delieterkop

“No, its supposed to go buddu-bu-buddu-bu-buddu-bu on the tom-tom's, then the snare,” Lary dares command me.
“That's conventional. Besides you don't tell me the way to play it. You're the rookie. Listen...” I start an improvised drum fill, “hear that? When you hear the meter jump start your harmonic progression. Again, from the top,” I say, rolling my sticks off the drums, turning into a spider spinning a web. My arms strike nimbly, calculatedly, the drums. Dave grins plucking the double bass behind amaranthine shades, dressed in a Canadian suit; however, it doesn't compare to my hip striped turtleneck and leather vest.
“Wha-wha-chiki. Wha-wha-chiki. Wha-wha—”
Dave scolds Lary before I can “what the hell is that? That's not how it goes,” he says, “tread lightly ye who stepeth on these nerves.” We ebb into the zone, spinning my web, spinning my web.
“Duuuh, duuuh, dun-dunnu-dun-dun, dun-dunnu-dun-dun-duuuh,” for ****'s sake, I think, smashing my custom power ride cymbal. George, our manager, leaning on the marble top, close to the mike in the glass pane, asks “what's this **** you're trying out?” he drones on as I leave to the vending area. Dave follows me, “what's up?” He asks.
“This dude's got no sensibility I can't deal with it. He's just doing whatever he wants.”
“Yeah. He so lied about playing with Watch for Flying Jazz and North East Space Invasion at that bar on Western.”
“This guy is full of horse manure, there's no way he can play the material we need him to.”
“What's up?” Lary asks popping out of nowhere. Dave looks at me looking at the tiled floor waiting to speak.
“Get out, man. You suck.” Dave puts it to him lightly, “take your ****. Go.”
“I'll try harder,” Lary's constipated with insecurity, “just gimme a chance.”
“Wrong.” Dave says. Lary leaves.

“Tell me where. I'll give it to the other nipple by God.” I clutch the clippers tighter.
“Wait, no, oh god,” he croons, spurting blood on the floor by the other nipple already there. “I didn't do anything with your family, man, by God,” he gently commences sobbing.
A flashback. Now, when you spot an Iraqi with his family it is a game. I repeat, it is a game. He is playing a hunting game, you are the turkey. Don't gobble. Do not gobble. The sumbitch will I repeat will gobble you, smother you, cover you head to toe in bullets. Always, always, always, shoot to kill,” the Southern drawl drowns from my consciousness.
“Goddamn it tell me where!” My fingers curl, a fresh nipple pops, a fleshy fountain pen spurts my Denim jacket. Bloodcurdling tremors tear the air as a can opener.
That was useless, I think, leaving the house and the man and his constricted agony. I walk down the street, the sun under my feet, carrying me on. Always a good time for a drink. One lager please I tell my good man in the bar. “Always a good time for a drink,” I say to the fellow sitting beside me. Waaah-ha-ha-ha-haaaa, he cries. “Why are you crying fellow?”
“My wife is go-o-one. Waaah-haa, she's ****ing some... some... God damn it I'm so sick!” He echoes into the beer, face turned down.
“Look, forget about it! Why are we all here? Live a little,” I give him a pat, carrying the momentum of a brickbat as he slumps further into the beer, a great weight over his head.
“How can you say that? What if I said I killed and raped your family, man? Huh?”
The family man carries grenades. He will use any inconspicuous location to place them. Watch this slide. This lady is wearing this green straw hat as a sun shield. Perfectly ordinary. Correct? Incorrect! There are grenades here! In this cross section you can see the grenade there, resting atop the skull, balanced as an egg, straw hat resting atop. The grenade is as a bull in a stadium, waiting for you to say toro, toro, toro...”
“D'you hear me family man?”
“Hm, yes, party, you have a point, but you're missing mine.”
“Up yours, space case.”
“Want some peanuts?”
“No! You probably laced them!”
“They're right there in front of you, simply reach out, and enjoy them, I bet they've never tasted that good.”
“****ing get lost.”
“What do you tell the devil in hell?”
“Kill who took my wife! Please, make it all go away.”
“Request granted, drink, thy will be done.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” My party chugs.
“Ah. By the way what's your name? I'm—”
“Care to attend a party?”
“Too drunk, unsociable.” My party finishes the beer, “another!”
“Tonight, you and me dine. In a party, in hell.”
“No, I'm watching a black and white on my projector. If that bastard is dead tomorrow, it'll be you,” he slurs drunkenly and swings his arm in a buddy-buddy way.
I empty my bladder in the urinal, but my party's over, the devilish dog. Another day he'll have to live without his heart's desire.

__________________
get jiggy
with God
brush your teeth
with God