11/06: Nine Inch Nails and Jane's Addiction Review
Okay dokey fans out there, here's the tale of the Nine Inch Nails and Jane's Addiction tour. May 27-28, 2009.
It's a bit long, and of course it is mine.
No reprinting without consent from me.
Characters and their likeness to real humans are purely coincidental.
Ask before you assume.
---------------------------
The trip's concept was simple enough - cross the border, infiltrate the native crowd, and rock out to Nine Inch Nails and Jane's Addiction. As with all plans a certain amount of fluidity is necessary to survive. Fluidity and wits. A bucket full of wits. Maybe booze. Yeah.. Definitely booze.
The departure day was busy. I was cleaning my joint up in case I was not to return, removing trash in hopes to starve out the rats, and generally keeping busy. I gather my phat roll of cash (it's all about the Jackson's baby!), ran some errands, and waited for my Attorney. I was pacing inside and outside glaring ominously at the steel blue sky. A few angry menaces of my fist at the sky I cursed it if there was to be rain south.
After a quick game of Team Fortress 2 my Attorney *finally* rang affirming his arrival for pickup.
Rock'n.
I double checked my dufflebag for the appropriate amount of hand guns, bullets, and bottle rockets knowing this might get hairy.
I toss my duffle bag in the back and we hit the road. Getting out of town was a bit more difficult than expected, but once the interstate opened up the miles rolled by. That is, until we hit the first of three crap ass construction points. Yeah, the roads were shit getting out of town, but the funneling everyone to the east side of the interstate was atrocious. After each chunk opened up my Attorney would engage warp speed and juke the lumbering hulks of the other cars. His reflexes honed by years of deep space navigation and accelerated drug use. I was apprehensive at first, but slowly sank into the webbing of my chair and was able to predict the subtle twitches that sent us coursing through one lane and back again.
The further we traveled into hostile territory my eyes adapted to the blur that was out my window and I began to notice a disturbing trend. The amount of road kill on the road was past the generally accepted level and started to raise a concern. Why had all these animals tossed their lives to the mercy of the traffic? Was there some trouble their primal senses picked up that we were too evolved to hear? Were they the precursors to a terrible wave of zombie attacks? Had they simply been drove insane by the sounds of the mouth breathing goats slowly making their way north? I know it was the rat fink b'Rock. Yes, it must be this maddening hum of 'change' that has finally done these poor creatures in. How long can it last? Can we?
Three times I noticed dark splotches on the horizon. As we drove through the grizzly horror was epic. Deer carcasses smeared across two lanes of interstate traffic as if some young holligan sliced open their sun bloated bellies stash satchels of dyno-mite. What must have been a geyser of feted meat, congealed blood, and maggots left the twenty foot red smears on the road. We should turn back! These clearly are tribal warning signs of the primitive culture warning against further intrusions into their territory. My Attorney shook his head slowly and eased the engine past a hundred and twenty. Maybe if we speed by fast enough we can catch the savages before they know what hit them. This plan has to work lest we end up like our carnivores friends.
I dozed as my Attorney sliced through traffic. In the distances I swore I heard the drums of war searching for us.
I jostled awake to see the sign for 'Oregon' blaze by. I cautiously eyed my Attorney. How long had I been out? In some drug fueled bend on reality and addiction to the road did he take us to the pacific coast? If so what have we done on the way there? I can only assume a trail of broken dreams, people, and bottles lapped the edges of our mad path. Shit, Fuck. This could get hairy.
My Attorney smelled the question and began to tell the ultimately pathetic tale of the folk in Oregon, MO.
The passenger manifest was one of the seediest I have heard. Murders, rapists, horse thieves, and cutthroats. Most were not especially bright and thus struck out to the west coast - the farthest point from their problems. It seems they got only so far, declared this spot Oregon, and settled in. The re-res carved out their niche and proceeded to raze caravans as they went by. A slightly more industrious group of mouth-breathing-degenerates struck out farther looking for the coast. They maybe came another forty miles and gave up. Their educated leader declared this town 'Faucet'. A sad tale, but a lesson to be learned - if your conestoga wagon train is lead by a drooling idiot with a bucket on his head you might want to wait for the next one.
We slid into the arterial flow of downtown KC traffic in no time. I kept to the shaded and cover when traversing the lobby; eyes darting about. Lord knows these beasts may attack from above! The place checked out to be fairly secure and with a cultured clientele. Maybe I can relax. My Attorney made the arrangements while I wandered over to the piano. The pianist was obscured by the raised cover, so I rotated around to catch his face. I sucked air through my teeth - a blasted old goat in a moth bitten tuxedo was playing! Bastards! His rhumetatic eyes were staring off into the distance as he softly bleated some nameless tune. I fumbled for the catch to release my revolver, but my Attorney pushed me towards the elevator. Some unseen asshole was screaming nonsensical sentences and people were stopping to stare. Lunatics!
The room was adequate and well stocked with citrus fruits. I gave them a cursory glance as we made for the back route to the garage. It was time to dine! My Attorney took us through some walk way that smell vaguely of piss and disinfectant. There were open views of the wage slaves and their pathetic cubes. At first I thought we were going to the Crayola Cafe', but was supremely let down when we dined in some boxcar.
I threw a wad of turkish lira at the waitress and we stormed out into the night with the vague direction of the concert.
The line was expectedly long with the frequent stops giving the street vendors time to peddle second rate tshirts. My only hope was the line would jump and catch one of these capitalistic deer in the grill of a yukon.
The grass parking was adequate with the exception of the swallows dive bombing the bugs rising up. We were in the heart of some jungle it seemed. The trek to the gate felt like the spice roads of old; small pockets of people merging into one torrent of anticipation. We opted for the longer route on the far side of the compound, and passed security. They did not find the carbon-plastic lasgun nor the monofilament knives on my person. Some how the imbecile missed the venerable science lab of chemicals and drugs on my Attorney. Their near sightedness probably saved their lives.
The concert was fairly amazing on a few levels. First my Attorney found us key seats with easy access to the main through fairs. This played in integral part in booze procurement and funnel cake consumption. A tip of the hat for that.
Second the Nine Inch Nails rock orgy was bitter sweet - the claim by Trent was this is their last tour. While this wasn't the visual buffet that last November was, it was a solid performance.
Third - to see Jane's Addiction in one location playing together was great. Dave Navarro seemed a bit off on the left stage by himself, but that's cool man. You can totally do what you like.
The bass beats were making me antsy to jump into a mosh pit. THe only downer was everyone was confined to their own seats. *sigh* This one time I'll rock out my three feet of space.
The Jane's Addiction back third was great. I got to recline in my seat, relax with my beer, and internally rock out. About then the misting rain started and made a great play with the lights. My Attorney made some pointed tort at my chill-laxing position during that show, and all I could do was give him the finger. This was happiness.. well a bit moist.. but happiness none the less.
With the precision of a blind swiss watch maker the last steel drum notes of 'Jane Says' signaled the house lights on and everyone fleeing to the exit. This is where things get hairy - the unwashed masses give up their individual control and go straight for herd mentality. The slightest twig name will send them stampeding into the wrought iron gates crushing anyone between them. I eased the safety off my arm cannon, and loosened it in the docker clutch. Just incase one of these savage mouth breathing Missourians get up in our grill.
My Attorney torched the grass and we were back at the hotel in record time. The streets become.. unsafe after dark and this close to the witching hour doubly so. Case in point we saw and old man in a wheel chair crossing against traffic clocking ten miles an hour. What he was being chased from, or if he was cursing my Attorney for not ending his demon haunted dreams we will never know.
I changed out of my soggy gear and threw on a nice clean set of bro clothes, and we grabbed an armed transport the power and light district. To my Attorney's dismay the Maker's Mark bar was closed for the night. A cursory glance around showed only three joints open - some live music on the bottom level with hipsters dancing, a flesh fair dance club, and a piano bar. My bro clothes were not up to par for the meat market so we settled into the loathsome piano bar.
After a few shots and mixed drinks my Attorney turned to 86oz buckets of long island mix. The waiter was perplexed why one would guzzle a bucket himself and not use it as a social experiment. I had designs on making my Attorney wear the bucket home as a helmet to prevent head trauma. Life is complicated that way.
An hour or so into the hellish b-game piano players my Attorney spies an interest marvel - a midget in a kilt wanders into the bar and back flips into a bar stool. What the hell? What sort of rat bastard would spike our drinks with hallucinogenics - outside those procured by my Doctor?
It took me a full fifteen minutes to affirm this was no hallucination. We had an angry leprechaun in here dressed as a Scotsman. Reality was slowly coalescing back into a fashion I could grasp before I was about to grab his mythical creature and toss him in the air. Bad hands.. bad!
My synapses were attempting to link this oracle like clue to the reality of the hell I am in, but the train derailed as I saw two lithe nymphs take the stage. I have no idea one could paint on pants to an ass that tiny, but by god some man did! The two gyrated in directions that crossed an extra plane of moment. Like a siren they drew the crowd in. Piano players missed keys, bartenders dropped drinks, and men missed chairs.
Like a punch in the gooch, the spell was ruined. A Rosanne Barr look alike (in her fat slobish stage of life) was out in front of them. I could not tell if she needed a snack or just that attention. Her homely blonde life partner was pissed and tried to drag her out of the bar, but a shove of a meaty fist warded off the salvation of dignity.
My Attorney and I were now stuck trying to block out the peek-a-boo gut and concentrate on the hot T&A behind Not-Rosanne, but I know I was failing. It was too much of a contrast; too much of a shock.
Finally the S.O. lured the beast out with a trail of sugar cubes, and my Attorney and I entertained the two hotties while the stage's karma was being steam cleaned. The two were traveling companions going Californi-way. Heather, the blonde, was from Hotlanta. She grew tired of the humidity and started walking to the Northwest where she can pursue a career as a barista in a poetry hut. Clearly the more brash and road worn Heather had accomplished some high school before she left and started walking.
The brunette was Temperance. She fled a life of inbred poverty from a remote Appalachian town in Tennessee. The town was all related and somehow she bypassed the genetic pitfalls that accompany such exotic locations. She was barely literate, but heard of the Pacific Coast Highway and fled a life as a baby factory.
Working her way through truck stops and dive bars she hooked up with Heather and both found company agreeable.
My Attorney raised a wobbly hand to yell "Objection! We'll sue those bastards for pain and suffering!". Indeed. His heart may be in the right spot, but his brain was afloat in a sea of long island mix.
The girls explained their trip was arduous - and made doubly so without a map or compass to guide them. They have been backtracking more than the forward progression, but this sort of trip is not without survival mechanisms. The girls admit to being "professionals" and make a nod to the three portly men a table behind us. Three men who were more than double the age of the girls and more than likely have daughters the same age as this pair. Who knows the carnal lust these pot bellied behemoths pent up during tedious board meetings and rote dinners. I chuckle knowing Temperance fled the reality of that lust only to be caught in the same scenario but with civilized transference.
The stage was clean, and the girls sprinted to continue their performance. Cie la vie. One of the dollar daddies took a front row seat and snapped picture after picture on his cellphone. This freak radiated an unusually high level of spook with a hint of suburban serial killer. Another of the group caught the scent of something afoot and proceeded to pick a fight with his companion. The third Dollar Daddy joined in to what was a gasping thirty seconds of shoving, yelling, and biting. With a flounce the girls left and their benefactors followed.
The bar was closing up show, and I grabbed my Attorney knowing he was important for something. A car? Access to my "vitiams" from my Doctor? A kidney? The process to ascertain the answer was taxing and instead I concentrated on sloshing to to a cab.
Back at the hotel it was quiet. Too damn quiet. We made our way through the garage and past the car. I took pause to make sure nothing lurked in the shadows ready to thieve our wallets or sell us condos. The steady hum of the sodium lights was it. Something isn't right. We made our way through the orange islands of light. The blue florescent lights of the elevator provided a disturbing contrast.
Wait.
what was that?
I swore I hear the meaty flap of a bare foot on concert. I prop up my Attorney and strain to hear over my Attorney's drunken babbling. There it was again. My Attorney kept repeating "zombies run", and I hissed "no you fool - they shamble". Then it dawns on me - the drunk bastard was right! I mistook the two words as one sentence when it was a warning and a command.
Zombies! Run!
Oh - ho - ho.. even under duress of liver failing volumes of alcohol my Attorney's senses are unparallel. I drag him to the elevator and slam the call button. The machine lazily starts up and I begin to doubt if we can get in before they arrive. Down the ramp I see the leading edge of the herd. I whip out my pistol and start firing into the mix. There were too many... too many. In a fit of spectacul-l-l-l-l-lar my Attorney peppers the crowd with bottle rockets.
What? Where did that sly fucker find such items? No time to worry about the present - the sound, light, and general confusion caused by the rockets derail the herd enough to get us into the elevator and ride to safer levels.
In a flurry of primary attacks and blankets I end up on the floor. what? I untangled my appendages and survey the damage to the room. Strange - there is none. Damage that is; the room, for the moment, most certainly is here. My Attorney slept in his cloths with the exception of one show resting on the pillow beside him.
I flip on the Scripps Spelling Bee and proceed to clean the room out. I finish quickly with the items not nailed down, and start unscrewing those that are.
My Attorney begins to stir and crawls to the bathroom. It sounds of a small tornado in the bathroom, and an hour later he emerges with a spring in his step and pimping the joys of jasmine and lavender body scrub.
We book out of the hotel and crammed our loot in the trunk. A quick lunch of burritos and salsa we hunted for the right road home. I started to see suspicious vehicles pepper the streets. Shit. The savages were on to us! My Attorney gunned his engine and we took off to what, after the third missed turn, was the right road home. I crowed with joy as we busted through a blockade of bodies and burning barrels. "Fuck you gently with a chainsaw!" I yelled as we merged into the traffic. I had a minute before the turbines wound up and my Attorney engaged the NOS. I scrambled through the sunroof and unleashed two salvos of bottle rockets - the last of our stock - at the crowd fading in the distance.
Goat worshiping savages.
It's a bit long, and of course it is mine.
No reprinting without consent from me.
Characters and their likeness to real humans are purely coincidental.
Ask before you assume.
---------------------------
The trip's concept was simple enough - cross the border, infiltrate the native crowd, and rock out to Nine Inch Nails and Jane's Addiction. As with all plans a certain amount of fluidity is necessary to survive. Fluidity and wits. A bucket full of wits. Maybe booze. Yeah.. Definitely booze.
The departure day was busy. I was cleaning my joint up in case I was not to return, removing trash in hopes to starve out the rats, and generally keeping busy. I gather my phat roll of cash (it's all about the Jackson's baby!), ran some errands, and waited for my Attorney. I was pacing inside and outside glaring ominously at the steel blue sky. A few angry menaces of my fist at the sky I cursed it if there was to be rain south.
After a quick game of Team Fortress 2 my Attorney *finally* rang affirming his arrival for pickup.
Rock'n.
I double checked my dufflebag for the appropriate amount of hand guns, bullets, and bottle rockets knowing this might get hairy.
I toss my duffle bag in the back and we hit the road. Getting out of town was a bit more difficult than expected, but once the interstate opened up the miles rolled by. That is, until we hit the first of three crap ass construction points. Yeah, the roads were shit getting out of town, but the funneling everyone to the east side of the interstate was atrocious. After each chunk opened up my Attorney would engage warp speed and juke the lumbering hulks of the other cars. His reflexes honed by years of deep space navigation and accelerated drug use. I was apprehensive at first, but slowly sank into the webbing of my chair and was able to predict the subtle twitches that sent us coursing through one lane and back again.
The further we traveled into hostile territory my eyes adapted to the blur that was out my window and I began to notice a disturbing trend. The amount of road kill on the road was past the generally accepted level and started to raise a concern. Why had all these animals tossed their lives to the mercy of the traffic? Was there some trouble their primal senses picked up that we were too evolved to hear? Were they the precursors to a terrible wave of zombie attacks? Had they simply been drove insane by the sounds of the mouth breathing goats slowly making their way north? I know it was the rat fink b'Rock. Yes, it must be this maddening hum of 'change' that has finally done these poor creatures in. How long can it last? Can we?
Three times I noticed dark splotches on the horizon. As we drove through the grizzly horror was epic. Deer carcasses smeared across two lanes of interstate traffic as if some young holligan sliced open their sun bloated bellies stash satchels of dyno-mite. What must have been a geyser of feted meat, congealed blood, and maggots left the twenty foot red smears on the road. We should turn back! These clearly are tribal warning signs of the primitive culture warning against further intrusions into their territory. My Attorney shook his head slowly and eased the engine past a hundred and twenty. Maybe if we speed by fast enough we can catch the savages before they know what hit them. This plan has to work lest we end up like our carnivores friends.
I dozed as my Attorney sliced through traffic. In the distances I swore I heard the drums of war searching for us.
I jostled awake to see the sign for 'Oregon' blaze by. I cautiously eyed my Attorney. How long had I been out? In some drug fueled bend on reality and addiction to the road did he take us to the pacific coast? If so what have we done on the way there? I can only assume a trail of broken dreams, people, and bottles lapped the edges of our mad path. Shit, Fuck. This could get hairy.
My Attorney smelled the question and began to tell the ultimately pathetic tale of the folk in Oregon, MO.
The passenger manifest was one of the seediest I have heard. Murders, rapists, horse thieves, and cutthroats. Most were not especially bright and thus struck out to the west coast - the farthest point from their problems. It seems they got only so far, declared this spot Oregon, and settled in. The re-res carved out their niche and proceeded to raze caravans as they went by. A slightly more industrious group of mouth-breathing-degenerates struck out farther looking for the coast. They maybe came another forty miles and gave up. Their educated leader declared this town 'Faucet'. A sad tale, but a lesson to be learned - if your conestoga wagon train is lead by a drooling idiot with a bucket on his head you might want to wait for the next one.
We slid into the arterial flow of downtown KC traffic in no time. I kept to the shaded and cover when traversing the lobby; eyes darting about. Lord knows these beasts may attack from above! The place checked out to be fairly secure and with a cultured clientele. Maybe I can relax. My Attorney made the arrangements while I wandered over to the piano. The pianist was obscured by the raised cover, so I rotated around to catch his face. I sucked air through my teeth - a blasted old goat in a moth bitten tuxedo was playing! Bastards! His rhumetatic eyes were staring off into the distance as he softly bleated some nameless tune. I fumbled for the catch to release my revolver, but my Attorney pushed me towards the elevator. Some unseen asshole was screaming nonsensical sentences and people were stopping to stare. Lunatics!
The room was adequate and well stocked with citrus fruits. I gave them a cursory glance as we made for the back route to the garage. It was time to dine! My Attorney took us through some walk way that smell vaguely of piss and disinfectant. There were open views of the wage slaves and their pathetic cubes. At first I thought we were going to the Crayola Cafe', but was supremely let down when we dined in some boxcar.
I threw a wad of turkish lira at the waitress and we stormed out into the night with the vague direction of the concert.
The line was expectedly long with the frequent stops giving the street vendors time to peddle second rate tshirts. My only hope was the line would jump and catch one of these capitalistic deer in the grill of a yukon.
The grass parking was adequate with the exception of the swallows dive bombing the bugs rising up. We were in the heart of some jungle it seemed. The trek to the gate felt like the spice roads of old; small pockets of people merging into one torrent of anticipation. We opted for the longer route on the far side of the compound, and passed security. They did not find the carbon-plastic lasgun nor the monofilament knives on my person. Some how the imbecile missed the venerable science lab of chemicals and drugs on my Attorney. Their near sightedness probably saved their lives.
The concert was fairly amazing on a few levels. First my Attorney found us key seats with easy access to the main through fairs. This played in integral part in booze procurement and funnel cake consumption. A tip of the hat for that.
Second the Nine Inch Nails rock orgy was bitter sweet - the claim by Trent was this is their last tour. While this wasn't the visual buffet that last November was, it was a solid performance.
Third - to see Jane's Addiction in one location playing together was great. Dave Navarro seemed a bit off on the left stage by himself, but that's cool man. You can totally do what you like.
The bass beats were making me antsy to jump into a mosh pit. THe only downer was everyone was confined to their own seats. *sigh* This one time I'll rock out my three feet of space.
The Jane's Addiction back third was great. I got to recline in my seat, relax with my beer, and internally rock out. About then the misting rain started and made a great play with the lights. My Attorney made some pointed tort at my chill-laxing position during that show, and all I could do was give him the finger. This was happiness.. well a bit moist.. but happiness none the less.
With the precision of a blind swiss watch maker the last steel drum notes of 'Jane Says' signaled the house lights on and everyone fleeing to the exit. This is where things get hairy - the unwashed masses give up their individual control and go straight for herd mentality. The slightest twig name will send them stampeding into the wrought iron gates crushing anyone between them. I eased the safety off my arm cannon, and loosened it in the docker clutch. Just incase one of these savage mouth breathing Missourians get up in our grill.
My Attorney torched the grass and we were back at the hotel in record time. The streets become.. unsafe after dark and this close to the witching hour doubly so. Case in point we saw and old man in a wheel chair crossing against traffic clocking ten miles an hour. What he was being chased from, or if he was cursing my Attorney for not ending his demon haunted dreams we will never know.
I changed out of my soggy gear and threw on a nice clean set of bro clothes, and we grabbed an armed transport the power and light district. To my Attorney's dismay the Maker's Mark bar was closed for the night. A cursory glance around showed only three joints open - some live music on the bottom level with hipsters dancing, a flesh fair dance club, and a piano bar. My bro clothes were not up to par for the meat market so we settled into the loathsome piano bar.
After a few shots and mixed drinks my Attorney turned to 86oz buckets of long island mix. The waiter was perplexed why one would guzzle a bucket himself and not use it as a social experiment. I had designs on making my Attorney wear the bucket home as a helmet to prevent head trauma. Life is complicated that way.
An hour or so into the hellish b-game piano players my Attorney spies an interest marvel - a midget in a kilt wanders into the bar and back flips into a bar stool. What the hell? What sort of rat bastard would spike our drinks with hallucinogenics - outside those procured by my Doctor?
It took me a full fifteen minutes to affirm this was no hallucination. We had an angry leprechaun in here dressed as a Scotsman. Reality was slowly coalescing back into a fashion I could grasp before I was about to grab his mythical creature and toss him in the air. Bad hands.. bad!
My synapses were attempting to link this oracle like clue to the reality of the hell I am in, but the train derailed as I saw two lithe nymphs take the stage. I have no idea one could paint on pants to an ass that tiny, but by god some man did! The two gyrated in directions that crossed an extra plane of moment. Like a siren they drew the crowd in. Piano players missed keys, bartenders dropped drinks, and men missed chairs.
Like a punch in the gooch, the spell was ruined. A Rosanne Barr look alike (in her fat slobish stage of life) was out in front of them. I could not tell if she needed a snack or just that attention. Her homely blonde life partner was pissed and tried to drag her out of the bar, but a shove of a meaty fist warded off the salvation of dignity.
My Attorney and I were now stuck trying to block out the peek-a-boo gut and concentrate on the hot T&A behind Not-Rosanne, but I know I was failing. It was too much of a contrast; too much of a shock.
Finally the S.O. lured the beast out with a trail of sugar cubes, and my Attorney and I entertained the two hotties while the stage's karma was being steam cleaned. The two were traveling companions going Californi-way. Heather, the blonde, was from Hotlanta. She grew tired of the humidity and started walking to the Northwest where she can pursue a career as a barista in a poetry hut. Clearly the more brash and road worn Heather had accomplished some high school before she left and started walking.
The brunette was Temperance. She fled a life of inbred poverty from a remote Appalachian town in Tennessee. The town was all related and somehow she bypassed the genetic pitfalls that accompany such exotic locations. She was barely literate, but heard of the Pacific Coast Highway and fled a life as a baby factory.
Working her way through truck stops and dive bars she hooked up with Heather and both found company agreeable.
My Attorney raised a wobbly hand to yell "Objection! We'll sue those bastards for pain and suffering!". Indeed. His heart may be in the right spot, but his brain was afloat in a sea of long island mix.
The girls explained their trip was arduous - and made doubly so without a map or compass to guide them. They have been backtracking more than the forward progression, but this sort of trip is not without survival mechanisms. The girls admit to being "professionals" and make a nod to the three portly men a table behind us. Three men who were more than double the age of the girls and more than likely have daughters the same age as this pair. Who knows the carnal lust these pot bellied behemoths pent up during tedious board meetings and rote dinners. I chuckle knowing Temperance fled the reality of that lust only to be caught in the same scenario but with civilized transference.
The stage was clean, and the girls sprinted to continue their performance. Cie la vie. One of the dollar daddies took a front row seat and snapped picture after picture on his cellphone. This freak radiated an unusually high level of spook with a hint of suburban serial killer. Another of the group caught the scent of something afoot and proceeded to pick a fight with his companion. The third Dollar Daddy joined in to what was a gasping thirty seconds of shoving, yelling, and biting. With a flounce the girls left and their benefactors followed.
The bar was closing up show, and I grabbed my Attorney knowing he was important for something. A car? Access to my "vitiams" from my Doctor? A kidney? The process to ascertain the answer was taxing and instead I concentrated on sloshing to to a cab.
Back at the hotel it was quiet. Too damn quiet. We made our way through the garage and past the car. I took pause to make sure nothing lurked in the shadows ready to thieve our wallets or sell us condos. The steady hum of the sodium lights was it. Something isn't right. We made our way through the orange islands of light. The blue florescent lights of the elevator provided a disturbing contrast.
Wait.
what was that?
I swore I hear the meaty flap of a bare foot on concert. I prop up my Attorney and strain to hear over my Attorney's drunken babbling. There it was again. My Attorney kept repeating "zombies run", and I hissed "no you fool - they shamble". Then it dawns on me - the drunk bastard was right! I mistook the two words as one sentence when it was a warning and a command.
Zombies! Run!
Oh - ho - ho.. even under duress of liver failing volumes of alcohol my Attorney's senses are unparallel. I drag him to the elevator and slam the call button. The machine lazily starts up and I begin to doubt if we can get in before they arrive. Down the ramp I see the leading edge of the herd. I whip out my pistol and start firing into the mix. There were too many... too many. In a fit of spectacul-l-l-l-l-lar my Attorney peppers the crowd with bottle rockets.
What? Where did that sly fucker find such items? No time to worry about the present - the sound, light, and general confusion caused by the rockets derail the herd enough to get us into the elevator and ride to safer levels.
In a flurry of primary attacks and blankets I end up on the floor. what? I untangled my appendages and survey the damage to the room. Strange - there is none. Damage that is; the room, for the moment, most certainly is here. My Attorney slept in his cloths with the exception of one show resting on the pillow beside him.
I flip on the Scripps Spelling Bee and proceed to clean the room out. I finish quickly with the items not nailed down, and start unscrewing those that are.
My Attorney begins to stir and crawls to the bathroom. It sounds of a small tornado in the bathroom, and an hour later he emerges with a spring in his step and pimping the joys of jasmine and lavender body scrub.
We book out of the hotel and crammed our loot in the trunk. A quick lunch of burritos and salsa we hunted for the right road home. I started to see suspicious vehicles pepper the streets. Shit. The savages were on to us! My Attorney gunned his engine and we took off to what, after the third missed turn, was the right road home. I crowed with joy as we busted through a blockade of bodies and burning barrels. "Fuck you gently with a chainsaw!" I yelled as we merged into the traffic. I had a minute before the turbines wound up and my Attorney engaged the NOS. I scrambled through the sunroof and unleashed two salvos of bottle rockets - the last of our stock - at the crowd fading in the distance.
Goat worshiping savages.
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Your Biggest Fan wrote:
You missed your calling as a Post-Postmodern Upbeat Generation Writer. I am urging you to get on with your novel and begin your road to Updike like fame and massive output.
If you do this, I will complete my doctorate and make you the subject of my dissertation.
I am sure your attorney can negotiate a very lucrative book deal for you just based on the genius of this blog entry.
i am sure that you found being dive bombed by swallows quite heart stopping. I know I would have. In fact, I suspect that much of the road kill you saw on your way down were victims of swallows chasing helpless wildlife into on coming traffic. Birds are evil.
Glad you stayed out of the mosh pit, it a good place to have an eye poked out.
Keep writing your fans love it!!!!!!