himself in the same place where the man from the car’s mother and sister had been hit and killed by a drunk driver. The man kept pointing the gun at two white crosses with “MOTHER” and “SISTER” written on them, and a large plastic floral bouquet with pictures and ribbons.
CT was trying to explain himself. “Like, I detected that this was a sacred place, man. That’s why I stopped here; it was like, the earth was saying Here, Worship Here , I mean this is like a shrine.”
“You were shitting on it!” the man with the gun screamed.
“Do you hierarchize organic matter?” asked CT. “Because I don’t think that’s the right way to go about things.”
Just then a policeman pulled up, and several minutes later a lot of photographers showed up too. Perry walked over to me while CT was educating the cop regarding the back-and-forth of earth and man.
“You should probably call your sister,” Perry said. “I don’t even know if we’re going to make it to Dallas on time for the show.”
I decided to go ahead and dial her number then figure out exactly what to say while the phone was ringing, but Sister picked up on the first ring.
“Sister,” I began, “there has been an unfortunate detour. You’ll have to meet us at the arena. Tell them “HASHISH420” when you go to the backstage area. That’s our code phrase. They’ll totally let you in.”
“I’m not going to your boyfriend’s concert and I’m not saying that phrase. What do you mean, detour?”
When the police showed up, everyone except Perry and CT, who were already talking to the man with the gun, had been forced to run back inside the bus and ingest any and all products that might complicate an already precarious situation. We divided them equally according to body mass, meaning Fractyl Clymber and I took the least, but it was still a pretty heavy load. Grog was already freaking out and had locked himself in the bus’s closet to masturbate.
The words coming out of my mouth were like a canoe at the tip of a waterfall. I saw what was ahead but was unable to stop it. I am always for truth but with Sister sometimes the truth has to be dressed up a little bit, not hidden but wrapped up in a way that makes it better, like a Christmas present. I was feeling very chatty though, and the sweat on my tongue didn’t help. Everything just poured out.
“CT accidentally relieved himself on this grave, and now a lot of people are taking my picture.” The flashes from the paparazzi’s light bulbs were bright and painful but I couldn’t stop staring at them. I moved closer to the flash. “I’m like a moth or something right now,” I told her. She started crying and then Perry grabbed the phone and told me to get a full-body cape for CT from the bus closet. CT was so into sharing the truth of the Worm Eternal that he had not yet proceeded to tie up the bottom and fly of his leather suit.
“Grog’s in the closet masturbating,” I told Perry. “He’s really freaked.”
Perry sighed and nodded. “You stay put. I’ll get it.”
When we finally arrive at the arena, the noise of the crowd doing the Howl of the Wolf is deafening. Their pack call drowns out the opening band, an experimental metal group utilizing electric bongos.
The arena’s head of security approaches us. He’s shivering with fear. “You’ve got to get out there,” he pleads to CT, his voice trembling, “I’ve never seen a crowd get this crazy, and I’ve worked this arena for almost thirty years.”
CT throws off his cape and uses his arm to make a sweeping motion, like he’s violently clearing a table. “No problemo,” he says, “this is my gig, man. Don’t even worry about it.” The fly of his leather suit is still open as he walks onstage; he tends to forget about things like that, but there is no time. Also, since the crowd is already worked into such a manic rage, what better to satiate them than the sight of CT’s loveworm? It is like his music: hard
CT was trying to explain himself. “Like, I detected that this was a sacred place, man. That’s why I stopped here; it was like, the earth was saying Here, Worship Here , I mean this is like a shrine.”
“You were shitting on it!” the man with the gun screamed.
“Do you hierarchize organic matter?” asked CT. “Because I don’t think that’s the right way to go about things.”
Just then a policeman pulled up, and several minutes later a lot of photographers showed up too. Perry walked over to me while CT was educating the cop regarding the back-and-forth of earth and man.
“You should probably call your sister,” Perry said. “I don’t even know if we’re going to make it to Dallas on time for the show.”
I decided to go ahead and dial her number then figure out exactly what to say while the phone was ringing, but Sister picked up on the first ring.
“Sister,” I began, “there has been an unfortunate detour. You’ll have to meet us at the arena. Tell them “HASHISH420” when you go to the backstage area. That’s our code phrase. They’ll totally let you in.”
“I’m not going to your boyfriend’s concert and I’m not saying that phrase. What do you mean, detour?”
When the police showed up, everyone except Perry and CT, who were already talking to the man with the gun, had been forced to run back inside the bus and ingest any and all products that might complicate an already precarious situation. We divided them equally according to body mass, meaning Fractyl Clymber and I took the least, but it was still a pretty heavy load. Grog was already freaking out and had locked himself in the bus’s closet to masturbate.
The words coming out of my mouth were like a canoe at the tip of a waterfall. I saw what was ahead but was unable to stop it. I am always for truth but with Sister sometimes the truth has to be dressed up a little bit, not hidden but wrapped up in a way that makes it better, like a Christmas present. I was feeling very chatty though, and the sweat on my tongue didn’t help. Everything just poured out.
“CT accidentally relieved himself on this grave, and now a lot of people are taking my picture.” The flashes from the paparazzi’s light bulbs were bright and painful but I couldn’t stop staring at them. I moved closer to the flash. “I’m like a moth or something right now,” I told her. She started crying and then Perry grabbed the phone and told me to get a full-body cape for CT from the bus closet. CT was so into sharing the truth of the Worm Eternal that he had not yet proceeded to tie up the bottom and fly of his leather suit.
“Grog’s in the closet masturbating,” I told Perry. “He’s really freaked.”
Perry sighed and nodded. “You stay put. I’ll get it.”
When we finally arrive at the arena, the noise of the crowd doing the Howl of the Wolf is deafening. Their pack call drowns out the opening band, an experimental metal group utilizing electric bongos.
The arena’s head of security approaches us. He’s shivering with fear. “You’ve got to get out there,” he pleads to CT, his voice trembling, “I’ve never seen a crowd get this crazy, and I’ve worked this arena for almost thirty years.”
CT throws off his cape and uses his arm to make a sweeping motion, like he’s violently clearing a table. “No problemo,” he says, “this is my gig, man. Don’t even worry about it.” The fly of his leather suit is still open as he walks onstage; he tends to forget about things like that, but there is no time. Also, since the crowd is already worked into such a manic rage, what better to satiate them than the sight of CT’s loveworm? It is like his music: hard
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