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Friday, January 13, 2012

Weekend At Willies, TDC WEAW, williesthestories 166

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My own Flickerstick: The Jefferson. Days Are Falling.







Here is some "exposition" to catch you up. It will make your head spin, and I apologize to you for that.

Of course, you could simply read the previous chapters instead, but who wants to do that?




Sean and I were the only ones left in the equation, and we faced each other, with eight cars between us, plus a black hearse, and also a horse drawn wagon, with an old cowboy ghost as a driver.

We chust didn’t know about that shit yet.




Two cars faced opposite directions from us on either end of this stretch of old, crumbly tar, up on the north end of Fuckno. One had a dying girl as a passenger, and the other one had a dead girl as a passenger.



Only four of the eight cars driven by those purple robes were still on the road.




Two were heading for Sean and Tellesco, and two were heading for me.


And I was driving toward them in a car from decades ago, built of solid metal, like a woodstove. 1957 Chevy. She was a collector’s edition, before they called them that.



My buddy Joey had stolen her, but now he was taking the dying girl to the “hostibal” in my own stolen car, and I was going to play chicken with assholes who were fucking shit up, with this old car I drove that could not be stopped.



Great. This was going to hurt.



Now, Sean was on the other end of this shit, and he saw those headlights coming up. More of those assholes. He looked over at his buddy Tellesco, from his own driver's window through Tellesco's driver-side window. These were my friends, and they were also in stolen cars. We had taken all four of them from the garage way down south of this line of trouble.


Tellesco didn’t have the balls to play chicken, so he sat in his car, facing the opposite direction of Sean. He was going to bail.


This was OK with Sean. He’d prefer to have his buddy Tellesco survive, and come back after shit had happened to take us all to the “hostibal.”



Sean gritted his teeth, waved at Tellesco, and then he sped off to meet his doom.


Tellesco waved back, oblivious fool that he was, and he put his car into drive. He looked into the passenger seat next to the smashed-out passenger-side window. The rain poured in, which had opened a portal of sorts.


It was a portal of water, for a watery ghost to enter.


The dead girl still sat there: a shade, a shadow, a glint of a glimpse of someone who had died months ago. A ghost. She smiled back at him.




Weird.






This would not end well.




+ + + + + + + + + +




In between the two pairs of assholes speeding in opposite directions from each other; one pair toward me on one end of this long stretch of old, crumbly tar in the desert of Fuckno, and the other pair toward Sean on the other end, there were two curious-looking vehicles also racing along.




One was a long, sleek hearse with a fat punk rocker who had a mohawk of high, sharp, purple spikes and a smile on his pale face that held a thousand fangs. Fat Jerry was his name, and he enjoyed causing pain.




Speeding in the other direction was a black carriage driven by an old, forgotten cowboy ghost who sat up high in the rain, holding the reins to a huge black horse with a mane of blue flames.



Glinty McFlintlock strung the reins in one hand and then he hefted up his old shotgun, and he took aim.



This giant horse, dark as an invisible black hole, well, he knew what was about to happen.




His horseshoes clicked blue sparks on the tar as they raced along to doom and damnation.





The name of this giant black horse was Mayhem.











Are you still with me?





It gets worse before it gets better. It gets fucking worse.







Ok, enough description and exposition.






Here we go.



Massive Attack. Paradise Circus, with Hope Sandoval on lyrics. You know, she is the Mazzy Star vocalist. Her vocals are fucking sexy. She got that silky Texas drawl. You can thank youtube's DamselBoo for putting up this high quality sound on youtube from a great duo that we know as the Massive Attack.


"It's unfortunate that when we feel a stone, we can roll our selves over because we're uncomfortable.


Or,


Where:


The Devil makes us sin.


But we like it when we're spinning...



...in his grip.



Look at her, with her eyes like a flame...




She will love you like if I never loved you ...




...Again"



I wish I could write that well.


Uhhh...Huh.....














I adjusted my tie. My leather jacket squeaked against the cold, hard vinyl seat as I straightened up and looked past the windshield into the black hole that awaited me.



Up ahead, a pair of yellow eyes glared at me, blurred, then glared, blurred, and glared, between the brush strokes of the windshield wipers.


A watercolor painting in the black torrent of tears from the hidden moon above, it was being re-painted with each beat of my heart.



I didn't want to die. I feared death, or course.



But those assholes had injured the girl in the car Joey drove now, racing away to safety.


Fuck them.


I felt blind rage.



Fuck them to hell.


The pair of eyes glaring at me from up ahead split apart, and became a new pair of eyes, each.



Blur, glare.


Blur, glare.



Two cars sped towards me.



My pulse raced.



I gripped the hard steering wheel and braced for impact.



I wondered if my teeth would meet this steering wheel. The seat belt held my waist, below my leather jacket, but not my torso.



Air bags had not been invented when this car was built.



Possibly, the steering column would enter my torso before I met the metal dashboard.



Who had built this metal stove; Hephaestus in his fiery hell of a blacksmiths shop?


Perhaps I would meet him there, and we could share stories about our Venus stars.


Mine was named Katheena. She had a lung full of muddy water.



Fucking assholes.



Fuck them.




Blur, glare.



Blur, glare.


Crash.



Sleep.





- - - - - - - - - - - - - -


Sean, gobless him, he pulled himself close to the steering wheel and glared into the windshield.


He did not have fear of death. He had lost it long ago.



In his head, he wanted escape. Fuck this place. Nothing but lying, cheating, and stealing. Those were the colors on his palette. Mix them up, and you would not get grey.



- - - - - - - - - - - - - -




Fat Jerry reached down and turned the volume up. The Misfits wailed in the empty carcass of his hearse. No other music was ever heard in his ride. He had their skull spray painted on the back of his leather, and on the hood of his car.



He floored the accelerator and his heavy beast blasted along with hunger in its belly. He saw those tail lights come closer, and that was when he flicked the tiny metal switch beneath the steering wheel, in its hole.

A strange gas entered the carburetor, and this caused the huge beast to surge forward and throw Fat Jerry's mighty melon back.


He howled with laughter and looked back ahead again. It was like light speed.


Nitrous Oxide, baby.



- - - - - - - - - - - - -




The horse glinted its sparks onto the old tar in the downpour. Its driver wore a pair of round glasses with black lenses, and one was broken down the middle, where the bullet had smashed it, and entered his brain, killing him a century ago.


He had his own anger as fuel, and this will be explored after the demolition that was about to ensue.





Next time.





Sorry about that, my friend.









God Help You.



God Help Us All.



---willies out.








Check this out:






NSFW dubstep video of the Massive Attack song above.






Ode 2011 Ver2 NSFW from grayagent on Vimeo.





It's from The Lucid Dreams of Grayagent. Grays Provocation. Thank you, Grayagent. Keep up your good work.






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