310 lines
16 KiB
Plaintext
310 lines
16 KiB
Plaintext
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_____________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ _____________
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| ___________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ ___________ |
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| | _/_/_____ | | > > _/_/_____ | |
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| | /________/ | | / / /________/ | |
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| | c o m m u n i c a t i o n s | |
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| |________________________________________________________________| |
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|____________________________________________________________________|
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...presents... Sunday
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by Peter Flechette
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>>> a cDc publication.......1990 <<<
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-cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-
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_______________________________________________________________________________
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"Ton-EEEEEEE! Are you coming to church or not??" Mom's voice reverb-
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erated down the narrow, wood-paneled stairway leading to Tony's basement room.
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Tony Lundquist, who had been about to drop the needle, froze. He rolled his
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eyes toward the stained ceiling, gave the fist-sized volume knob a hefty crank
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clockwise and dropped it.
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"StrangulationmutilationcanceroftheBRAIN! Limbdissectionamputationfrom
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amindDERANGED!!" he shouted as the ninety-eight second micro-opera
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"Necrophobic" shuddered and buzzed his big black speakers.
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This -he knew- would do the trick, and he was not disappointed as he
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faintly heard Mom shout: "When I return, young man, you and I will have a
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little talk about MORAL DECAY!" So he'd have to sit through another of her
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ever-briefer lectures; big fucking deal. One thing Tony had learned in his
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past fourteen years is that the punishment was always a better deal than the
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consequences of NOT biting back. Sure, his body had hurt for two weeks after
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he stabbed that nun with the compass point. But he sure as hell hadn't been
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sent back to that school. Soon after, Dad moved off to Montana and took his
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leather belt with him. Unlike Daddy, Mom would never hit him; she would just
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chew him out and swallow yet another heaping helping of guilt which would
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further distend the Belly of our Savior. Tony thought of a hugely pregnant
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Jesus hanging bleeding from the Cross with large, gravid breasts and laughed
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loudly over the barbedwirespeedmetal cracking the paint and wondered, for the
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ten-thousandth time, if he was going insane.
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Bill Olson had watched Tony's mom leave the house across the street and
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walk hurriedly toward church. He quickly grabbed the large dufflebag and
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headed down the stairs. Closing his own front door behind him, Bill walked
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across the street to Tony's house and ducked into the garage. Arriving at the
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side entrance which led indirectly to Tony's room, Bill rapped on the aluminum
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screen door twice, then three more times. No answer. Bill cursed under his
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breath: "Goddamn your blood, Tony, turn that down and answer the fuckin' door!"
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Bill knew that he only had an hour or so before his mother returned from
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worship and he had to tell Tony all about the unbelievable "yank film" he had
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seen on the PLayboy Channel last night. Mind-boggling juggernauts! Tony was
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gonna shit!! A lull in the din faintly assaulting Bill's eardrums manifested
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itself and he feverishly repeated the secret knock.
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The cheaply-manufactured hollow-core door swung open to admit Bill. "Hey
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buddy, you are gonna SHIT!" he chortled as he scurried into Tony's private
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domain. "What's with all the pills, pal?"
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"I dunno," replied Tony, scooping up a few of the spilled aspirin and
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pouring them back in the bottle. "I ain't been feeling well."
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"Bullshit! You're trying to get HIGH, Jack! That won't work and don't
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try smoking banana peels, either. My brother had a friend who tried that and
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he went blind. You can get cyanide poisoning from the fumes of the burning
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banana."
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"Bullshit."
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"You're the one who's fulla shit!"
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"It's bullshit."
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"You callin' my brother a liar?!"
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Tony flopped on his unmade bed. "Nah, I just think it's bullshit.
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Whatcha got in the bag?"
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Bill brightened. "You ain't gonna BELIEVE what I got in the bag. But
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first I gotta tell ya about last night. They went out and forgot to lock the
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fuckin' box, man!! I had the Playboy Channel goin' all night!! They had WOMEN
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ON SEX which was pretty dumb; some psychologist who looked like a dyke yakkin'
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about the G-spot was like, a total myth and how women could only obtain
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pleasure through non-sexist-oriented pornography and a buncha stuff. But after
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that they had SEXCETERA and there was this great thing on public sex in New
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York with this chick in a black leather jacket that was just like flashing guys
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on the street and EVERYTHING!"
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"You're shittin' me!"
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"I swear! It was really awesome! She had these whompmonster tits! And
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she'd like lick her lips and stuff. The guys on the street were just totally
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gassing. And then they had this... oh man, you're not gonna believe this! It
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was like in Japan and they had this restaurant where these Japanese guys go to
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eat really disgusting stuff so they can get their dicks hard. The cook is just
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smiling away and he's chopping on this slimy fish with a big knife. And they
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eat all this stuff just so they can get boners! I dunno; maybe the women in
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Japan are weird or something. They were drinking wine that had a SNAKE in the
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bottle; pickled snake. And they ask this guy what he's eating and he says: RAW
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HOG TESTICLE! He's stuffing this gross thing in his mouth and his girlfriend
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is just sitting there woofing! It was mind-slicing!!"
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Tony recumbent on his bead, regarded Bill with a gaze normally reserved
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for blithering cretins and two-headed dogs. "Oh, yeah sure Billy. Are you
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sure it wasn't raw DRAGON testicle? You are so fullashit..."
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"What's your DAMAGE, Tony? I ain't lyin'! And after this weird shit they
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showed NEW WAVE HOOKERS with Traci. And she was... great."
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"Yeah?"
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"Yeah."
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"Let's go to the mall."
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"Your mom'll kill ya."
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"Fuck that bitch."
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The dufflebag was opened in a pre-mall ritual; Bill pulling forth a rusted
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and scratched single-shot 30-30 deer rifle with a broken stock, salvaged from a
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neighborhood dumpster. The two youths discussed whether this sorry-looking
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piece would actually fire, Bill displaying a box of cartridges purloined from
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his father's hardware store. There didn't seem to be much hope for the old
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blunderbuss, so Tony stashed it under his bed and the two shuffled off to the
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corner to catch a big red bus.
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Our two young heroes disembarked at Horsedale, the newest and biggest of
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the mega-malls which ringed the Minneapolis area like hemorrhoids. The boys
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made the proverbial beeline for Power Records, where they knew their buddy Rod
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Gumhedd would be working. Rod was a sleazed-out wastrel with a serious lust
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for the parent-upsetting louderfasterharder shit that Bill & Tony worshipped.
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Rod kept a small stash of elpees with skulls on 'em tucked in a bin across from
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the CD racks, and the boys headed straight for it. Bill picked up a copy of
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LUKE 66:6 by the Buzzsaw Boners, flipped it over and whistled. "Check this
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out, man. 'On your knees for the Buzzsaw Boners: the masters of pure bellig-
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erence and destruction. A brutal assault on the senses.'"
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"Oh yeah? Well listen to this: 'The Cruel Bastards rip the fuckin' top
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right off yer skull with just one hamfisted powerchord. Must be all those
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Stooges, Dolls, Ramones, and Pistols records they eat for breakfast'" read Tony
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from the back of NEVER MIND THE HOMOS, HERE'S THE CRUEL BASTARDS.
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"Good stuff, eh boys?" inquired Rod, who wore a doleful face despite his
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cheery Charles Manson T-shirt.
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"Yeah!! When you gonna get that album by the Reverb Motherfuckers?"
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"I got some bad news for you guys. I got the axe yesterday and all this
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stuff is going back to the warehouse tomorrow. You guys are gonna have to go
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to Garage d'Or from now on, 'cause that's where I'll be working. We got a lot
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more cool stuff down there, though: The Fiendish Thingies, Raped Elvis,
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Duckfuckers Ahoy... real BITCHIN' bands!"
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"Aw shit, Rod, that's a fifty-minute bus ride!"
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Rod shrugged, black leather lapels gyrating. "Hey, guys. All these folks
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out here groove on is CD's. If you want any of this wax, you better make with
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the scratch like, el mas rapido, because soon it will be gone like spit ona
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griddle." Bill and Tony's fallen faces told the story of empty pockets and
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blown allowances.
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A creeping, splitting, familiar pain like a nail being slowly driven into
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his left eye socket followed Tony out into the mall with Bill (bitching) in
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tow. He reached in his jacket pocket for an aspirin and bit down on it. The
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chalky bitterness he had come to enjoy flooded his mouth. It tasted of funeral
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pyres.
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"I heard that those CD's are all gonna oxidize in about five years; the
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lettering on 'em starts to rot and they all go bad. I heard a defective CD
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once on the radio and it sounded like Max Headroom on acid!" Tony was deafened
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by fantasies of breaking bones, exposed marrow, electrical wires; he barely
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heard Bill's incessant chatter as they strode along the mallwalk. It took a
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hearty shout from the Queen of Jockstraps, Miss Hut-Hut-Hut herself - Barb
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Johnson - to stop the pain-addled teenager in his tracks.
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"Well, if it isn't the Neezer Twins from Biology!" bellowed the six-foot
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cornfed blonde teen Brunhilda, hands on hips, flanked by her giggling and
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equally loathsome toadie, Cindy Nelson. "Frog Pox! Frog Pox! Saaaaaaaaad!"
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It was impossible to ignore or evade these letter-jacketed harpies blocking the
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mallwalk like bovine pylons. Bill sneered. Tony stared. Cindy struck a
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phonus-balonus cheesecake pose which mocked the sexual frustrations of teenage
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boys across the nation and hollered: "Hey neezlehead! Wannna get lucky?" She
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walked up to Tony and tweaked his nose, hard, causing involuntary tears to come
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to his eyes. The two she-devils walked past in full guffaw as Bill managed to
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squeak out some stilted slur rooted in venereal fiction. Tony clung to the
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railing, mortified to the core, stomach twisting like a freshly-speared moray
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eel, face hot/wet/red. He lurched towards the bathroom.
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Splashing cold water on his head and softly sobbing, Tony pondered just
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what in the fuck ELSE could go wrong today. Home meant catching H-E-double-L
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from the old witch and tomorrow meant that Goddamn Biology Test. What was the
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difference between a zygote and a mitochondria and who gave a flying fuck about
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it anyway? He knew, instinctively, that he would NEVER get laid. Not in this
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lifetime. "Hey son, you OK? You don't look so good..." opined some concerned
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middle-aged bathroom bystander. Tony turned a pair of bleary eyes toward him;
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Inner Third Eye pictures the bastard - the piece of FLESH - crushed in Satan's
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claw, flesh rent from bone, torn and oozing... what pain Christ must have felt
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as they scourged him with that splintering board!
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"FUCK YOU!" screamed Tony, for no reason he could fathom. The citizen's
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face darkened.
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"Watch your language or I'll have you thrown out of this mall. You little
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shit." Citizen spun on his heel and stalked out of the shitter as a loud bowel
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sound split the air inside one of the stalls. Tony whirled to face the stall,
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daggers in the eyes, and spied:
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Faded brown corduroys crumpled around brown leather shoes. Brown paper
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bag with brown cylinder paper bag perched on top of the contents. Brown
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cylinder with screw-top poking out front. Bingo. Thank you, General Molotov.
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Tony rushed to the stall and deftly, with the agility of an unjaded cat
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burglar, grabbed the bottle out of the shopping bag and hurtled out of the
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bathroom with curses from the freshly-robbed spud wishing him an unfond
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farewell.
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Tony and Bill spent the next two hours in the Everyburger parking lot
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consuming most of a quart of pricey vodka mixed with soda pop, as the sun sank
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in a pasty sky.
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Little unsteady steps on the dirty snow brought Tony back to the shitty
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little house heated with Mom's alimony checks. He knew she would lock his
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side-door from the inside so that he would have to go through the living room
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to get in. He reached into his jacket and poured another slug into the system.
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Stuff no longer burned like gasoline... more like kerosene. The bottle slipped
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from his fingers and impaled a mound of snow. Tony blundered through the front
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door and into the acrid haze of Mommy's smoldering Salem Lights. Two in the
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ashtray and one in her slit of a mouth. "You stinking little shit. You're
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just like your father, that bastard. He talked me out of using the coat
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hanger. Should have..." she staggered toward him, "...put a little hole..."
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she put out her leathery, sweat-slimed palm, "right in the center... of...
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your...forehead!" SLAP!
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As shitfaced as the teenager was, he realized that this mother was in
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worse shape. The odor of juniper twigs boiled in rubbing alcohol tickled his
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pickled nostrils. He stepped sideways and made it to the stairs, closing the
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door behind him and in front of her, twisting the deadbolt. Slipped, grabbed
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the rail and rode it all the way down to his room. Unable to find the record;
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pulled a bunch of 'em out on the floor and spotted the cast iron fist almost by
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default. Motorhead always made 33-and-a-third sound like 120 miles-per-hour
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with your face hanging two inches from the asphalt, and that was what Tony
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needed at the moment. "The invisible hand in front of me" hummed over the
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asphalt and Tony closed his eyes... then JERKED them open as the room began to
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spin. What a total fuckup, he thought, can't even manage to pass out
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successfully. The huge, powerful monster - blacker than Michael Milken's heart
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- grabbed him around the shoulders and bit into the back of his head. Tony
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howled in anguish and fear and slid off his bed onto the floor. His hand went
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under the bed and came out with Bill's dufflebag attached ot it.
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And the copper-jacketed spire-point cartridge fit precisely into the
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single chamber.
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And the point of the broken stock fit precisely in the corner of the room.
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And the crown of the muzzle fit precisely in the center of Tony's
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forehead.
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FiringpinslidingdownitsoilyTRACK.
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DentingtheprimerscrapingtheANVIL.
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FierysparksignitingthePOWDER.
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BurninggasesexpandingpushingtheBULLET.
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OutofthecaseanddownthetwistingSPOUT.
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PickingupspeedspirallingoutpasttheCROWN.
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SpirepointstretchingskinandmakingitTAUT.
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ThespireofcopperbreaksthroughandgoesIN.
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FragmentsofmetalshavedbylandsandGROOVES.
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HurledbytherotatingprojectileintotheWOUND.
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BlastofexpandinggassesbetweenskullandSCALP.
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TearsthroughskinleavingthedefectCRUCIATE.
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MinutedbonefragmentsshredtheBRAIN.
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NomorePAIN.
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Mrs. Lundquist poured a tad more Diet Pepsi into the glass to help cut the
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taste of the gin and wondered aloud: "What in the FUCK is he listening to
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now??"
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_ _ _____________________________________________________________________
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/((___))\|The Convent..........619/475-6187 The Dead Zone.........214/522-5321
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[ x x ] |Demon Roach Undrgrnd.806/794-4362 The People Farm.......916/673-8412
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\ / |PURE NIHILISM..........new # soon Ripco.................312/528-5020
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(' ') |Tequila Willy's GSC..209/526-3194 The Works.............617/861-8976
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(U) |=====================================================================
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.ooM |1990 cDc communications by Peter Flechette. 04/03/90-#125
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\_______/|All Rights Pissed Away.
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