Christian Yorke

A WRITER'S TWISTED WEB

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When will I, will I be famous?

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After my last confession I grabbed my Gretsch and hit the road. The scene with Tiff Pennisbrith in T Bar had bent my soul badly out of shape. My music, my band, Axl (my pet rattlesnake) and the cops could all go to hell. I was so stoked that I couldn’t even be bothered to burn the Magnolia Glock master tapes, but I did find time of source a gallon of ether and a range of clean(ish) hankies.

As I trudged down some rain lashed path I remembered the Samoan’s kind words back in the slammer. Damn the consequences! I had to find Tiff’s uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen and steal his red ’71 Chevrolet Impala. That way I might still get to Rome, hook up with Stockton and do a deal to bring my music to the world.

After hours of painful trudging some hot chalet girls, who owed me about a million favours (they like ether even more me), drove me half way to Montreux. It was a tight squeeze and hotter than Satan’s ass crack in the back of that Fiat but they knew how to party. Man they knew how to work their private muscles. It was like a rodeo until the lights went out.

I woke up hours, or days later spitting blood. My left eye was sealed shut. I was coughing up blood as well. My Gretsch was gone, as was my ether. Those musky bitches had screwed me over bad style. All those fanny hags had left me was my Remixdakickz black splash custom Air Force One sneakers, Rocawear “Block Party” jeans, Johnny Blaze hoodie, Sean John Hill denim jacket, Chinchilla coat and Angorra bucket hat. Man I was boilin alive. My sweat started fizzin when I realised they’d f****d off with my gold plated icey highlighted cross pendent and chain, my icey silvertone mic pendent and chain, my Coolio pendent and chain and my Jesus Head and Goldtone bracelet. Damn those jizz smudged vixens to hell and back.

As I crawled out from behind the dumpster I could feel that my balls had been comprehensively emptied. For my next mistake I dropped my jeans to check for further injury and a pack of street wise goons came at me, flashing their blades in the sun. Man, I took one hell of a beating. That night I busted into some grannie house and lifted a fist of francs and later found a bum who scored me some NASTY acid. That was one bad bastard night. Holy Jesus, I never knew bats came in so many colours. In the twisted grip of a trip I found a writing pad and a box of crayons and started bangin out some kind of diary that I’m now deciphering to bring this to you. I must have spoken to the Samoan, at least in my mind, because I’d scrawled out the followin discussion:

Funk-F***k you man, I’m dyin. Those p*****s screwed me real bad, real bad. I ain’t hangin in here. I’m on a bridge you flabby c**t. Yeah man, there’s shit loads of cars below ready to squash my lilly white ass all the way to Palookaville.

The Samoan: Cool your boots little one. Sounds like you need a hug. Imagine me there with you. Let me hug away your tears. You’re bigger than any of those chalet girls. You can’t let them break you, or the street wise gangsters who beat you senseless. Find your destiny, like I advised you. Get to the Ethereal festival in Rome in a ’71 convertible Chevrolet Impala, find Stockton and all your troubles will be far away. The world will queue up to suck your c**k when you are famous, it’s just a matter of time.

Funk-But look at me, I’m havin an out of body experience and the sun is cookin me! I ain’t got what it takes man, I ain’t gonna be a star, I’m a second rate shit fiddler.

The Samoan-You’re suitably at one with your body and the sun, yes you are! You’ve read Karl Marx and you’ve taught yourself to dance, you’re the best by far! But you keep asking the question, the one you’re not supposed to mention.