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Saturday, June 15, 2013


Welcome to Hell, baby.

This song is for the Walkin Cannibal.

He was gonna try to build something.  What do you think would happen?

Bit by Bit   by Mother Mother  

Sven closed the door to the purple BMW he had stolen from the young man whose body he now inhabited.  Sven had killed the young man’s friends and then set them on fire.

Hey, don’t judge him. Them kids had inserted hypodermic needles filled with a liquid suspension of heroin into their veins. 

They saturated themselves in such an ugly way.  They had become colloidal, and that was when the monster we know as Sven needed a torch. 

He’d cut off one of his victim’s legs and used it as a light source.  You know, them tennis shoes light up pretty good, up on the end of a leg bone with tasty calf meat hanging there and dripping…

Sven leaned back against the car and folded his arms.  He appraised the shitiation before him.

He stood on white quartz pebble stones in a circular driveway before a three story mansion.

Of course, it was a faint lavender in color.  Yet, this was not due to house paint, nor cheap plastic siding, or even a dye rinse for a party.

The mansion of the Purple Robe was covered with lilac marble.  Lovely striations ran through the violet marble in stately veins of deep, dark purple.

Sven whistled low.  He adjusted his shades under the early morning sun that glinted over the tops of the elm trees on either side as the birds chirped and the hunting dogs began their barking way off in the kennels.

These sounds echoed across the wide, immense grounds in his head.  Any other sort of person might feel awe and imminent disclosure, but this was no ordinary man.

He was a bit of a cannibal Walkin, you recall.

Sven was fucked-up to begin with, and he was hungry.

He awaited the staff to greet him, and he knew that they would, but inside him, underneath it all, he had a bit of the shivers. 

Would he do well? 

Here was an opportunity, and it was one that he didn’t want to waste.

He could do marvelous things. 

Great wealth affords a ticket for great power if done right.

He shivered simply because this sort of thing was what he liked to do.

He was like a Springer Spaniel, wagging his whole body in preparation for a toss of the ball.

He minded himself and looked about.

There was no car garage off to the right of the lavender mansion, nor a gate-keeper’s shed off to the left.

No such evidence of the menial world was in sight.

Instead, the white quartz took winding paths away and off under high elms and across golf-course lawns in the distance.

Your car would be driven away, and then returned to you if you simply asked.

Indeed, a hastily dressed man with a chauffeur’s cap came running from behind the building.  He paused, took a few breaths, and then walked to Sven in a professional manner.  He looked up, back over his shoulder at the roof of the mansion.

Sven looked up to where the chauffeur glanced, and became aware of tiny sparks of light here and there.

The white quartz driveway was reflected in the lenses of rifle scopes.

Sven adjusted his tie, so to speak.

My Number   by Foals  

The chauffeur stopped short and extended his hand. He said with gusto, “Well met, Prince Richard!  Why did you stop here in the front?  You got all the guns out again up there.”

Sven shrugged.  He said, “Been up to no good.  Fuck it.”

The chauffer smirked.  He said, “Fuck it all indeed!” 

Then he whispered, “I’ve been with the new quarter maid, and her name is Sherry.  She is quite a tart.  OK, let’s get you to your cottage.”

Sven nodded, dropped the keys into the open palm of the chauffeur, and watched him run around to the passenger side door and open it.

Sven understood.  He made an act of staggering around to that side of the car and when he got there, the chauffeur helped young, drunk Prince Richard into his seat. 

Once in the driver’s seat with the door closed, the chauffeur drove away from the front of the mansion.  He crept the car along slowly so as to not spill the white quartz upon the freshly watered grass, and when they had gone on long enough, he said, “That Sherry is quite lovely.”

Sven grunted.

The chauffeur nodded.  He said, “Excuse me, sir, but did you have a lovely time as well, last night?”

Sven nodded, pretending to be wasted.

The chauffeur said, “That’s great!  I am so happy for you.  Great times await us all, isn’t that right?”

Sven grunted again.

Then the chauffeur said, “Sir Richie, did you get my stuff?”

Sven just stared ahead.  He waited. 

You see, when you don’t have a fucking clue about a situation that you find yourself in, nor even know the name of the person in front of you, then all you have to do is wait. 

It helps if you appear to be wasted.

Surely enough, they will give you your information.

The chauffeur said, “I fucking gave you three-thousand dollars worth of heroin, and all you do is sit there like a dumb ass?  How dare you!  Where is my profit?!”

Sven nodded.  Inside, he was quite happy.  It began to make sense.  The prodigal son, whose body he now inhabited, had been dealing heroin in the ugly parts of Fuckno.

Why do such a thing, if you are extremely wealthy, borne into privilege? 

The answer is that those who have not lived poor, or struggled to make ends meet, or faced impending doom,


Them privileged kids get bored.

Sven turned and smiled at the chauffeur.  He said, “I’m just fucking with you!  Let’s get to my cottage and I will make you happy again.”

The chauffeur’s shoulders slumped back down and he giggled.  He said, “You bastard!  You always do this to me!  You think I would learn by now.  Whew!”

Sven smiled.

He was going to have himself some fun.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out

Life’s Son  by Macaco  

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