Music City Macabre: The Low Lying Lands Saga: Vol. 1 by Bob Williams Page A
Authors: Bob Williams
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the sixties coming from their weak guitars and blown out amps, but the guttural sounds of pure hell on stereo coming right from their bullshit mouths.
Take it back! Can you do that for me? Pick up the gun. Lock ‘n’ load! Breathe deep. Feel the power of peace and holiness live in your loins and in your veins. Take it back! Guns, knives, swords, bombs. Something. BH-2014 needs to be DEAD-2015. You feel me? Good. Make that disturbing sound become the sound of guns and the bang of shovel. Go after these freaks.
And King Freak himself. You know who I mean. Look, it’s time for sober me to make a sober evaluation of this situation. Kade, that’s who I was talking about.
First part you should know is that everyone’s fucked. If you are alive right now, you are fucked. Christmas is canceled. The Kentucky Derby is on indefinite hiatus. The powers that be are the powers that were. There’s a great tornado going through our fair land, passing through, leaving piles of bodies and shit everywhere and the glorious thing is that it’s really everywhere. Mexico. England. Asia. The spirits of Genghis Khan and Charles Manson fuel the death engine. So shoot a Freak for Doctor Midnite. Only way out is forward, through the bodies of the damned. It is biblical ragnarok. Take back what belongs to you! You tell ‘em this land is not for sale!
I’m gonna get out of this bunker, soon. And I’m going lead a crusade. Love and shotguns are the only weapons I got. I’m sick of that disturbing sound.
I can only do so much here in Pahrump though. Crissman can’t run for shit. I’ve seen it. It’s like watching a one legged child in Calcutta trying to wade through four feet of molasses. He’s really that slow.
But me. I got claws. I got dynamite. I can run a 5K in five minutes when I got the juice in me. I got machine guns and napalm and molotovs and these little drones that make a funny whiz bang sound when their .22 round goes off on your face. Let’s start to kill righteously. I’m ready. Shit. I was born almost ready and then made into a creature of the righteous kill from my years in the dirty service of the God-blessed Uncle Sam.
I think it’s time. I know it is. This is the moment for the grand crusade of light to come bursting forth. I am disturbed. It’s time you get disturbed. You get weird with me. I’m going on a crusade. Pahrump shall be liberated by the gun and the swords of my collection. I feel it in me. This is my time. The disturbing sound shall be reduced to a whimper and then nothing will be heard but the chorus of the righteous singing hymns to a bloody and triumphant firepower.
Let’s start making up a list of targets, shall we? You know who’s on the top of mine? King Freak.
Kade. I don’t know if he’s a Freak or not. He’s a son of a bitch though, isn’t he? Real hardcase. Kills children and shit. Women. Animals. Anything that moves. Well guess what, let’s start there. He’s in Music City right? What’s left of it?
God, I keep hearing about him. If I had all the powers of the night I turned into a fog so I could fly all the way across the country to appear in his window and rip off his head and use it as a fleshy toilet.
All right, somebody’s gotta put that motherfucker in the ground. I promise you I will. Pahrump’s never gonna forget when Doctor Midnite rips through with a lead hurricane and a napalm storm.
Pahrump’s never gonna forget. There’s gonna be happiness from now on. No more drinking for me. Just gunfights to indulge in and mass burials and finding someone responsible.
All right. But I can’t kill Kade in Nevada. And I want to. Somebody indulge me. I used to sign off by saying “Have a drink on Doctor Midnite. Peace out.” In the old days when my biggest worry was the FBI and not the apocalypse dudes out there.
Well, have a kill on me. Kade. Kade. I hope he’s listening. They always are. Well, guess what, chickenshit, the peasants are going hunt you down for sport.
Take it back! Can you do that for me? Pick up the gun. Lock ‘n’ load! Breathe deep. Feel the power of peace and holiness live in your loins and in your veins. Take it back! Guns, knives, swords, bombs. Something. BH-2014 needs to be DEAD-2015. You feel me? Good. Make that disturbing sound become the sound of guns and the bang of shovel. Go after these freaks.
And King Freak himself. You know who I mean. Look, it’s time for sober me to make a sober evaluation of this situation. Kade, that’s who I was talking about.
First part you should know is that everyone’s fucked. If you are alive right now, you are fucked. Christmas is canceled. The Kentucky Derby is on indefinite hiatus. The powers that be are the powers that were. There’s a great tornado going through our fair land, passing through, leaving piles of bodies and shit everywhere and the glorious thing is that it’s really everywhere. Mexico. England. Asia. The spirits of Genghis Khan and Charles Manson fuel the death engine. So shoot a Freak for Doctor Midnite. Only way out is forward, through the bodies of the damned. It is biblical ragnarok. Take back what belongs to you! You tell ‘em this land is not for sale!
I’m gonna get out of this bunker, soon. And I’m going lead a crusade. Love and shotguns are the only weapons I got. I’m sick of that disturbing sound.
I can only do so much here in Pahrump though. Crissman can’t run for shit. I’ve seen it. It’s like watching a one legged child in Calcutta trying to wade through four feet of molasses. He’s really that slow.
But me. I got claws. I got dynamite. I can run a 5K in five minutes when I got the juice in me. I got machine guns and napalm and molotovs and these little drones that make a funny whiz bang sound when their .22 round goes off on your face. Let’s start to kill righteously. I’m ready. Shit. I was born almost ready and then made into a creature of the righteous kill from my years in the dirty service of the God-blessed Uncle Sam.
I think it’s time. I know it is. This is the moment for the grand crusade of light to come bursting forth. I am disturbed. It’s time you get disturbed. You get weird with me. I’m going on a crusade. Pahrump shall be liberated by the gun and the swords of my collection. I feel it in me. This is my time. The disturbing sound shall be reduced to a whimper and then nothing will be heard but the chorus of the righteous singing hymns to a bloody and triumphant firepower.
Let’s start making up a list of targets, shall we? You know who’s on the top of mine? King Freak.
Kade. I don’t know if he’s a Freak or not. He’s a son of a bitch though, isn’t he? Real hardcase. Kills children and shit. Women. Animals. Anything that moves. Well guess what, let’s start there. He’s in Music City right? What’s left of it?
God, I keep hearing about him. If I had all the powers of the night I turned into a fog so I could fly all the way across the country to appear in his window and rip off his head and use it as a fleshy toilet.
All right, somebody’s gotta put that motherfucker in the ground. I promise you I will. Pahrump’s never gonna forget when Doctor Midnite rips through with a lead hurricane and a napalm storm.
Pahrump’s never gonna forget. There’s gonna be happiness from now on. No more drinking for me. Just gunfights to indulge in and mass burials and finding someone responsible.
All right. But I can’t kill Kade in Nevada. And I want to. Somebody indulge me. I used to sign off by saying “Have a drink on Doctor Midnite. Peace out.” In the old days when my biggest worry was the FBI and not the apocalypse dudes out there.
Well, have a kill on me. Kade. Kade. I hope he’s listening. They always are. Well, guess what, chickenshit, the peasants are going hunt you down for sport.
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