soaked auditorium. “J! You have betrayed us. Why have you not followed through on our agreement?” boomed Troy. “Agreement?” “You know, you were supposed to infiltrate Urine’s empire.” “Infiltrate?” asked a perplexed J, “I’ve been filtrating. I’ve been handing water out to derros and stuff...” Troy sighed as he put his hand to his forehead, looked to the floor and shook his head in despair. J was a stupid cunt. Benedict and CAN joined Troy on the balcony. Benedict spraying blue faecal matter from his nostrils and CAN looking demure in black rubber pants. “We thought you were to become one of us,” said CAN. “But noooooooo,” said Benedict, “you had to go off and become God, ya big suck. We were going to give you a big bearskin floor covering and all.” “I say no to rugs,” said J. “It was quite funny though,” said CAN, “the way we made up all of those absurdly named political factions and groups and had you fuck around with them for absolutely no good reason except to keep you confused. We hoped to beat you to the final goal of scoring Mono100 by doing this. It didn’t quite work. I made up ‘Toaster Rights Guild.’ I hired actors for that one. Pretty funny. Though I do maintain that the Bowel Tactics Commission is real.” “Really?” asked Benedict softly. “I’m pretty sure, yeah. I mean, it’s us, right?” “Yeah. I guess so,” said Benedict upon reflection. “What?!” asked J, filled with rage. “Nothing,” said CAN, suddenly a little nervous, “I was just clearing my throat or something... uh... God. And so was Benedict.” “Well if you’re such a big powerful God, why don’t you make us cease to exist, huh?” queried Benedict. “And where are those fucking gifts you promised? I...” CAN did not get the opportunity to finish his sentence, for he and Benedict suddenly ceased to exist. “Idiots,” thought J. “Perhaps I should discover what I am capable of doing.” He stared hard at Troy, who stared back, unafraid. “What are you looking at?” challenged Troy. “Dunno. Doesn’t have a label on it.” They both smiled. Good one. J contemplated the thought that perhaps childish humour was one of the chief drawbacks to being a deity. “We could reach an agreement,” suggested Troy tentatively. “Maybe,” replied J in a nonchalant manner, “what kind of thing do you have in mind?” “Well... If you bring Benedict and CAN back we could form a church dedicated to you. Or maybe dedicate it to Dino the naked drummer.” “Dino? Sounds good.” Benedict and CAN reappeared in a flash. They started forward at J with five irons. Troy held them back. “Let me explain the deal to you. What it is, right, is twenty grand,” said CAN. “Twenty grand? You’ve got twenty grand?” asked J. “No. I was joking.” “Oh...”
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
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