THE 1996 SUBGENIUS SLACK CRUSADES
BOSTON, FEBRUARY 17TH, 1996
Review/report by the Irreverend Friday Jones (© 1996)
PART I - THE SET-UP
I hadn't been to a full-blown multi-preacher Devival in years - and now
SubGenius Slack Crusades were coming to Boston! Man O man, I was so keyed
up about it that I'd been having _dreams_ about the Middle East Cafe,
where the "show" would be held - and nightmares too. The NORMAL dreams
were ones where the Middle East was putting on a production of 'Julius
Caesar' starring Jackie Chan and Howard Stern, and I was trying to
convince my Yeti Truemate©, Dr. H Howard Anderson, to attend. The
nightmares started after I volunteered to help set up for the Crusades,
and the nightmares were .... bad. The mildest one that's repeatable was
Stang coming up to me after the show and saying, "Gosh, Reverend Jones,
you're great at setting up! Why don't you come along on the next Devival
tour and set up EVERY NIGHT?" AIEEEEE!
A number of people have bitched about the start time not being nailed
down, but Helle, first I heard 7 p.m., then I heard 9 p.m. I just made
sure that my flyers didn't have ANY time on them, so they couldn't be
wrong (of course, I printed them after they changed the date from Friday
to Saturday). If you live in Cambridge MA you may have seen my flyers -
they were the small ones that all started "BEWARE! SUBGENIUS SLACK
CRUSADES" and went on to give various reasons why you _shouldn't_ attend
(they've evil, "Rev." Ivan Stang is the next David Koresh, because God
said so, etc.) They were a breeze to put up - I printed them on sticker
paper and would just belly up to a lightpost and slap 'em on. You could
hardly tell what I was doing even if you were standing right next to me.
I quickly found out that posting a flyer openly drew anyone watching like
a magnet - immediately they would approach and gaze. If only I could come
up with an exploding flyer, that went off about twenty seconds after it
hit the pole ... but I digress. Anyway, I'd plastered from Central Square
to Porter Square with my wee flyers, delighting especially in pasting them
over material posted by a rival cult, Herbalife. "Lose 30 pounds in 30
days" - bah humbug!
Because I am a disgustingly punctual person, I was at the Middle East at 3
on the fateful day of February 17th - I'd been asked to show up between 3
and 4. And I waited, and I waited. To give credit to the Middle East,
the guy at the bar did give me and Dr. Anderson water and free pita bread,
even though he had no idea who we were or what was going on. Some cute
girls wandered up and asked the bartender for Devival flyers, and the
bartender promptly directed them over to us. "Hi, do you have any flyers
with pictures of That Guy on them?" (that guy meaning, of course, "Bob")
"No, but I do have some anti-flyers," I replied, pulling out of Dr.
Anderson's bag some paper copies of my flyers. Apparently it was a
"sentimental" thing to have the face of "Bob" - some friend of theirs out
in Seattle was a real Church addict and they wanted to send him a new fix.
However, I was still waiting and I still didn't see any SubGenii here to
put me to work. I wanna WORK WORK WORK for SLACK - am I an Emergentile or what? Had they gotten lost in the snow? Had they snuck off to Canada and
not told us? I told Dr. Anderson, "If they don't show up by 4:30, I'm
going to (censored)* Stang." Dr. Anderson, who by 4:15 was working out
the plot of "The Stang Chainsaw Massacre," agreed. Circus Apocalypse did
grab us around 4:40 or so, and we went downstairs, but I forgot to
(censored) Stang until it came time to do this review! However, since I
swore it, and Dr. Anderson witnessed the oath, I guess I'll have to
(censored) Stang next time I lay hands on him. So to speak. Dave
Apocalypse seemed like a nice enough young psycho, but I found myself
studying the face of St. Andrew the Impaled rather intently. It was those
teeny-tiny red dots on his lips ... completely innocuous, unless you know
what those little dots really mean. Brrrrrr ...
The Middle East Downstairs is a really huge facility, and I was mightily
impressed. Big bar on the right, seating on the left and a big open space
in front of the stage - and very few pillars to obscure the view! Which
would later turn out to be a good thing. And there by the stage was that
guy who looks like Jesus (and referred to as such several times through
the Devival) Steve Bevilacqua, handing out numbers to the groupies
clustered around him. And next to Bevilacqua, looking on smugly and
occasionally pushing aside a slavering Bobbie with one immaculately
sneakered foot, was none other than our beloved Sacred Scribe, Rev. Ivan
Stang.
You know, one of the first things you notice about Stang is - and I mean
aside from the overwhelming sexual pstench he generates, under the reek of
the cigarettes. He probably smokes them just to get the edge off his
pheromones - otherwise he couldn't walk into any Subgathering without
being raped to death.
Anyway, the first thing you notice - and then there's the eyes. The
terrible eyes, lurking behind his glasses, making Stang look like a
slumming Svengali, especially combined with his deft hands and languorous
Texan drawl. I could see why the Bobbies were slavering. Helle, I was
slavering. Just a little. I could feel Dr. Anderson's hard, angry gaze
on my left ear, keeping me in line as surely as an iron leash.
As I was saying, the first thing - oh damn, how do I know what the first
thing YOU'D notice about the Ayatollah Stangini would be? What I noticed
was A) Well, at least he's taller than me, and B) What's the deal with
the bump on the left of his forehead? It looks like his rampaging Pineal
Gland was heading on out and made a wrong turn. How long has it been
there? I pictured two other bumps appearing beside it, marching across
his forehead, and then metamorphosing into the Three Faces of Slack! And
talking! Hey, he could preach in four-track - he could preach in SURROUND
SOUND!
I shook Stang's hand and surreptitiously infected him with ASP-123, which
I had thoughtfully carried with me on a needle under my right index nail.
I didn't infect any of the other Subs there, so don't worry.
Modemac came up and introduced himself all around, and sent everyone into
shock by saying that he had QUIT his JOB just to attend this Devival!
"But only for one night" he added, much to our disappointment. Has the
man no faith? Modemac was brave enough to mention C), the most terrible
thing I'd noticed about Stang - HIS HAIR WAS GONE! Those long, luscious
Fabio-esque locks were nowhere to be seen! Never to be combed out again
by the dainty toes of his harem of mutants! Modemac commented on this
hideous state of affairs, and Stang put my tongue-tied heart at ease by
simply pulling his hair out from where it had crept under his coat to keep
warm. Whew! That was a relief! I inquired if there would ever be Ivan
Stang Hair key-chains available (if he ever did decide to trim his hair),
and Stang gave a strangely inappropriate yet deeply connected discussion
of photographing butt-kissing, and how his old boots had fallen apart
because they'd been literally fawned to death. But now Bevilacqua was
zeroing on me, with an eeeeevil gleam in his eye. "Sooooo - you're the
girl who will do ANYTHING for the Devival, eh?" he chuckled. I gulped and
mentally cursed myself for my exuberant e-mail. Now both Stang and the
Bevil were giving me the evil eye. "Would you _run the sales table_?!!?"
"Yes," I replied, and they both looked mildly aghast. I wondered what I
had let myself in for. Well, it couldn't be too bad, could it? I'd have
Dr. Anderson there to help out, wouldn't I? And the Bevil Devil had said
that they'd protect the Devival helpers from assault ... although he did
agree with me that it would be funnier to videotape us being torn to
shreds by people who showed up expecting a 9:00 Devival ... oh dear ...
Even more disheartening was the news that Dr. Legume had pulled out of the
tour to get a quick ride home, and would not be appearing! Now I'd miss
his ranting! His hate! The only SubGenius who looks manly enough to
fight off a ravening horde attacking, say, an innocent-looking Bobbie
running the sales table (that bat isn't just ornamental) and he leaves
Boston in the lurch! Now if the Subs attack, I'll just have to throw
somebody to them and make good my escape. Hmmm ... seems a shame to throw
'em Stang, "Bob" himself might ask me questions on where he could get a
replacement (worse, "Bob" might choose ME!) so I decided I'd have to stick
glasses on the Bevil Devil, say HE was Stang and throw him to the crowd,
then make a break for it with the genuine article.
Unloading the Devivehicle was interesting, especially since the Middle
East had this neat little chute with a conveyer belt on it to send down
the heavy stuff. Peering down it, one could just discern Stang by the
gleam of his glasses and the glow of his cigarette. The Bevil Devil was
the only one bold enough to actually ride down the chute, though. Bill T.
Miller of OBE-KOF had joined the fray by this point, and was setting up
his own sales table as I recall. Betsy Sherman came bouncing in and
announced that she had interviewed _Jackie Chan_! We all begged to be
allowed to lick the hand that had shaken Jackie's, but she sneeringly
refused. Dr. Anderson was entrusted with a VERY IMPORTANT BOTTLE from the
Devivehicle, which will make its reappearance later, but for the moment
was to be brought down with the greatest of care.
Setting up the official SubGenius sales table, I was relieved to find that
it was at the back of the room, facing the stage, so I could at least see
a little of the show. I was less relieved to see that some of the GOOD
STUFF was already sold out - including the adorable three-color-enameled
Dobbshead pins! Damn! I'd wanted to buy one of those for myself! I had
run sales tables in the past, so I wasn't too afeared of doing it again -
as long as I could figure out what was where in which containers. Stang
was generous enough to point out where things were, and tape up the Price
List of the Gods a good deal higher than I could have put it (without
standing on a chair, that is). The Scribe and I bickered about how much
change he should leave me with - he insisted that $160 in 20's, 10's, 5's
and 1's should hold me for the first fifteen minutes, but protesting that
that would leave him with barely a hundred in his wallet, I stuck with the
round figure of $150. (But I forgot to ask for QUARTERS - I could've used
about $25 worth of those!)
The time was now. The doors would be opening any minute. Would there be
an eager horde of SubGenii waiting to spend their money and praise "Bob"?
Or would nobody show up? Well, if that was the case, I'd get a private
show! Cool!
* Censored because I want to SURPRISE him, not because it's particularly
obscene. At least, I don't think it is. Maybe he will!
******
In article <friday-2402962300280001@dial3-9.cybercom.net>, friday@cybercom.net (The Irreverend Friday Jones) wrote:
> As I was saying, the first thing - oh damn, how do I know what the first
> thing YOU'D notice about the Ayatollah Stangini would be? What I noticed
> was A) Well, at least he's taller than me, and B) What's the deal with
> the bump on the left of his forehead? It looks like his rampaging Pineal
> Gland was heading on out and made a wrong turn. How long has it been
> there? I pictured two other bumps appearing beside it, marching across
> his forehead, and then metamorphosing into the Three Faces of Slack!
Close. It's an animation registration mark. That DUELIN' FIREMEN game (still in progress) required a shot of a giant question mark of flesh appearing on my face and throbbing. I thoughtfully grew the bump just before they did the film close-up of me, because I anticipated the problems they might encounter at the computer animation stage. I suppose I could have used a black grease pencil dot instead. Later, when Rev. Irene Vodar was animating the throbbing question mark into the film frames via computer, she was able to "anchor" the art onto my face by using the bump as a reference point for the dot in the question mark.
I kept the bump because I kinda liked it. A week before the Slack Crusade tour started, however, a new bump, much much larger, grew very swiftly on my cheekbone. When I went to get it removed, I asked the sawbones about removing the forehead bump while he was at it. He said, "No, you'll have to schedule that for later. We don't want to leave you looking TOO beat up."
The very large cheek bump was "lanced" and turned out to be alive with teeny little nanotech machines that are apparently supposed to spy on me... like little Bob Dean mites.
That bump now looks just like the forehead bump. I enjoy watching the eyes of strangers wander repeatedly to those bumps.
Thanks for all the nice compliments, Friday. Now bend over and pull out your wallet!!
Stang the Newly Inaccessible
********
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Review/report by the Irreverend Friday Jones (© 1996)
PART II - THE SHOW
So much for the "private show" theory - people were coming in a steady
stream. Nobody I recognized, but then I've been in my own little world
for some years. Cleve Duncan was onstage warming the crowd into the
proper Dobbsian frenzy with a hymn medley, and the fog machine behind him
was starting to smoke the place up. Just then Stang dropped by for one
last look at the table, also wreathed in his self-generated halo of mist
and, of course, a blinding sight in his white tux. I couldn't resist it:
"So THAT'S where all this smoke is coming from!"
Faintly through the smoke, I could see a line of Bobbies, all on their
knees, numbers clenched patiently in their teeth, awaiting admittance to
the sacred dressing room. I asked Dr. Anderson to look into getting me a
number, but he just gave back a dirty look instead.
Most of the people coming in were zeroing on the sales table first -
sensible, since it was the closest thing to the stairs. I'd figured out
what was so bad about this sales table thing - I'd only get to see the
Devival at a distance, and not hear a lot of it. So I decided that I
would by-"Bob" turn my table into a teeny mini-Devival, and proceeded to
rant for almost the next two hours straight about these fine Church
products, how much you need them, or conversely how bad they were. Nobody
bought the tiny refrigerator magnets (not the nice $3 ones that Slack
Threads sell - these were hand-made teeny ones) until I started
demonstrating (late in the Devival) that they were so lousy, they wouldn't
even stick to my forehead! "I hate these things! Don't buy them - they
SUCK!" I implored the audience, who promptly disobeyed me and started to
buy them.
FOOLS!
Bevilacqua was behind the table just as Stang started getting into his
first rant (backed by the amazing Duncan and the doubly-amazing video
projector images of "Bob" and his works), and I mused aloud how amusing it
would be to throw a frag grenade into the audience, who all had their
backs to me anyway. I wondered - would it be more amusing to throw the
grenade to land just behind the audience, so they'd all blow up over Stang
and his tux; or perhaps more amusing to throw the grenade to Stang's feet,
blowing _him_ all over the audience?
The Bevil Devil did not answer. I wonder why?
As Stang lifted his flaming sword on high, and lit the ritual bill from it
(a mighty impressive sight, even if you've seen him taping on the flash
paper) I tossed the camera to Dr. Anderson and had him go take pictures.
He would actually come back at least once to spell me, but once his jaw
got working it dragged him off and I didn't see him again until the
Devival was over. Typical SubGenius man - would rather talk than do
_anything else_! At least he covered for me so that I was up front when
Stang talked about getting up in the morning, looking in the mirror and
asking himself "Am I a total fucking IDIOT or what? Working my butt off
for an anti-religion religion, which is also an anti-art art performance,
an anti-science scientific experiment and an anti-business business?" Of
course, the audience assured him that he was an idiot. He took it pretty
well, I think.
I'm afraid that I cannot give a verbatim description of the Devival
(having, alas, to focus on boring customers rather than vividly
interesting Preachers), but more of an overview: Bill T. Miller did some
amazing things with his sampler and displayed one of the many False Heads
(earlier he had wished aloud that I was running his sales table, comparing
his lethargic salesman to my hyperactive, jumpin'-jackin',
boxer-short-waving sales inferno-ette). Circus Apocalypse lived up to
their name, with St. Andrew the Impaled hammering a nail very, veeery
slowly into his skull through his sinus passages, and then following this
up with a Phillips' head screwdriver! Only my position in the back of the
hall saved me from getting drenched in spraying blood, although I think I
did slip in it as it oozed from the front. Their fire-juggling act was
also tremendously impressive. "This would be a breeze for a professional,
but for a rank amateur ..." Dave Apocalypse would jive, with the foolish
audience actually edging closer to the searing flames! Then he lit a
torch from his TONGUE - visible even from where I was posted! Ouch!
Watching Dave escape from a strait-jacket, apparently by folding himself
in half lengthwise, was also a painful sight.
Because the stage was lit, and the sales table was lit, but the
intervening space (where all the people were) was dark, I could actually
pretend they weren't there and that everything was being done just for me
(just from very far away)! A boon to my Godzilla-sized ego, let me assure
you. On the other hand, this meant that they could see ME - another
incentive for me to keep hustling the $ out of the passers-by.
IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT EXAGGERATION: At several points during my Sales
Rants behind the table, I told my bewildered "audience" that Stang would
be beating me with a big, black whip if I didn't sell enough stuff. This
was a humorous overstatement, made to lull the shills into a false sense
of empathy and make them buy more stuff. Stang just hit me a few times
with his belt - hardly bled at all. But the Bevil Devil - he's got a
giant black CENTIPEDE, and when you sets foot on the SubGenius plantation,
you'd best sets your mind to WORKING - or he'll sic that centipede on you
before you can say "Bob"!
Somebody actually had the GALL to come up to me (while Stang was preaching
near the end, no less) and ask that I explain the ENTIRE Church of the
SubGenius in one sentence or LESS! Rather than string out the world's
greatest sentence, I told him to buy one of everything - that might BARELY
start to scratch the surface. Barely. The main problem here was that
people would always come up and want to yammer during the most interesting
parts of the "show", knowing that I was trapped behind the table and could
not escape. And of course, the people who whined the loudest about not
getting their Stark Fists were the ones who bleated "I hate computers!"
when I informed of the glories of SubSITE.
Well, the show was starting to reach its climax - Dave Apocalypse was
going to sew his partner's lips shut with piano wire for the averred
purpose of turning him into a mime! Talk about a fate worse than death!
Strangest of all, people who had apparently just gotten here were drifting
over to the sales table and paying no heed to what was going on behind
them. I felt like shouting at them "By the way, somebody is getting their
LIPS SEWN SHUT up on stage right now," but I was getting a bit hoarse at
this point. My throat is not used to inhaling this much smoke.
Stang's final rant was so intense that the very air itself caught on
fire! Actually it was Dave Apocalypse breathing flames behind him, but it
looked impressive as all get-out. Stang looked especially impressed when
he turned around and realized what that flickering light behind him
actually _was_.
If you wanted to see the funniest part of my sales table performance, you
had to be there at the very end. The bouncers were starting to move
people out, and Stang decided to jump behind the sales table with me so
everyone would drift there (to the back of the room) and hopefully blow
some last-minute bucks. He'd changed into his mundane attire at this
point - I presume cleaning all that blood off the white tux every night
must be a real pain. So Stang pops up at my elbow and says "Give me the
money." I presume he means _all_ the money I've collected, so I hand him
the big roll of 20's and 10's I've been keeping in my hand to make change
with, and start checking my other pockets for the 100's and 50's.
Actually though, Stang just wanted the change to make change with, for
somebody buying stuff. But there were LOTS of people buying stuff, and
trying to buttonhole & brown-nose the Sacred Scribe, all shovin' cash at
me so fast that I had no time to split the roll of bills in half between
Stang and I. So Stang and I started just swapping the money back and
forth, to make change. Inevitably, of course, I needed the change and he
was caught up in a conversation, facing away from me. So I shouted "Isn't
that just like the Church! They take your money and then turn your back
on you!" But the change was finally made, the last poster and book and
button unloaded into those trusting, eager little hands, and the audience
was hustled away up the stairs.
The Crusaders had to hustle out of there too, because a BIGGER act was
coming in at 9:30. Give the Middle East credit - when they laid hands on
this bigger act (who I've never heard of) they could have just booted the
Slack Crusades out, but instead gave them two hours. It made for a rather
intense experience, all in all. So I screamed "Too late to buy NOW,
losers!" at the departing audience, everything was shoved back in the
boxes, I disgorged ream upon ream of green paper with little President's
pictures on them into Bevilacqua's eager, twitching hands (good thing I
had so many pockets), and then Stang came up to me and said "Friday,
there's going to be a party at Cleve Duncan's house." "Cool!" I replied,
and promptly invited myself - even managed to talk the Bevil Devil into
giving me a ride before he & Stang vanished to go talk to the Middle East
management-beasts. Modemac was coming too, so he & St. Andrew had an
interesting discussion as to just how he drives that nail into his head,
while waiting for our owners, er, patrons. After giving a fascinating
lecture on the physics of a nail, Andrew finally shrugged and said "My
Third Nostril is just open a lot wider than most people's." That's
putting it mildly!
Strangely enough, when Stang & the Bevil Devil appeared from the front of
the building, they didn't bring a single groupie with them! Unless, of
course, Bevilacqua had one or two concealed about his lanky person that I
didn't see. Now I _really_ regretted saying I'd do "anything" for the
SubGenius Slack Crusades. But actually I was not the reason why they
didn't bring any groupies. And I'd regret finding out the real reason,
far more than you are currently imagining.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
PART III - THE PARTY (aka THE HARVEST)
After we all squeezed into the Devivehicle to go to Cleve Duncan's house,
and started on our way through the darkened streets of Cambridge,
Bevilacqua handed Dr. Anderson a large bottle - that selfsame bottle that
the Crusaders had been guarding so carefully. "Have a swig of this,"
suggested Bevilacqua. Dr. Anderson did. Then he handed it to me without
saying a word, THE FIEND.
If a SubGenius hands you a bottle and tells you to drink out of it, and
you can't read the label - DON'T DRINK IT. It was VILE. Sickly, syrupy,
gooey, sticky, and overwhelmingly, nauseatingly sweet .... uuuugh.
Modemac wisely refused a swig. I decoded by the passing streetlights that
this stuff was concentrated juice mix which was supposed to be diluted by
a factor of FOUR - and they just handed it to me to drink! Feh! I
believe it was called Boost, but my memory (probably confusing it with
Jolt) prefers to think of it as Blortch.
On the other hand, I remember a drink called "raspberry shrub" (made from
raspberries, not shrubs) which was also supposed to be served diluted with
water or over ice, but which I would drink with only a leeetle bit of
water - had an unbelievable sour/sweet smash to it. I had to give it up,
though, because at the concentrations I was drinking it, the enamel of my
teeth was getting pitted by the acids. Too bad, it was great stuff.
I mention this mysterious substance in detail because it MIGHT explain the
subsequent events of the evening - MIGHT.
For security reasons, I shall not relate which direction we took, or how
long we traveled: suffice to say that we reached Cleve Duncan's
not-at-all-humble abode before the after-effects of the Blortch made me
toss my cookies. We squeezed out of the Devivehicle, paying particular
care to Stang's aged and arthritic old-man's ass, and walked into the
house. And stopped. For the entire front hallway was covered with
nothing more nor less than some of the grisliest examples of black velvet
art I have ever seen! The Last Supper, fornicating couples, heroic heads
et. al., and they covered the whole dang wall! It was incredible! The
next room into the apartment was just the coat room, where Duncan directed
us to peel off our shoes so as not to track snow through the house. And
while we were doing so, with Bevilacqua jibing about the nail holes in his
feet, THEY came in.
They came slithering out of the snow on their hands and knees, and they
were whiter than the frosty rimes on their limbs. Leprous and gleaming,
their skins exuded the smell of perfumed meat and jism. Crawling on the
carpet, their heads lolling like demented dogs: four hairless, twisted
creatures on leashes, those leashes leading back to the hand of none other
than the Sacred Scribe, wearing a grin that could outshine "Bob" himself.
One of the - things - came nuzzling at my knees. As I jumped back, it
rolled onto its back and spread its legs, showing at least three sets of
functional genitalia, and the letter 'A' branded into its chest. On
closer inspection, even its hinged pelvis and multiplicity of breasts
could not disguise its essentially human origins - or at least genes. I
looked at one of the other - things - as Stang dragged it by, and saw a
'G' branded on his? her? its? chest.
I was cold with horror (and yet, secretly, trembling with lust -
pheromones again). "Those aren't ..."
"GWAR Groupies! Bred in Antarctica!" gloated Stang, rubbing his hand over
the slimy rump which one of them proffered in his direction, much as a man
might pat the head of a favorite dog. "They came with the van," added
Bevilacqua, handing Stang a roll of plastic sheeting. "Best dang groupies
a man could ask for!" crowed the Scribe as he dragged his creatures into
the house. Well, at least I could find the Scribe now if I wanted to ...
just follow the smoke & slime. On the other hand, did I really want to
find him! He wasn't going to be putting any of those things near his
MOUTH, now was he? Or anywhere else for that matter ... uuugggh. And yet
at the same time, I was wondering if I could drag one off and have my way
(or ways?) with it.
Well, there was one good thing to say for the beasts: they looked like
their natural lubrication would kill most terrestrial diseases.
Then I walked from the coatroom into the dining room/library of Cleve's
abode - and nearly went into shock! For every inch of shelf space was
crammed with the most fascinating assortment of collectibles, ephemera,
knick-knacks, doo-dads and all-over incredibly cool stuff that you can
possibly imagine. In fact, it was probably MORE than you can possibly
imagine. Still, it seemed an awfully small apartment - until the side
door turned out to lead to three other rooms, each one also packed with
amazing stuff. Especially the front room, whose furnishing included a
shrine to St. Janor Hypercleets incorporating an actual electroshock
machine and (gasp) yet another Head! Heads were everywhere during this
Devival thang! Heads overhead! Heads underfoot!
In the front room, Stang had draped one of the couches with plastic, and
Dave Apocalypse and St. Andrew had draped themselves onto it, and the
GWAR-Groupies were draped all over them. I can see why they had the most
adrenaline to burn out of their system, but ... and certainly Dave
shouldn't be doing THAT, unless it's to relieve the kinks in his back from
his straitjacket at, and oh dear, isn't that Stang's hair peeking out from
under the pile? I retreated to the kitchen and got a glass of water. I
took a long, looong swallow, for which my parched throat was very
grateful. At last, something halfway "normal"!
Then the water swam out of my glass, flowed down my arm and went back into
the faucet.
NO MORE BLORTCH, NO MORE, NOT EVER!
Stang soon ambled out to the kitchen, wearing a smug grin, some slime, and
not much else. Holding court and telling amazing (and unrepeatable)
stories about his family, he was overwhelmingly "topped" by Cleve Duncan,
who brought out his collection of Esqueviel reel-to-reel tapes. Believe
me, no matter how enraptured you may have seen the Sacred Scribe, in the
heat of ranting, in the passion of hate, nothing matched the expression of
pure religious fever on the face of Ivan Stang when brought into the
presence of a tape of Esqueviel singing "Git-Tar-Zan." I really, really
wish I'd gotten a photo of THAT. Let's all send out our prayer power to
Cleve, who plans on releasing a CD of Esqueviel tunes! And more power to
Stang, who intends to add to the Church Price List of the Gods a Best-Of
Tape from the Slack Crusades, in a year or so! Nothing but the juiciest
moments (excluding, I hope, the G-Groupies ... or Subs in a lot of
countries won't be able to get it. And a lot of states in the US, for
that matter).
At different times during the party, both Stang and Bevilacqua told me,
with all apparent sincerity, that they couldn't have done the Devival
without me. This must be the standard line they feed to all the Bobbies
who help out. If they couldn't have done it without me, how did they do
all the previous tour stops? Unless, of course, I was at those too and
don't remember it!
Alas, I am an indifferent master of Time Control, and was unable to
convince public transportation to keep running all night so that I could
not impose on my hosts by overstaying my welcome - I had to leave to catch
the last bus. Also most of the Crusaders were retiring to the front room
with the G-Groupies for sex & sleep, except for the hyperactive Stang,
still bright as a daisy and ruling the dining room like a jealous God. I
was crushed that I had to leave early, and implored him on my knees to let
me get my picture taken with him. He agreed. Then I requested that I be
allowed to get off my knees for the picture. He agreed to let me stand
beside him. Then I begged that he put his clothes _on_ for the photo -
and he agreed to THAT too. Such an agreeable fellow! A good caption for
the resulting photo would probably be: "Stang delightedly contemplates
devouring the brains of yet another Bobbie."
And home I went, Stang's amazing stereophonic Salute still echoing in my ears.
And now that the whole thing's over, my brain is still charging along at
full speed. Yeah, I'm still havin' the dreams and the nightmares - except
that they're while I'm AWAKE! I can't follow any train of thought without
it turning into dancing rats with golden eggs, or dancing cigarette packs
cavorting with ashtrays, or Smoking Heads, or whatever. Hope it wears off
soon.
The only _other_ after-effect I seem to be suffering from the Crusades is
the huge gobs of bloody phlegm I've been coughing up. Can't imagine why,
I almost never get sick. Maybe too much ranting?
Wait a minute ... bleeding from the throat and coughing ... two symptoms
of infection by RZ-237, the ASP-123 counter-virus ...
YOU BASTARDS!
Original file name: Boston Slack Crusades
This file was converted with TextToHTML - (c) Logic n.v.