You said it better

I fucked up and you said it better.
An idiot with the hard copy
I've spent so long trying to print.

You fucked up and looked into rumor.
An open mind without the screen door
you worked not so hard
to avoid.

"Thanks for the ride."

"Take it easy man."

Thanks for the poem dummy.

Thanks for the fare white boy.

He knew what he was talking about.

I knew it mattered.

Still not sure why.

#5- "Nothing Left"

" Fuck off , one more. "  Anthony said grabbing an old friend by the ear while beckoning the bartender with his free hand.

"No I really have to go man," Ellie replied. She shook her head laughing. " Terry's already pissed I'm out with you and if we close this place out I'm going to have to spend my whole saturday in the dog house."

"Two- What-" Anthony turned back to Ellie " Stellas?" He turned away again. " Two Stellas."

" In the dog house and hung over. You're a dick." Ellie drained what was left in her glass.

She watched as her oldest friend leaned forward on his stool, elbows on the bar, craning his neck to monitor the actor pouring their next round. He was still the boy she chased across the schoolyard trying to kiss.  He was still sweet and dumb.

"Honestly, if were going to have another drink I have to call Terry." She said.

"Call him? Really?" Anthony said pivoting on the slick leather beneath him. He kept one elbow on the bar. His free hand was a fist and resting on Ellie's knee.

"Ya he's gonna be pissed if I come home all wasted and late without calling." She said wincing at her own apprehension.  She felt guilty saying yes to drinks in the first place. A call would clear her conscience long enough to forget she actually cared .

"Ok well do it now then, theres a payphone out front by the parking lot. This guy is taking forever anyway." Anthony said. He looked to the bartender. By the time he turned back she was halfway to the door.

"You got change L?" He shouted over way too loud Supergrass.

She didn't hear.

Ellie pushed passed a dozen half dancing drunks and met the door. At this point her heart was pounding. The fear of what was going to be on the other line had started when she stood up and had  now developed into full blown panic.

Hes pissed

He thinks I'm fucking him.

No he'll be fine, he said it was cool. I told him the plan. He'll be fine.

I'm fucked.

Ellie saw the pay phone half set into the building and peddled just fast enough to keep from sprinting.

She picked up the receiver and dialed.

dial-tone

fuck its broken?

oh shit, change.

4 brightly colored acrylics bent and popped into a tight denim pocket to find a quarter.

She slid it into the slot and dialed again.

848-9222

Ring
Ring
Ring
Ring

"Hello?" Terry answered.

"Hey babe its me!" Ellie said, her face split by an anxious smile.

"Hey are you ok?"

Her heart sinks.

"Yes? what do you mean? why?"

"Well you're calling me...so," He laughed.

"Well I was just checking in cause its late is all."

"Oh, ok, well, thanks? Hah."

Fuck me now its weird.

"Oh well its just late and we were gonna have another round or two if thats ok?"

"If thats ok? Stop being a fuckin' wierdo Ellie. Yes its ok. Of course. Go have fun. Are you going to call a cab? Do you need a ride? I can pick you up I'm just fucking off at home." Terry said.

"No, ya I was just going to call a cab," She paused, absorbing her own relief. " I love you, I won't be too late."

" I love you too, I might pass out but who knows. Just smoked that joint Eric gave us. I- Im seriously just walking around the apartment thinking of crazy shit." Terry said bursting into laughter.

They both laughed.

"Ok, well I'll be home."

"Night."

"Night."

Ellie hung up.

As she opened the door to go drink with her oldest friend, she remembered why she felt so guilty.

As she smiled at the bouncer she remembered why they had broken up.

As she approached her stool she remembered why they were still friends.

As she drank until two AM she realized the value of it all.

As she fell asleep next to Terry she smiled and thought about Anthony.

When she woke up everything was in its place.

Red White and Burbank- Partycentric

Id say getting fucked up was paramount in the DBS scene but really it was getting fucked up at Rambler's house, in the summer.

This house in the rancho district had become a shrine to our aggressive self destruction. Week after week shit got brighter, More clear as we stepped into the collective madness that was the summer of chaos. There was an unsuspecting gentility to it all. We eased our way into it. Not to say we weren't a bunch of drug addled maniacs already but the community that developed in and around that house grew at a measurable pace. Several rituals were developed to pay tribute to the Burbank night sun.

Lawn Driving: The act of ingesting enough liquor to forget how to feel feelings*, Pilling into a Sedan , or the Bug, And tearing ass around Burbank using only sidewalks and front lawns as roads.

TV Dropping: The act of stealing Television sets from the high school and dropping them from the roof of the hospital parking garage.

Cabinet Grabs: The act of attending the party of a stranger, raiding their medicine cabinet for any drugs that could be abused for recreation, and throwing the rest on the roof.

Moon Party- The act of getting black out drunk, snorting Ambien, coaxing a Burbank girl into having sex with you and your friend, flooding the kitchen and blasting Motorhead while committing the devils three-sum.

Russian Face-Slap Competition- Once again, drinking to the point of numbness and engaging in a Slap for Slap volley with a close friend until one of the participants loses their footing or loses their shit and an actual fight transpires.

Through these corrosive prayers and rituals we unknowingly sought the Dharma of destruction.This harmoniums hell we all slid into hand in hand.

"Alright lets go back down," Monk said slapping his palms down on his knees. " I think we've been up here longer than we think."

"You wanna kill this?" I said to Rambler, gesturing toward half a line with an unlit cigarette.

His smile spread across a black and white painted face as he sucked it up.

"Don't light that shit in here," Rambler said as we jogged down the stairs.

"K." I said lighting the cigarette. He didn't notice. Neither did I.

The party had been going on for hours and as we sank into the crowd we could see the place had just reached capacity. Not that we were going to turn anyone away, but the whole town was here. All the tribes had shown up. Every single one.

You could see The DBS in a half circle completed by Deathy's gang of black haired misery clowns. The skate video guys all smiling dumb smiles at one another. Browns and his group shaded by a cloud of greens. We joined up with our group, C.O.N.S ( Chargers Of the Night Sun ) and started screaming 'Skulls' and smashing our heads together.

"Fuck were you guys?" Hollywood shouted with two 24 racks in his arms.

"WAAAAAA!!!" We all shouted and embraced him. The best way to get a warm welcome at a party is to show up late with a metric-fuck-ton of brew. "Oh i know where you guys were," He said, making the naughty boy face. "Wheres mine?!"

"Put the beer down faggot I want one!" Depot shouted directly into Hollywoods face. It could have seemed Depot didn't realize he had a cocktail in both hands but he knew exactly what he was doing.

Monk and myself headed to the backyard and found a place to sit. We were next to a few chicks who used to be ugly and cool but had become hot and lame.

"Bullshit, dumbstuff, lame, weak, not important" They could have said, but neither of us was listening.

"Hey up until now this party was fuckin perfect." I said yelling into Monk's ear.

"Ya dude, these chicks are fuckin dumb why did we sit here?" He laughed.

"Atleast-" I started but was interrupted by staples.

"We need more whiskey, hey were out of whiskey Deep says we need to get whiskey." He yelled. The girls shut up for a second. Just for a second. Fuckin Meryl.

"Ya ok, I'm game." Monk shouted back. The shouting was alot like trench commands in world war II films but way less important.

"Who's driving? Im not fuckin driving I'm all sortsa fucked up." I said producing 'No Way' hands.

"I rode my bike" Staples yelled.

"You drove me here dude, so..." Monk said.

"What about Hollywood?" I said standing and stuffing my smokes into a pocket.

"Walked" Staples said.

"Bullshit, whatever, well take my car but you're driving." I said poking Monk on the nose.

We pushed through the backyard crowd. Each and everyone of them the perfect level of smashed. The mixing of tribes was more beautiful than I had ever seen. Absolute harmony. Pacts and friendships being forged that would last years. Alliances that would form the drunken political landscape of DBS for years to come. It was like the G8 summit for assholes.

"Yo were going to get a bunch of whiskey give me money." I said to Hollywood as we passed through the kitchen.

"Fuck You." He said without even glancing over his shoulder.

'Whatever I'll make Staples pay' I thought and we pushed for the door.

"WAIT" We heard hollywood scream. We all spun around and the room went as quiet as it could. "LAWN DRIVE!"

"LAWN DRIVE!" Staples shouted!

"Fuck yes!" Monk added.

"TO THE KIA!!" I added and we were off.

We settled into the dingy upholstery of my 2006 Kia Spectra and cracked our road beers. Hollywood insisted on driving. My vote was for Monk as he was probably the best drunk driver in the group but there was no arguing with Hollywood when it came to who takes the wheel. He was aight, and the fact he had only been at the party for 20 minutes or so was all the reassurance I needed to hand over the keys.

"Ok we all got beers?" Staples asked.

Beers are raised.

"Wait wait, two things." I said pulling a Misfits jewel case from the center console. "You need to focus." I said dumping Yesca on the Crimson Ghost. We all took a hit. "Put this in." I said producing Static Age from the American Psycho Jewel.

The sound of the plastic-rubber pedal hitting the floor, the thin shaking of the shit Korean engine under the hood, The sound of Danzig wrecking already trashed speakers, the smell of wet grass, the taste of Bud Light, It was time.

We only made it a block and a half away before Hollywood decided it as time to hit the turf.

We slammed over the first curb, nearly jumped the sidewalk, and landed on a perfect lawn. No fences for three houses. What a dream.

"Watch it fucker!" Staples shouted as we fast approached a low brick wall.

Hollywood swerved onto the sidewalk, past a tree, off the curb into the street, then back up onto the sidewalk via some poor bastards driveway. Now we were ridding the sidewalk at top speed.

"Hold it steady dawg." I said from the backseat. there was a tight corridor ahead of us. massive oak trees on the right and a white picket fence on the left that seemed to go on forever.

We all held our breath as we entered the trench.

'Fuck'

'Shit'

'Oh man'

'Got this'

We were halfway through when the driver side mirror hit the fence. Every post. It sounded like machine gun fire and we all lost it. Why this inspired cheers I'm not sure but we were screaming at the top of our lungs as if the Sportsball team had won the UltraBowl.

After a few more lawns we ended up back at the party, having completely forgotten to buy the whiskey.

High fives and bro grabs were exchanged and we headed in.

Somehow there were more people. When we left, everyone we knew was there, plus a few faces that had no names yet but weren't unfamiliar. the vibe still remained intact but things were changing. Monk and myself headed to the pool where nearly everyone was cheering on someone to do something.

"Jump pussy!" Some fat dude shouted as he dropped his beer in the pool.

It was Drake, Hanging out of the Ramblers window in his skivvies ready to jump. He took the leap. Something about the way he pushed off sent his head backward, shattering the glass above the opening he had pushed himself through. He hit the water with a slap.

Beneath the poolside cheers, Monk and I could hear tense words being spoken. They were getting louder and by the time we spotted them, Browns took one across the jaw.

"Fuck that!" I said.

"Nope" Monk said and we headed toward the ensuing brawl.

It was a tall AF skinny Black dude, A huge Mexican dude, and a tiny White guy, And they were TEARING shit up. somehow amongst the rage Monk and I were able to decide we should try to split everyone up. I grabbed the White guy by the collar and pulled him back. Monk grabbed the Mexican's arm.

"Stop this shit dude, not worth it. Seriously just fuckin book it right now." I said to the little White guy. His answer was one of the hardest left hooks I've ever received and shit cracked off again.

The fight grew, and I'm not sure how seeing as the culprits were only three in number. I was swinging and grappling in as close to the right direction as I could. This haymaker style brawl is sure to ignite several proxy scuffles, but everyone was so close, i was surprised to see it take so long for everyone to unite against these 'unknowns' But eventually the violence became more accurately directed.

The brawl swelled and undulated like a hairy t-shirt clad hot tub full of sweat and pushed the culprits into the kitchen. My head was buried in the tussle most of the time but every once in a while I could sense a bottle or piece of furniture moving through the space above us. There were streaks of blood forming on the walls. ' All this shit from three dudes? jesus' I thought as an elbow sent my bottom jaw upward to ring my bell.

Once the three assholes who started this thing were shoved outside into the street, I came across the Rambler.

"Dude this shit is a burn." He said. "I think I have to call the cops dude. My house is getting thrashed."

"Ya, honestly, its probably the best solution." Monk added, now by my side.

" Do it." I said peering passed a dozen domes. The Assholes were in the street 'Fronting' if you will.

The police showed up just as the Assholes took off. Monk and I were outside to greet them. We had ushered everyone else inside. We were always the guys who dealt with  the cops. I don't know how it started but we had gotten good at it.

"Go inside." Buff hispanic cop 1 said pointing toward a sliding glass door resembling a people-tank.

"I can explain how ev-" I started.

"Inside" Buff cop repeated. I listened. With a belly full of booze and a boot ankle full of drugs I wasn't about to argue. Anyways, we fuckin called em, may as well listen.

I went inside and checked my ankle. Nothing.

'Good no drugs I'm safe.'

'Wait a godamn second, wheres my shit?!'

In our drunken paranoid stupor, Monk and I had hidden our cache of felonies behind a pot on the back porch. Totally forgot. Now I was faced with a situation: Remain un-felonious and leave the drugs for now or grab that shit before it gets jacked cause fuck that, I spent good money on that shit. So I went looking.

Wasn't there.

'Fuck me'

Aaron handled the cops, everyone but C.O.N.S left, I spent 30 or so minutes sifting through trash and found the drugs.

We did them all and talked about the next party that would never happen.

It was a perfect end to the summer of chaos. It sucked, we felt like shit, owed the cops a bunch of money, all had busted knuckles, and loved every second of it.

Are you the Canon? The Powder? The Ball?

Are you the vessel?
The vein?
The path?

Are you the fuel?
The impetus?
The drive?

Are you the moral?
The whole point?
The final punctuation?

Are you the fuse?
The chasing ?
The whats next?

We wish we were the whole thing,
Beginning to end.

But we all have our place.

Point.

Burn.

Incite.

Land.

Destroy.

On A Rented boat. On The Pretty Twin.

On A Rented boat. On The Pretty Twin.

Just about 5 years now.
Best spot we ever found.
Two lakes,
One trip,
And I never once wondered what the other one
Had to offer.

Always figured each twin got an equal stake,
Side by side for eternity,
At least some of it.

But we snubbed the bastard lake,
Bastard by our own decree.

Whad'ya say we give the second pond a try?

Pass out on wine and dream of the future this time.

Float and catch nothing,
wondering now what could be,
Instead of what has been.

Pack up.

Come off it Icarus Baby.

Sunday 31st May 2015 2:00 pm

Oh I've left you fucked then?

A wingless bird in its middle age squaked to a chick with eager wings.

Never pitty the flightless ones,

The fucks cant fly!

But when Grav-bound wings throw shit into the sky,

The Icarus worshiping pride trash like me cant wait,

To fall dead and burning.

I lost in your book,

But in mine,

I was born to be a missile.

Working for something is better than working for nothing.

I found myself trying to piss away

A shit stain

In the bowl of my toilet.

Just read an old poem from childhood.

It was good.

But pissing away that shit stain,

Isn't that the best?

So I had this Idea Right? Right...

So Im squawking and squealing,
Right?
And you think this and I feel that,
Right?
And if Watts said this,
Then,
You gotta know that its one,
Right?
So you don't pray,
Right?
Right.
Then you don't know faith.
Na.
Then you don't know true faith.
Na.
Then whats it worth looking,
Right?
I don't know man,
Go get me a drink.
Na,
You.
Right?
Right.

When You Used to Love Me, I Loved Myself.

To be read listening to: Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-Flat Minor Op. 23 - Allegro non troppo


When you used to love me,
I thought loved myself.
On teenage stomachs we kissed,
On old friends sheets we stabbed one another.
One knife bent and lost in a concrete river,
The other shining and clean.
Upon entry,
And retrieval.

When I used to love you,
I wasn't who I would be tomorrow.

I wasn't who I will be tomorrow.

You weren't who you are today,
and thank the Gods better men worship,
and the scrapes,
and scabs,
I was too stubborn to learn from,
An unforgiving,
Open,
Cracked,
Bleeding,
Iron soul,
Brittle and un-tempred,
Said no.

When we were young and beautiful,
Vodka drool on an un-dressed mattress,
In the wake of an early arrival,
In a sea of chest out- face down- bottoms up- tribe,
We could touch the tops of our hands together,
And shiver.

When we were bound by the contract of teenage love,
We could forget the passing of smooth,
Un-bent knuckles,
And hold grudges.

You could find my smiling enemy,
And in the glow of a cyclical DVD menu,
Find a temporary peace.

I had found an answer to a question,
Of Truth,
And Falsity.

You had borne the scar of a beautiful,
And freeing lust.

I had borne the scar of a filthy,
And selfish conquest,
Ending in defeat.

Or so I pictured.

Cotton passed over shoulders.
Tears landed on poorly produced fabric,
Blue,
The interior of a borrowed Honda.

I had left,
Retreated,
From a war that couldn't be won.

With blood soaked dungarees I knelt,
In mourning for,
At the time what I thought,
Was a girl who deserved more.

As i washed the Cannon soot from my palms I saw the swirl of filth on white tile,
Surrounding my mothers sink.
I felt the guilt of a publicly justified murderer.

But in time,
The roughness of a noose never wound became as soft as the skin on our teenage knuckles.

The planks of an un-used gallows ceased to creak in my dreams.

Guilt I had purchased from a boy who looked just like me,
Found the foul in the stitch of my pocket,
and leapt downward toward finely partitioned sidewalk pavement,
of our home town.

The gods inside us both wrestled with one another.

I forgot who I was.

I lost my mind.

But it was replaced,
Re-configured,
And arranged in rows only I could navigate.

We didn't speak.

We began to speak.

We began to weep.

We began to push against one another,
And remember the softness of the skin that covered our hands,
and the rest of our bodies.

Herded by the herd.

Poisoned by the thistle.

Im certain Ive said sorry.

Im sure Ive begged for forgiveness.

But Im not so sure,
Ive said thank you.

Whiskey to Gin, Where have You Been?

Whiskey is the life of man

Whiskey from an old tin can

Whiskey-O

Johnny-O

Rise her up from down bellow.

Stay away from me 'cause I'm in my sin.
Stay away from me 'cause I'm in my sin.
If this place gets raided, it's just me and my gin.
Don't try me nobody, oh, you will never win.
Don't try me nobody 'cause you will never win.
I'll fight the army, navy just me and my gin.

I studied the brown.

I studied the up.

I studied the down.

I sipped and I studied.

I sent it all down.

The bottle was emptied.

My conscience was drowned.

From murky to clear,

My new love was found.

Father said

"Whiskey- The drink of a man!"

Bessie said gin,

"You don't choose where you land."

Ronnie said,

Rover.

Williams said free.

London said

"Freezing"

And

"Walking"

And 

"See"

The switch was a guess.

The change was lark.

Im trying a new taste,

To clear,

From dark.

  

Mt Washington Cave People.

We didn't have enough money to live in a cave at the top of the hill. Up high where the waves didn't crash. Where the exhaust foam didn't break upon the sidewalk shore. Where the sand-crab-ass bottle and can hoarders were too tired and hungry to climb for the bounty of a holiday party or a tuesday night's unwarranted yet ever welcomed celebration of our ability to purchase even count boxes of beer. All of which claiming to be unique and offering not just a refreshing, intoxicating wash for a dry throat but a different experience. It's sweet of them to try but it always ends up the same :

Ika drinking beers faster than all of us and berating Mundo for no reason other than its become a hobby of hers.

Mundo Hunched over some sick, sleek, current-gen controller gaming, making my avatar more rich than I ever could, while somehow simultaneously SnapChatting everyone he's ever met.

Amil in a corner chair, face aglow with muddled text locking in the next joyless yet satisfying fuck, laughing at the jokes that matter.

Cade with a calm smile spectating as if he didn't care. Ready for the next B1,000 conversation with myself that would start soaked with intellectual brilliance and end dry and chaffed by the busy shoulders of nearly innumerable and useless musings.

The Chief, constantly in and out, back up to his cave. A jest here, a smoke there, an uncountable number of hellos, goodbyes, whats ups, and laters.

Phoenix with endless Two-dimensional entertainment. With an endless drive to frame the existence of the new 20-sided sub-culture.  He's the king of critical hits.

Froggy, making face. Making pastries far too easy to consume. Making my oldest friend, The Chief, warm at night. Smile in the morning. Cold when my assumtion is a lie and fetal, bent, around something that was before it wasnt.

Thelonius causing trouble with yours truly on equal level. Unable to sit still, matching drink, and harassing with great precision. We two are both equally within the madness.

Big Fish and Little Fish, coming by infrequently but still leaving their mark. And their clothes. Punkrock Duos make the best company, the most noise, and somehow always leave their shit.

I took a drive to the top of the hill to see how the cavemen there lived. Turns out: way better. They had caves made of polished wood. Paths flattened and laid out in an earthbound weave, leaving no question as to the direction of anyone willing to venture to their hidden peak.

But fuck em.

Maybe shit rolls down hill,

But even when were faced,

Were quick enough to throw it back.

More Than a Tractor, Deeper than the Can.

Theres a happy sad,
And some people can sing it.

Some people can paint it,
Sketch it.

Some people live it,
Not because they can,
But because they are cursed.
Because they do.

Some people learn it,
And still,
They never feel it.

Some of us feel it,
Wrecked for years,
Smiling with tears on our cheeks,
And never learn it.

I have felt it.

I've never stopped.

It's when eyes point at smile.
When smile points at eyes.

A confusion of emotion
Our senses cant define,
Our logic cant disintegrate to build anew
In the form of a typical
'Yes'
'No'
Stack of hopeful brick
And comfortable
Mortar.

The root of every well wished mistake,
The branch of every messy memory,
The leaf of every bent back,
Hunched to find a dry and fleeting meaning
In a decision that was never really made.

But there was never any seed to blame.

There was never any sprout to punish.

That happy sad was born as it was dying.

Blessed to wither and rest forever,

Cursed to grow and never know for sure,

'Am I happy?'

'Am I sad?'

Im Gonna Go Until I'm Not

Who the fuck could run a marathon?

What kind of psychopath does it take to remain in physical motion for so long?

My limbs have never been as strong as the rest,

As far as endurance is concerned.

I can lift

Operate

But the idea of a marathon is bullshit to me.

We run because we must.

Limits are fun to break

But some leave no value in the wake of their destruction.

What is left at the end of one of these daunting jogs?

Sweat?

It evaporates.

Fitness?

It fades with age.

And suddenly the clown wearing a mask of my own face laughs on my shoulder.

"The sun rises and your words are as cheap as when it set!" The Jester cackles.

And here I sit.

As futile as the pace keeper I mock.

With no sweat.

With no physical gain.

But with the same nonsense,

That has echoed,

And will repeat itself ever fading,

Into the cavern of my past,

and its bound future.

A Typical Superstitious Bother

For a hunchback loudmouth with a laptop and too much to say,
Superstition is the hat
the idiot I hate
Is alway wearing.

Practical and as dictated as it can be,
Our written language can only guess
At how impractical
The Typist can be.

And how aware
And unyielding
The dumbfuck in the
"Im scared of the nothing something"
Hat
Can begin
Can continue
To lay down the world in bent and agreed upon code,
Only to shrug his practice of creation
To take an extra step
And yield to the apex of every ladder's crest.

It isnt fear,
But a prayer
To the "I hope I'm a nothing something too"
That guides my step
And keeps me believing in these thin
Black
Bent shapes.

NEW CHAP

“Bet you’ve never seen trees like that!” Terry, Art’s father said releasing his pale right hand from the steering wheel and pointing to a distant green fur on the mountain range they had been approaching for the last hour.

“Ya.” Art replied as he re-adjusted himself in the passenger seat.  He was excited but didn’t know how to show it. It wasn’t the sort of thing ten year old Art was used to being excited about. It wasn’t a new Sim. A new Cloud-buster. A new Vis-chip. It was a bunch of trees. Ofcourse he had seen trees, plenty, but never so many backed up against one another. His eyes brushed back and forth over their tips, surveying them for some break in projected graphics. But there were none.

“Those are the real thing kid, hundreds of years old. My father used to take me here every summer. Parks gotten a lot smaller since then but its still the same place.” His father said. There was something in his voice Art had never heard before. Some level of pride book ended by hesitance. Almost worry. “There used to be parks like this all over the country. I really wish I could have seen them all.” He paused and looked out at the forest before them. “ You’ve never seen a real bear have you?” His father suddenly exclaimed, splitting his grey beard with a child’s smile.

“We saw one at the zoo. Remember the big one who was sleeping?” Art didn’t know that bear was almost always sleeping.

“No no its different in nature. These are real bears. Wild. Well find one ill show you.” Art’s father sat up in his seat and ran his hands up and down around the wheel, leaning forward into the road.

Art had been learning about the old national park system in school and found the subject wildly boring. Some Old man called Jim Mirror or something had stopped everyone from building new buildings and roads to preserve a section of wilderness. It didn’t make much sense to him. It seemed like a waste.

As they passed the last ‘Coulier Group Motor Trail’ Sign and came to ‘The Coulier Group Welcome Road Gateway’, Art began to realize why that Mirror guy had tried to save this place. It was beautiful. Art wanted to say so but he was too shy. He wasn’t old enough to say ‘Beautiful’ out loud. He said it to himself.

After paying the $347 dollar camping fee Art and his father found a campsite and unloaded the truck.

‘Theres nothing here’ Art thought tossing tent poles onto the pile of Arachnylon his father said was their tent. ‘Theres no lights?’ He asked his father without opening his mouth. ‘ Theres no bathroom…There’s a bathroom. You cant stay somewhere without a bathroom. NO ONE would let you do that. Its underground. That’s probably where everything is.’ He decided starring at the flat dirt of their camp. His thoughts were interrupted by the peripheral image of his father pulling a hatchet from his knapsack.

“Dad why do you have an Axe?” Art asked , taken aback.

“Its going to get cold kid. Real fuckin cold. Were gonna need wood for our fire. Ill teach you how to use it.” His father replied.

This was going to be a fun trip. Only fun Dad said ‘Fuck’.

Over the next two days Art and his father hiked through the park, stopping and taking time. Something Art had never truly experienced. His father taught him more in those two days than Art had learned in his entire life.Real skills, not just facts. Practical things Art knew he would use for the rest of his life. Or hoped he would.

They had been keeping  an eye out for the bear wherever they went. His father would stop and turn the flat of his hand to face back, in a half crouch, scanning the landscape. Art stopped out of fear, and his father out of an excitement the man thought could only exist in memory. Art was terrified but as the days and lessons went on he became more enchanted with the idea of seeing something truly wild. Every fantasy was peppered with images of white teeth wet with blood, tearing his limbs apart, red muscle glowing in the sun. The sound of his father’s back connecting with a bed of pin needles. Their last screams. He told himself the only re-assurance he had ever heard: “Too many Sims, the world isn’t really like that.”

It was day three when they saw the bear.

Art’s father had taken him on what seemed to be a death march up the steepest incline anyone had ever endured. They were headed to the smaller of the two lakes in the park- ‘Lake Morris’. Art kept his mind fluid with humor. He imagined a massive escalator bypassing the trail, progressing effortlessly to the plateau where the lake kept itself wet. Dreams of some elevator inside the mountain, rimmed with cushioned leather seats, walls adorned with screens showing the latest Sim highlights.

By the time they reached the top he forgot it all.He was too tired to think. It was one foot after the other, one breath then the next. He felt the trail level out and looked up for the first time in what seemed like hours. It was amazing. Looking over the park he could see and expanse of unadulterated wilderness no Sim could duplicate. No photograph could portray. No description could describe. He almost felt bold enough to say that it was ‘Beautiful’ outloud. But he held back again.

“Come on kid, Lakes just past those pines.” His father said. His voice trailed off as he kept the pace.

They pushed through the trees and brush, bypassing the winding path that would serve only to slow them down. As Art caught his breath he filled his lungs with a breath of cold air and felt his heart jump. The water became clear. Such a calm and flat sheet of dark blue anything he had never seen. It was natural yet somehow more perfect and smooth than any plasteel window he had ever seen.

“There!” His father shouted shooting his tan left hand forward to point at an all at once massive but silent and shinning beast. There it was. The bear. The creature moved with such ease Art wondered why man had even bothered to mechanize anything. The bear in the zoo didn’t move much at all. It  now seemed that caged marvel of nature served only to hold down the concrete beneath in place. The bears in his hunting Sims moved like people, without anything near this level of finesse. The pictures he had seen of brown bears made it seem as though they traveled with a heavy footed stomp that could shake the earth. This bear didn’t make a sound as it sprinted from the tree line to the Lake’s shore and dove in.

“They can swim?” art shouted dropping his walking stick.

His father’s hand fell to his side as he crouched. “ Oh they can swim kid, watch.”

The bear (Pedaled into the mountain sea, head just above water) swam -less gracefully than it sprinted but still moved with surprising ease through the water. Upsetting the liquid crystal as it made its way toward the center of the lake.

“Now where the hell is he going?” His father pondered aloud.

Art’s eyes darted back and forth between the bear and his fathers face, unintentionally gauging how to react to something so amazing and new.

His fathers face contorted in disapproval. This was something Art had seen before. Homework, messy room, broken dishes. The first familiar image he had absorbed since they hit the dirt.

“Jesus fucking Christ really? Godamnit.” Art’s father said standing again. “Why do we have to fucking ruin everything. Godamnit.” His hand met a wrinkled city brow.

Art looked (ahead to see where the bear was going) where the bear was swimming . A mass of Mylar bags and Dorito mulch had amassed at the center of the lake. The sight of trash was for jarring for the first time. Something Art had seen every day of his life was now so  surprisingly foreign and offensive. The bear reached the island of litter and began to lick and nibble at the trash.

Art’s father hung his head, looking up from time to time to reaffirm his disbelief.

“They eat trash?” Art asked quietly. He knew they didn’t. Or shouldn’t.

The bear became less graceful, and while it didn’t emote in the same way Art’s friends and family did, he could see it was afraid.

“Dad what’s happening?” Art asked taking a few steps closer.

The once flawless beast began to thrash and (Gag) roar. This was going wrong. Art started crying.

The bear had ventured too far into the lake and was losing energy. Water began to flood its mouth and throat, coughing clear water back and forth. Sucked in through its maw and ejected from the snout. And then it was gone. The lake was calm.

They packed up the campsite and hit the ‘Coulier Group Fond Farewell Trail’ without speaking a word.

“It was beautiful Dad, Before, you know” Art said looking out his window.

Dad didn’t say much after that.

Nineteen years later Art was sitting in the apartment of his supplier. He handed over a loaded credit chip.

“Got somethin new for ya this time. Sludge.” Crazy Chester his supplier said. He pulled a sheet of  perforated plastic-like material from the flat of a paper cutter and folded it in an accordion pattern.

“That time travel, shit your pants stuff?” Art replied.

“Yeah.”

Art’s phone rang. “Hold on.” He answered it.

“Im sorry to inform you that your girlfriend has taken her own life.” A nurse admitted from 17.9 miles away.

‘She was beautiful before, you know…’

Red White and Burbank- The itch you didn't know, the itch you couldn't scratch.

The itch we didn't know.
The itch we couldn't scratch.
The hockey stick,
The plastic gun,
The absence of the snatch.

In the electric blown out fog of my memory we were a roving band of hooligans.
Tyrants.

Plastic rifles and wooden Disneyland muskets on our backs, we patrolled Screenland drive as if we had vowed to protect it, and some other neighborhood sought to take it. Willing to pay the raspberry price.

Some other horde of pre pubescent miscreants with the implied firepower to overcome us at any moment.

Our block was sacred- not because we were told it was, but because it was ours. The treads of our power-wheels held this section of earth to the face of the planet, and without them it would be nothing. It would be Verdugo Blvd. grown-up waste. It would be the shitting grounds for big kid scum. It'd fall helplessly into the hands of "Dinner at six, bed by nine" parents who's retinas had been tattooed with the likeness of Lenny. Who's ear drums had been manipulated and shaped by the thunderous and unyielding 8 o'clock thunder of their "Law and Order" church bell wail.

We had a job to do. This block belonged to the kids. The Ninjas. The Basketball Allstars. The Street hockey kings in oversized black and white jerseys. The Commandos in ill fitting fatigues and big sister cammo face paint. The card merchants with an untold wealth in their deck. The Pog barrons with riches in their neon tubes.

Like any well trained unit we all had our roles to fill. There was, first and foremost, our leader- Garden Hose Greg. Greg was the oldest and had the experience and know-how to keep us alive when shit got hairy. We were all of variable age so he was elected leader by default. He had all the tricks. This motherfucker could fill a water-balloon faster than anyone i've ever met, to this day. And god damn if he wasn't a surgeon with the garden hose. Once saw him nail a kid four houses down and across the street without getting a drop on his chords. Then there was his sister- Donna. This girl had at least a year on all of us and knew how to use it. She could play both sides. Everyone wanted a little attention from the older girl, she could make you stupid with a glance. Next, ( in order of rank and age ) was Kyle. Sonofabitch was 3 times the size of the biggest guy in our unit and about half as bright. Wasn't much for strategy but just the sight of the boy would keep you at a distance. No one fucked with Kyle. After that was Rad. Now, Rad had a temper. He was the living, breathing definition of a 'Loose Cannon.' He'd follow the plans Greg laid out for a while then lose his shit on whoever was closest. It didn't always work out in our favor, (in fact most of the time one of us wound up at the wrong end of a rubber snake, or worse- a brick) but when his "Talents" did shine on our side it was as if we had harnessed a force of nature. In reality we didn't harness shit. Next up was Myself and the Tornado. We were the "Bash Bros".  Born on the same day, the same street, with the same reckless abandon, and an identical affinity for "the Mighty Ducks", Tornado and I were unstoppable.

We were a team from birth. While we were both members of the Screenland Dr. Militia (SDM) we had plenty of solo mischief under our belts. Me and the Tornado were the only two who had fully explored the catacombs and dungeons of our territory and lived to tell. We bore the scars of week long groundings.The memories of crawl-space beasts with 3 inch fangs and no souls. The wisdom of day long living room adventures into the mind, into territories unknown to most. Through lands of "Golf Magic" and past the four legged creatures native to every backyard in our territory. We were brothers and remain so till this day.

But the SDM wasn't without its peripheral soldiers. Every great army employs mercenaries.
The Gurkhas of the british, french, and foreign legion. The GalloGlass of Scotland, The Swiss guard of Vatican city. Yeah, we had our own.

There was Bloody Valentine from the Kenwood territory, He wasn't the kind of kid you brought to the front line but this guy had an arsenal to be reckoned with. Be it high-powered super soakers with extra ammunition capacity, to long range precision Nerf weaponry. This wasn't someone you wanted on your side, it was someone you couldn't win without. He was outside our lands but the ruler of an adjacent territory. He kept his lands quiet without raising a finger.

Some might disagree, but I am a fan of the mystical. I believe in an army without some sort of shamanistic sooth sayer at its aft is without conventional direction. A strategist can only get so far without someone who doesn't just think outside the box, but lives outside the fucker. We had a priest. Waxy. He was out of his mind but in tune with the out of tune chaos that surrounds us all. Waxy would show us what was and what wasn't. What could be and what couldn't. What was never, and possibly, what would be. He lived on the outer rim and a journey to his territory was more of a pilgrimage than a march. Only leaders were aloud. The Maple territory was absent void of combatants. It was neutral ground. A place for contemplation.

Our ranks were prepared for any foe, any invasion. We had the weaponry and the know how. We had the leadership, we had the Allies. We had the vehicles, siege engines- well, they did.

Bikes, roller blades, scooters and skateboards were more so recreational vehicles. Scouts would sometimes use bicycles on account of their speed an silence but PowerWheels were our war horses. Well- their war horses.

Greg, our General, had a jet black Jeep with room for a driver (Usually himself) and a gunner(More often than not his sister Donna). His machine was faster and more sleek than the rest of the convoy, and rightfully so. Kyle had a beast of a machine to match his physique. A bright red 4x4, lifted. This thing was scrapped and scarred to shit. Perfect as far as he was concerned. Rad had a low to the ground Ferrari with a gold stripe down the center. It was fast as hell but had pretty low battery life. Not a problem. So did he. Bloody Valentine had a silver BMW of some kind. This machine was so damn quiet he could make the alley run- back and forth- without a soul knowing. The vehicle was tops but his knowledge of those alleys is really what let him move so deftly bellow the radar. There were soft spots. Ridges and valleys. We could spot em on foot but V had the terrain memorized. Tornado's ride was similar to Kyle's but in better condition. It was red and a different model but served the same purpose: brute force. I would ride tail gunner a lot of the time but some operations required us to split up.

So I'd have to take my own ride.

My own ride?

No.

I didn't have my own ride.

Maybe it was because I never asked. Maybe I knew my parents couldn't afford a bullshit plastic battery powered car I would end up using for a year and a half. Maybe I was afraid if I asked for a bullshit plastic battery powered car and dint get it my life would end.

It Wasn't the Distraction, but the Bother.

It wasn't the sound of the train,

The constant or consistent churn of it's measured gears,

And careful path.

It wasn't the idea of an operator I couldn't understand,

With a path so plain before him,

So much weight behind him,

And so little to do.

It wasn't the half kept business hovel,

Occupied by landlords who kept their order,

Of currency and obligation,

Without the aesthetic to purchase dutiful faith,

And a sense of obligation.

But with tittle enough to sit in a filthy wheeled office chair,

And crack a whip,

Without raising a finger. 

It wasn't the cheap jug of drug store wine,

Round and loving,

Cradled by the fetus of my adulthood.

Emptied by the child of the upright bearded forever-untill-never.

It was the past-tense,

Easy and painted up,

Shinning like a new bike.

It was the nonexistent,

Ever present,

Always fading,

Never leaving.

It was the unbrushed hair of childhood,

Made to look intentional by backward eyes.

It was true love in the classroom,

Made to seem undying by the sound,

And texture,

Of a crumpled and miss spelled note.

It was the pocket hole in thrift store pants,

For a dumb girl's hand,

And an anxious boys cock.

It was the lunch bell,

That tore apart the most important conversation,

That had ever been ended.

But really it wasn't anything.

Because it still is.

And it will be.

I still think one day I'll see the future.

Despite my fetish for the past, 

Mt washington warzone

7 beers deep, sweating that good july sweat on a friends porch.

Redwood planks kissing the leather souls of my second hand kicks.

4 hours of fire works, illegall yet accepted pyro launched into the space between Mt washington and echo park.

We cooked these bombs up to show thanks and respect for those who gave their lives in order to make a home, a new country.

Fun bombs to stage a less violent reenactment of the bloodshed that led to our beautiful unyielding freedom.

plenty feel we glorify the violence humanity has adopted as a way of shuffling itself into order.

I dont feel violence needs glorification, there is an inherent glory in offering your life for an ideal.

This isnt a poem.

It isnt a story.

Its a calm, comfortable fuck you to those who wont accept that our life here in America, the greatest Nation in the world, was bourn of bloodshed, death and sacrifice.

Reality is dirty, get witht he times and salute the fucking flag

In the imortal words of Bullshit- I present to you...

In the immortal words of an unborn bullshitter,
I present to you:
The broken hammer handle.

In the drunken prose of a friendly stranger,
I pour on you:
Contents of an empty glass.

In the stuttering tattoo of a brain-dead philosopher,
I attempt to explain to you:
Once everything was nothing,
And now,
Nothing-
Is everything.

Bent,
Then straightened arms,
Pulling their way up.
Silver aluminum rungs,
Pushing their way down.
Summer sunburns growing,
                                            escaping.

A facade of yellow teeth,
Wind-struck on their behind.
A plastic pint,
A half warm beer,
Holding the last few circles of air,
To remain appealing.

An impression,
Rectangular,
Leaving behind the dense fur of cardboard.
Leaving behind a thin sheen,
Coating the calculated genetic hilltops of exposed muscle.
The shivers of mortal skin,
Shaking,
Creaking
Releasing,
Finding a nowhere shaped hole.

'Let them bleed and heal'
From an unkempt maw.
'It aint lumber, but it aint free'
From a more or less reformed criminal.
Breaking a hammer without a solid swing,
Takes a particular,
Lacking.

'Poor guy, he doesn't know his whiskey'
Sliding out of a proud child's mouth.
'Do you know where you are?'
Sing two lips, cracked and tanned by an age we couldn't remember.
White, clean skin,
Singing from a stool,
That could hold its tongue.
Bright blue eyes,
Wet round sockets,
An open and dangerous cunt,
Hovering,
And whispering nothing into a read pleather seat.

'Is t working? Is this real?'
From an angry,
love addict.
'Its real, its starting. Where am I standing?,'
'Where was I standing?'
From a happy,
Drug addict.
A mirror,
Holding the Mule self of a skinny,
Wanna-be,
Grown up.
A rented bed,
Cradling the Bi-Oceanic life organ
Of a hesitant,
Pensive,
And vicious
Huntress.

Swinging the steel action of an unchanging tool,
Collecting the sheets of a compromised,
And desperate,
World.

Drinking the corner out of hand-warmed plastic,
Gathering ounces of manufactured courage,
And thirsty for less,
More.

Squeezing a sphere of soil-bourne sugar,
Exploring the pillars of liquid someones god dreamed up,
And knowing their smell,
Taste.

Toil and the sweat cash,
It expels.

Recklessness and the dumb pride,
It offers.

Mindful mindlessness,
and the present nothingness it remembers to forget.

Hammers swing.

Glasses empty.

Tabs dissolve.

Earn.

Spend.

Forget.

Q
W
E

.

Pawn Scum Prom

INT. CHRYSLER -NIGHT

The warm glow of streetlights creates a strobe effect on leather jackets and pale hands grasping for a silver flask. We see the flask unscrewed by one hand and lifted out of a shaky frame by another. Wanda Jackson fills the cab with vibrating rock and roll.

JERRY

Hey asshole I opened it to drink it, not to watch you!

GLEN

Ahh whatever man, once you get wheels- you get first drink.

GLEN takes a swig, head back- not watching the road. His Pomp holds tight all but for one small lock coming lose in the front. The Chrysler swerves and the headlights of an oncoming car illuminate the cab. We now see the full band- "Jerry and the Only Ones" pilled 5 deep and covered in instruments and gear. Sketchy looking youngsters with more grease than the car they drove- in their hair.

JERRY

Hey watch it man!

GLEN

(Laughs)

BOBBY

Ey you keep driving like that well never make it to the dance!

JOEY

(Tossing a copy of teenagers from mars over his shoulder in shock)

I wanna get laid tonight man! Watch it!

GLEN

Cool it guys were fine. Another 2 miles and well be surrounded by skirts.

GLEN throws his arm over the leather bench seat, left hand on the wheel, right hand wiggling the flask in JOEYs face. GLEN takes his eyes off the road.

GLEN

You wanna get laid, your gonna have to stop bein such a PUSSY.

JOEY 

Man, I aint no-

JERRY

HEY WATCH THE FUCKIN ROAD!

BOBBY

FUCK! TRUCK FUCKIN ---TRUCK!

GLEN throws his right arm back over the seat to grab the wheel. The cab is once more illuminated everyone inside is stricken by a look of terror, except GLEN who looks into the lights as if he knew the driver of the big rig they faced would "Chicken". 

We see GLENs eyes in a close up. Everything is dark except a rectangle of light showing the lack of fear in the youngster's gaze.

JERRY

Turn you sonofabitch! TURN!

JERRY reaches over from the passengers seat and grabs the wheel- violently jerking it to the right, out of oncoming traffic, into the proper lane, and past.

GLEN

Damnit Jer-

We see the gang cover thier faces as the Cab is washed with headlights then goes dark.

WIDE SHOT EXT NIGHT- ANABEL'S PASS BRIDGE

We see the Chrysler slam through the railing of the bridge and plumet over the edge.

WIDE SHOT EXT NIGHT ANABEL'S PASS (CREEK)

We see the Chrysler violently meet the water and begin to sink. The car sinks. The music stops.

We cut to now  mostly calm water. Bubbles begin to rise. First many. Then fewer and fewer. Then calm.

A distorted lead guitar line tears apart the summer night- sinister and out of tune. We see a wet scalp begin to rise from the dark water. GLEN (Now DANZIG) emerges from the creek as if being lifted by the spirits of the damned. His Pomp is now destroyed and matted down into a singular lock running from the top of his head to the bridge of his nose. His eyes are now framed by black circles, Pond scum adorns his cheeks and shoulders as he emerges, yet somehow his filth looks groomed. The work of some demon barber. The rest of the band Rises with him and they stand-float- feet just bellow the waters edge. They appear dead yet remain living. DANZIG produces a crooked smile and looks up to the moon as it washes its light over their upright corpses.

CUT TO

EXT NIGHT ROAD ( JUST PASSED ANABEL'S PASS BRIDGE)

The band walks down the road in the direction of the dance. They drip dark green river water from their jeans and leather jackets. Destroyed instruments on their backs, they leave the glow of the street light and disappear into darkness.

CUT TO- 

INT  NIGHT GYM - SCHOOL DANCE

Teen girls in colourfull dress spin and shake in the arms of their sweethearts. Young men in flamboyant formal attire spin and swing their girls from side to side. Some confidently- some with nervous calculation. We see feet shuffle and scratch the gym floor.

Two exceptionally pretty Teens, JOHNNY TENDER and BETTY BOPPER dance closer and slower than the crowd around them.

JOHNNY TENDER

Baby I want your soul

BETTY BOPPER

I need your soul!

The two embrace only to be torn apart by the GYM TEACHER in an ill fitting suit, still with his team cap on and a whistle around his neck

GYM TEACHER

Lets make our pastor proud- Leave room for jesus- and watch the floor will ya?

WIDE SHOT

we see the dance under way.

CUT TO 

the PRINCIPAL and his SECRETARY facing each other, leaning on the punch table. The PRINCIPAL is clearly stressed, soaked in sweat, trying to keep his comb over in order. The SECRETARY is twitchy and eager to please leaning in to comfort the unaware PRINCIPAL.

PRINCIPAL

Where the hell are these guys!....I shouldnt have paid them up front. ahhh bunch of-

SECRETARY

Bunch of no good scoundrells! I agree, its not your f--

PRINCIPAL

Oh quit it. We need a band or these kids are gonna go crazy....

SECRETARY

Im sure theyle show up! its just a matter of--

PRINCIPAL

I need a drink

We see a mischevious teen about to spike the punch.

The PRINCIPAL grabs his flask and takes a hit. the teen dashes off terrified. 

PRINCIPAL

(To the SECRETARY)

Dont you have somewhere to be?

SECRETARY

Hmph!

She storms off.

CUT TO-

SHOT OF THE STAGE FROM THE DANCE FLOOR 

Music stops as the needle on the record is clumsily removed.

A NERDy teen with curly hair and freckles stands at the mic. He taps it and it feeds back with a hellish fury.

NERD

Hey folk! looks like the bands a little late, so im going to go ahead and give you a taste of real Annabel High Comedy!

The room goes silent.

JOCK

Shove it nerd!

Just as the crowd begins to laugh and mock the NERD we see the back door to the gym slam open supernaturally. 

Four soaking wet silhouettes stand hunched over, holding guitars covered in river-bottom scum. The harsh light of the school hallway shines past them destroying the cool blue lighting of the dance. The room goes silent.

We see the PRINCIPAL crane his neck and drop his stolen flask.

The NERD at the mic slowly backs off the stage, stumbling at its edge.

JOHNNY TENDER and BETTY BOPPER loosen their embrace as their faces grow awash with concern.

 JOHNNY TENDER

Who are these punks?!

(P

WIDE SHOT OF THE GYM

as the band stands still in the door way. 

DANZIG takes one step forward and we hear the wet squish beneath his boot.

PRINCIPAL

Is this the- uh - the

The PRINCIPAL looks around the GYM.

PRINCIPAL

Goddamn hooligans.

The PRINCIPAL begins to stomp angrily toward the BAND.

PRINCIPAL

Youre late and youve got another thing coming if you think were paying that 12 dollars you asked for! These kids are-

DANZIG

(groan)

The band saunters toward the stage as the room of highschool teens looks on , bewildered.

The band takes the stage and readies their instruments, Heads hung down, deathlocks hanging still in the vacum of a school gym.A sonic feedback rings out and swells as teens cover their ears and wince. When the feedback reaches its pinacle we see a push in shot of a girl hollaring and covering her ears and finally her head explodes as JERRY strikes the first note of (INSERT SONG HERE) and the room goes wild in terror. They begin playing and DANZIG begins singing.

We see a wide of the gym- Teens run around in fear, falling, trampling one another, trying to escape- but the doors slam shut and apear to be locked by some demon force.

We see the AV NERD scrambling with a bundle of un plugged cables, obviously confused by the fact that the music is playing but nothing is plugged in. Suddenly he is electrified- lit up like a christmas tree.

We see the GYM TEACHER scrambling around in the crowd, trying to find a way out. he spins around and we reveal the VARSITY BASEBALL TEAM all in tuxedos but wearing their baseball caps (matching the GYM TEACHERs) They have become demonized and the BATTER in the center of the row swings a bat and demolishes the head of the GYM TEACHER.

We see the SECRETARY toss students aside and jump a table, only to lose her footing and impail her eye with the pen she so diligently carries with her.

We see the PRINCIPAL on his hands and knees in the crowd.

PRINCIPAL

My glasses, where are my glasses?!

The PRINCIPAL recovers his glasses and stands, looking toward the stage. We see JERRY point his guitar neck at the PRINCIPAL and let lose a visible wave of rock n roll terror- frying the PRINCIPAL until he not more than a smoldering skeleton.

We see JOHNNY TENDER and BETTY BOPPER holding one anothers fore arms and looking around in fear.

JOHNNY TENDER

Dont worry babe, ill get us outa this.

BETTY BOPPER

Baby! LOOK!

Betty bopper points to JOHNNY TENDERS corsage which is now sprouting a carnivorous murder pant. it hisses and bites his neck releasing an ocean of blood. BETTY BOPPER shrieks and quivers as her crown grows bejeweled tentacles and strangles her blue.