FUNK MOONBEAM’S HEIDI HIGH
CY NOTE: Herewith the next instalment of Funk Moonbeam’s rock n roll road odyssey, transcribed from original manuscripts.
I hadn’t slept for three days straight by the time I found Bourg-St-Pierre in search of Heidi. The air is so thin at this altitude that I almost drove the Red Shark into the packs of St Bernards roaming freely down the lanes. I was fresh out of ether, painkillers and deodorant and so had no option but to see off the Grey Goose that I’d recently sourced from from an unattended liquor wagon. The bats were back in my vision and every time I thought of Ace all I could see was Tiff’s jaundiced eyes bursting from their sockets as he drilled her over my mixing desk. I wished that I’d used the baseball bat on him (instead of attacking him with a lampshade), but that was all history now.
My various wounds were twistin me outta shape when I pulled up at the address that the Samoan attorney had given me from his jail cell. God I was missin that big bastard more than I’d ever imagined possible. Although it was meant to be July I was shakin like a rattlesnake’s tail as I knocked on Heidi’s door, well aware that this was my last chance to straighten myself out with an access all areas makeover.
Holy Jesus, when Heidi opened the door I was rendered blind and mute for over a minute by her powerful dimensions. During that agonising silence she was clearly judging me (wide eyes, hand to mouth, hand covering nose etc) but luckily she had yet to know me long enough to hate me. Things got more regular when I managed to say (as advised) that the Samoan had sent me. This was a knockout move. Heidi giggled, and then we laughed a bit about my stained jogging pants (don’t ask how I came by them bastards), my blood caked fingers, the half empty magnum of Grey Goose and the tears that wouldn’t stop pouring out of me.
By the time she felt confident enough to let me in her basement apartment I was craving a deep snort of ether more than at any previous point in my life. Instead of doing the decent thing, Heidi shepherded me into her miniature kitchen. She insisted on boiling me up a toxic brew of teas from the orient. I noticed the microwave clock. It was early. Heidi wore a silk Kimono of a quality rarely seen in Switzerland. Her blond hair was the equal even of Ace’s glorious mane and for the first time I realised that I was in the hands of a master. Standing nose to nose in that cramped space I spilled my guts about the band, how I had to make peace with Ace and Tiff and get to the Ethereal festival in Rome where we could showcase my album (Magnolia Glock) and hit the big time. Heidi had heard it all before a million times. I was not the first lost soul rock rebel to have crossed her threshold in search of salvation. She clasped my face, our foreheads touched. I was in and out of a trance, confessing all my sins, cleansing my mind before this powerful nineteen year old guru.
Then, in a moment of maximum connection she hit me with the following:
“Superstar, where you from, how’s it going? I know you, gotta clue what you’re doing? You can play brand new to all the other chicks out here but I know what you are, what you are, baby.
Look at you, gettin more than just re-up baby, you got all the puppets with their strings up; fakin like a good one, but I call ‘em like I see ‘em. I know what you are, what you are, baby.”
I was on my knees, head in hands; how could she know me so thoroughly after only an hour or two of intense head holding? Then she continued with the ultimate truth.
“Womaniser! Woman-womaniser. You’re a womaniser. Oh, womaniser. Oh you’re a womaniser, you, you, you are. You, you, you are! Womaniser, womaniser, womaniser!”
I was terrified. What was she accusin me of? Holy shit, would I ever leave this dark place? Heidi’s face softened.
“You got me goin. you’re oh-so charmin. But I can’t do it, u womaniser.”
I begged Heidi to forgive me of whatever it was she knew I was guilty of. I begged her to lay her healin hands on me, just like the Samoan had said she would.
“Daddy-O,” continued Heidi after turning on the stereo (Guns n’ Roses) so loud that she was shoutin, “you got the swagger of a champion. Too bad for you, just can’t find the right companion. I guess when you have one too many, makes it hard. Could be easy. Who you are, that’s who you are baby.”
This reference to me bein a champion got my hopes up, I don’t mind admittin that much, but Heidi’s cruel mind play took a dark twist.
“Lollipop, must mistake me; you’re a sucker to think that I would be a victim not another. Say it, play it how you wanna. But no way I’m ever gonna fall for you, never you, baby.”
Things were movin fast. All the drug abuse and sleep starvation had me trippin out like an adrenochrome fiend. I was kissin Heidi’s feet and legs as Welcome to the Jungle rocked the joint. I was screaming that I didn’t plan to make Heidi my victim, that I loved Ace La Rouge for the sake of all that is holy. The hard stone floor hurt my fists as I beat it.
“Maybe if we lived in different worlds (womaniser, womaniser, WOMANISER) it would be all good, and maybe I could be ya girl. But I can’t…”
Then Heidi left me as I writhed on that cold kitchen floor amongst rotting schnitzel, dog food and cat litter.
I almost certainly blacked out, believing that the Samoan had let me down for the first time. Begging Heidi to straighten me out with a hardcore makeover so I could get the band back together and find eternal happiness had failed. It was dark when my eyes opened. Red light bulbs transformed the flat into a vision of hell and the black walls ran with blood. A glitter ball cast strange shapes, the place reeked of lavender or lillies and through all this strode Heidi, dressed as I had never imagined possible.
She was now at least six foot five in thigh high black leather stack heeled military boots. Only her eyes and mouth were visible beneath the leather premium locking slave hood with snap on leather gag. Other that that she was naked except for the locking spreader bars between her ankles and what looked like a chest restraint belt, leather bicep arm binders with opera gloves, a zippered eyeless (total sensory deprivation) hood, a stainless steel anal hook, Derby-style handcuffs, a steel cock and balls shackle and a heavy steel collar with attached cuffs; all of which was slung her her shoulder and presumably for my benefit.
I jumped to my feet and made for the door. It was tripple bolted. The stereo was pumping out Megadeth. And Heidi came for me (no small achievement in those spreaders!), pointing to an open door…
CY footnote: I am now recovering from the above revelations. Once my strength returns I will transcribe the next part of Funk’s mangled manuscript notes. See you next time.
