72 Lovingly Adorned Home

Today's part of the Punkination Chapter is quite fucked up.

Damn.


There are two tunes below to consider for your soundtrack for the following part of the Punkination Chapter.

The first is soothing and a nice juxtaposition to what follows, if you listen while you read.

The second has the beat and feel of what we were actually up to.

Your Choice.

Pack your bowl with ice cream, Froot Loops, beer or what-have-you, or all the above, and let's delve together, my friend.


When you get done today, don't look at me that way. I'm just telling you a true story, that's all.

Soothing:



Rocking:

++++++++++++++++

We drove until we found a hardware store and a couple other places.

In the driveway of a sad little home down on the lower west side of Fuckno we found Gilbert’s car. The poor guy drove a Gremlin, for chrissakes. So either he was home on a school day, or his piece of shit was broke down. Here is a pic.



Gilbert had fucked up everything. Fuck him.

We parked down the street a little bit, and Bryan went back to knock on the door. After a bit, he came back to us and told us that no one answered. Bryan was going to try to sell them magazine subscriptions for his college tuition if someone had opened the door.

This here following is pretty fucked. No one must do this, ever. It is the work of assholes, and I have this on my conscience to this day.

We went around to the back and kicked in the door.

We wore rubber gloves.

It was tidy inside, but everything seemed to be from the fifties. No decadent or gaudy purchases were to be seen, and this was the 80’s. Instead, it was a tiny home lovingly appointed and adorned. A real home.

I felt a twinge, thinking back upon my own home. These folks had the same level of small income, and through the years of perhaps honest, hard work, they had made a cozy little niche for themselves.

But, Fuck Gilbert. He had messed everything up for Lorelei.

It had been my idea to pour all the instant oatmeal into the back tank of their only toilet, as well as to drip the wax from the black candles onto their once-plush but now worn-out olive green living room rug into the shape of a pentagram. The goat head design in the center took expert skill.

Bryan had purchased a caulk gun with a tube of silicone and pulled out every plug from the receptacles and then he stuck his caulk in each one and filled them from the inside to the rim. They would never work again.

Katheena had spray paint.

Joey had wanted to buy a propane torch to blacken the ceilings, but we dissuaded him from possibly burning the place down. Instead, he got some smoke bombs and a pair of wire cutters.

No one must ever do this fucked up shit. Fuck you if you even think about it.

It took about twenty minutes. During this time, we were so whacked up on adrenaline and paranoia from peeking out of the curtains every 30 seconds that I felt like I was going to shit my pants.

So I used the toilet and did not flush.

These are the deeds of a fucked up youth.


It made the evening news.

Well, not my shitbomb, but the whole escapade.


Damn.

++++++++++++++++++

There are some things that you must never, ever do.

If you do them, then you must be stupid, or crazy, or perhaps vengeful and mean.

This was a poor family struggling to make a nice little home on the lower west side of Fuckno, and they seemed to be doing OK.

Katheena at least stayed away from spraying up the numerous family pictures hanging on every wall, and no one touched the large portrait of the Last Supper, nor the open Bible laying atop the television set, open to that day’s reading.

These three things prevented the escalation of the evidence of the pentagram and goat’s head from this destruction being considered the work of Satan Worshipers.

Instead, it was called simply what it was. Depraved Vandalism.

The police detectives held back on their assessment of Vengeance, because that would make folks wonder what this poor little family had done to deserve this, in the public’s eye.

Amen for that.

In the news that night, the family was interviewed, and they said that they forgave whoever had done this, and they prayed for the culprit’s soul.

That was the best thing they could have said on the television, and the worst thing, for us.

I had a hard time getting to sleep that night.

Yup. This is the ugliness into which I would continue to descend for a period of time which I have been only hinting at, in these tales of debauchery I have been telling you.

I have been coming back full circle to the point when we punk assholes would over come Muy Largo at the Punk Fight, and we would go on to have the Flora Du Mal to face.

There, it will get much, much worse.

But this is how one becomes a Punk Asshole.

I hope you will continue along with me in this tale.

Again, there is redemption at the end. Before that, there will be many more aftermaths.

Next weekend, join me here at the Mighty TDC for the aftermath of this sordid part.

Thank you for sticking with me all this time.

Fuck Gilbert?

Fuck his little family?



No.



Fuck we punks.




Fuck me.




God Help You.

God Help Us All.


---willies out.







One link for you.

The only one that matters today, my friend.











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